Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia Of Faeries Quotes

Perhaps it is always restful to be around someone who does not expect anything from you beyond what is in your nature.

One doesn’t need magic if one knows enough stories.

Get inside! You're bleeding!" "I will not bleed any less indoors, you utter madwoman.

If anyone were to claim greater happiness in their careers than I do in poking about sunlit wildwoods for faerie footprints, I should not believe it.

The Folk were of another world, with its own rules and customs—and to a child who always felt ill-suited to her own world, the lure was irresistible.

I knew you wouldn’t believe it. Just because you have a heart filled with the dust of a thousand library stacks does not mean everybody does.

...books became my best friends.

Were you expecting me to throw myself at you? Would you have then said a dozen pretty things about my eyes or hair?" "No, it would have been, 'Get off me, you imposter, and tell me what you did with Emily.

I wish to know the unknowable. To see what no mortal has seen. To peel back the carpeting of the world and tumble into the stars.

I was delighted to sit in the corner with my food and a book and speak to no one.

I will never again believe you to be incapable of hard work." He shuddered, "Being capable is not the same as being inclined, Em.

If I frightened my cat as I had Shadow, she'd ignore me for days, or possibly put a curse on me, but then cats have self-respect.

How was it that I suddenly had faerie kings, plural, demanding to marry me?

if something is impossible, you cannot be terrible at it

I have never needed rescuing before. I suppose I always assumed that if I ever did, I would have two options: rescue myself or perish.

And you shall shut yourself away forever in those old stones with your books and your mysteries like a dragon with her hoard, having as little association with the living as possible and emerging only to breathe fire at your students.

I may be of use to you yet, my dear dragon.

The worst of it was that Bambleby had warned me away from the tree - if I descended into a murderous rage, or turned into a tree myself, he would be very smug about it.

[...] my ridiculous heart gave a leap and would have answered him instantly, if it was the organ in charge of my decision-making.

If you do not admit kindness from others, you cannot be surprised when they fail to offer any.

You screamed, which I appreciated, and Shadow went bersek, also kind but not much more helpful, but fortunately, Lilja has her wits about her and yanked the arrow out [...].

I could almost imagine myself a maiden in one of the stories, but stories didn’t leave dirty teacups scattered throughout the cottage, or underline passages in my books—in ink—no matter how many times I ordered them not to.

Have you ever travelled abroad without servants? I'm sorry, students.

How is it that you know how to befriend wild faerie dogs and ferret out Words of Power, yet you missed one of the fundamental rules of dryadology---namely, not cutting wicked kings out of trees." "I've learned my lesson, thank you," I snapped. "Should you end up trapped in one, I won't let you out." "You shall have to. I know you too well, Em. You could never survive without having someone around to snarl at.

My life has been one long succession of moments in which I have chosen rationality over empathy, to shut away my feelings and strike off on some intellectual quest, and I have never regretted these choices, but rarely have they stared me in the face as bluntly as they did then.

A drop landed on the back of my hand, and I realized to my dismay that I was crying. Never in my adult life had I had someone looking out for me. Everything that I have wanted or needed doing, I have done myself. And why not? I have never needed rescuing before. I supposed I always assumed that if I ever did, I would have two options: rescue myself or perish.

I prefer your company, Em." He said it as if it were obvious. I snorted again, assuming he was teasing me. "Over the company of a tavern filled with a rapt and grateful audience? I'm sure you do." "Over anyone else's company." Again, he said it with some amusement, as if wondering what I was doing speculating about something so evident. "You are drunk," I said. "Shall I prove it to you?" "No, you shan't," I said, alarmed, but he was already sweeping to the floor, bending his knee and taking my hand between his. "What in God's name are you doing?" I said between my teeth. "And why are you doing it now?" "Shall I make an appointment?" he said, then laughed. "Yes, I believe you would like that. Well, name the time when it would be convenient for you to receive a declaration of love." "Oh, get up," I said, furious now. "What sort of jest is this, Wendell?" "You don't believe me?" He smiled, all mischief, a look I'd seen from other Folk, enough to know not to trust him one inch. "Ask for my true name, and I'll give it to you." "Why on earth would you do that?" I demanded, yanking my hand back. "Oh, Em," he said forlornly. "You are the cleverest dolt I have ever met." I stared at him, my heart thundering. Of course, I am not a dolt in any sense; I had supposed he felt something for me and had only hoped he would keep it to himself. Forever. Not that a part of me didn't wish for the opposite. But that was when I assumed his feelings in that respect were equivalent to what he felt for any of the nameless women who passed in and out of his bed. And why would I lower myself to that, when he and I already had something that was vastly more valuable?

There's a bump in your nose now." He glared at me. "There is not." "Your mouth is lopsided." He opened his mouth to argue, but then he just let out a weary groan. "What is the point? I am hideous. I can't wait to change myself back again." "Don't. I prefer you like this." He looked surprised, then he began to smile. "Do you?" "Yes," I said. "You blend into the background. I could almost forget about you entirely. It's refreshing." Naturally, he found a way to twist this into a compliment. "And am I ordinarily a distraction to you, Em?

