I raked the poker through the embers, then stopped. I pushed aside the husk of a log, reached within, and drew out Bambleby’s letter. I blew at the ash and skimmed the elegant cursive. It was entirely unscathed.
I added wood to the fire, stoking the flames, and tossed the letter back in. It did not catch. The fire coughed smoke, as if the letter were an unpleasant obstacle lodged in its throat.
“Damn you,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes at the heavy stationery staring insouciantly back at me from the flames. “Am I supposed to keep the bloody thing under my pillow?”
I should, I suppose, mention here that I am perhaps ninety-five percent certain that Wendell Bambleby is not human.
This is not the product of mere professional disdain; Bambleby’s impossible letter is not my first piece of evidence regarding his true nature. My suspicions were aroused at our initial meeting some years ago, when I noticed the sundry ways in which he avoided the metal objects in the room, including by feigning righthandedness so as to avoid contact with wedding rings （the Folk are, to a one, left-handed）。 Yet he could not avoid metal entirely, the event including a dinner, which invariably involved cutlery, sauce boats, and the like, and he mastered the discomfort well enough, which indicated that either my suspicions were unfounded or that he is of royal ancestry—they are the only Folk able to bear the touch of such human workings.
Lest I appear credulous, I can attest that this was not enough to convince me. Upon subsequent encounters, I noted sundry suspect qualities, among them his manner of speaking. Bambleby is supposedly born in County Leane and raised in Dublin, and while I am no scholar of the Irish accents, I am expert in the tongue of the Folk, which is but one with many dialects, yet possessing a certain resonance and timbre that is universal, and which I hear whispers of in Bambleby’s voice in occasional, unguarded moments. We have spent a significant amount of time in each other’s company.
If he is Folk, he likely lives among us in exile, a not uncommon fate to befall the aristocracy of the Irish fae—their kind rarely goes without a murderous uncle or power-mad regent for long. There are plenty of tales of exiled Folk; their powers are sometimes said to be restricted by an enchantment cast by the exiling monarch, which would explain Bambleby’s need to resign himself to an existence among us lowly mortals. His choice of profession may be part of some fae design I cannot guess at, or it may be a natural expression of Bambleby’s nature, that he should set his sights upon acquiring external affirmations of self-expertise.
It remains possible that I am wrong. A scholar must always be ready to admit this. None of my colleagues seem to share my suspicions, which gives me pause, not even the venerable Treharne, who has been doing fieldwork for so long he likes to joke that the common fae no longer hide themselves away when he comes, seeing little difference between him and some old, lumpen piece of furniture. And for all the stories of exiled Folk, it’s not as if any have been discovered in our midst. Which lends itself to one of two conclusions: either such Folk are exceptionally skilled at camouflage or the stories are false.
I removed the letter, still wholly unburnt, and tore it to shreds, which I folded into the ashes. Then I put Bambleby from my mind, twisted my hair into a knot atop my head （from which it would begin its escape almost immediately）， and threw on my coat.
The loveliness of the view outside stopped me in my tracks. The mountain fell away before me, a carpet of green made greener by the luminous dawn staining the clouds with pinks and golds. The mountains themselves were lightly ensnowed, though there was no threat of a sequel in that cerulean canopy. Within the hinterlands of the prospect heaved the great beast of the sea with its patchy pelt of ice floes.
I set off with a light step, much heartened. I have always loved fieldwork, and I felt that familiar rush of excitement as I contemplated the field in question: before me lay uncharted scientific territory, and I the only explorer for miles. It is in moments like this that I fall in love with my profession all over again.
Shadow ambled along at my side on our way up the mountainside, sniffing at mushrooms or the melting frost. Sheep eyed me with their characteristic look of incurious anxiety. They danced a little at the sight of Shadow, but as he only lumbered contentedly by, his snout more engaged by the earth than the familiar woolly boulders that dotted the fields of his stomping grounds in the Cambridgeshire countryside, they soon ignored him.
The forest slowly folded me into itself. The trees were not all stunted, and in places they formed a dense, dark canopy over the narrow path.
I spent most of the morning surveying the perimeter, wading in and out of the trees. I noted mushroom rings and unusual moss patterns, the folds in the land where flowers grew thick and the places where they slid from one colour to another, and those trees which seemed darker and cruder than the others, as if they had drunk of a substance other than water. An odd mist billowed from a little hollow cupped within the rugged ground; this I discovered to be a hot spring. Above it, upon a rocky ledge, were several wooden figurines, some half overgrown with moss. There was also a small pile of what I recognized as rock caramels, the salty-sweet Ljosland candies that several of the sailors had favoured.
After taking some photographs, I dipped a hand in the spring and found it pleasantly hot. The temptation arose in my mind, for I had not bathed properly since leaving Cambridge, and I felt the salt of the journey upon me still like a second skin. Yet it was dismissed quickly; I was not about to go frolicking about an unfamiliar country in a state of undress.
A small sound came then from the wood behind me, a sort of pitter-patter not unlike the continual drip of wet from the forest boughs. I was instantly alert, though I gave no sign. Shadow raised his head from the spring to sniff the air, but he knew what was expected of him. He sat himself down and watched me.
Some people think that the Folk announce themselves with bells or song, but the fact is that you will never hear them unless they wish to be heard. Should you be approached by an animal, you will likely notice the rustle of leaves, the snapping of twigs. Should you be approached by a faerie, you may hear nothing at all, or only the subtlest of variations in the natural soundscape. It takes years for a scholar to master the necessary powers of observation.
Affecting a weary traveller’s appreciation of the view, which did not require much effort, the weather continuing fair, I ran my gaze along the forest’s edge. I was not surprised to find no evidence of any observer, apart from the chitter of a squirrel and the runic scatter of bird prints.
To continue the pretense, I slid my feet from my boots and dipped them into the spring. I took a few moments to review my mental catalogue of alpine brownies, particularly those who dwell near springs, with an eye to behavioural patterns.
I reached into my backpack, where I keep a variety of trinkets I’ve gathered over the years. But what to choose in this case? Some gifts are favoured by the Folk of different regions, while others give offense. I know of a French dryadologist who was driven mad by his research subjects after presenting them with a loaf of bread that, unbeknownst to him, had begun to mould. Their malice when insulted is nearly as universal as their caprice.
I selected a little porcelain box which held an assortment of Turkish delights. Tastes vary greatly among the Folk, but I know of only one recorded instance of an offering of sweets going awry. I set the box upon the ledge; for good measure, I placed atop it one of my few jewels, a diamond from a necklace I inherited upon my grandmother’s death. Such gifts I reserve only for very special cases—some of the common fae covet jewels; others don’t know what to do with them.