I don’t recall any formal agreement. I recall a great deal of scowling and a few attempts at impugning my character, but that could characterize many of our conversations

I could have thrown my arms around him. Indeed, I almost did, but for some perverse reason, I found myself needing to argue with him instead.

One doesn't need magic if one knows enough stories.

I should, I suppose, mention here that I am perhaps ninety-five percent certain that Wendell Bambleby is not human.

The snow had ceased, and the sky was a soft eggshell color, the mountains dreaming under their woolen blankets. There was a loveliness in the forest's absence of color, its haunted dark framed by grey-white boughs, as if the snowfall had winnowed it down to the essence of what a forest is.

I would sooner interview a dozen bloody changelings than navigate my way through this thicket of social conventions

If something is impossible, you cannot be terrible at it.

There was something about the stories bound between those covers, and the myriad species of Folk weaving in and out of them, each one a mystery begging to be solved. I suppose most children fall in love with faeries at some point, but my fascination was never about magic or the granting of wishes. The Folk were of another world, with its own rules and customs---and to a child who always felt ill-suited to her own world, the lure was irresistible.

Yesterday you were angry at my lack of assistance. Today you bite my head off for helping. You are the most contrary person I have ever known." That took the wind out of me. Being labelled contrary by Wendell Bambleby would stop any sensible person in her tracks.

As usual, I had no idea what to do with this sort of insight—would questioning him lighten the sadness or make it worse? Should I (oh, God) attempt to hug him?

He looked so smug now that I wanted to send him over the side of the mountain, but instead I said, "Thank you," and kissed his lopsided mouth. It had the effect of stunning him into silence, which I enjoyed almost as much. "This way," he said, looking flustered for the first time since I have known him

Spice cake?” I said. Bambleby tumbled back into his chair. “How hard could it be?” “Have you ever made spice cake?” “I’ve certainly eaten it.” “Have you ever made anything?” “That’s neither here nor there.

Did you realize you were capable of inspiring affection in others?" "Only narcissists and layabouts, I thought." He leaned back, a smile playing on his mouth. "You know, Em, you could make life so much easier for yourself if you tried to be liked once in a while.

Shadow padded up to me and put his head on my knee, all forgiven, as it always is with dogs. If I frightened my cat as I had Shadow, she'd ignore me for days, or possibly put a curse on me, but then cats have self-respect.

I suppose most children fall in love with faeries at some point,

The Folk cannot be understood. They live in accordance to whims and fancies and are little more than a series of contradictions

You are every inch as fearsome as I always supposed you to be.

Your mortal lover has a mind like crystals," she said. "Sharp and cold. I would like her for my own." "That's very thoughtful of you," was all he said in reply to this statement, which was appalling on a great many levels. "Truly," the woman pressed. "Would you trade her? Your power is of the summerlands, but I will gift you with the hand of winter." "Thank you," Wendell said; he seemed to be struggling to hold back laughter. "But I am satisfied with my hands as they are. And unless you have a key to my forest kingdom across the sea, I will not be trading my mortal lover today." I was going to kill him.

Unfortunately, he was very old, older even than some of my court's most tedious councillors, so I suppose he had reason to condescend to me. No reason at all to put an arrow in my chest, though.

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.

The Word has a single use, and that is retrieving lost buttons. Suffice it to say, I have rarely bothered with it, and I’m at a loss to explain why anybody would go to the trouble of devising such an enchantment. My conclusion: that is faeries for you.

This was Bambleby, after all--my only friend. (God.)

I could not tell if he was terrible at drawing cats or if he simply had a terrible cat.

He glared at me. “Yes, you would do all that, wouldn’t you? Well then, instead, why don’t you just marry me?

I will never again believe you to be incapable of hard work.” He shuddered. “Being capable is not the same as being inclined, Em.

He sighed. “Well, I don’t expect you to do anything with this information. I have grown rather used to pining, so it won’t put me out to keep at it, I suppose.” “I would order you to do all sorts of terrible things,” I managed, though my voice sounded very far away. “You seem to have a talent for that already.

Wanting to be through with this quickly, I leaned forward and kissed him. Almost. I lost my nerve halfway there, somewhere around the moment I noticed he had a freckle next to his eye and wondered ridiculously if that was something he would remove if I asked it of him, and instead of a proper kiss, I merely brushed my lips against his. It was a shadow of a kiss, cool and insubstantial, and I almost wish I could be romantic and say it was somehow transformative, but in truth, I barely felt it. But then his eyes came open, and he smiled at me with such innocent happiness that my ridiculous heart gave a leap and would have answered him instantly, if it was the organ in charge of my decision-making. "Choose whenever you wish," he said. "No doubt you will first need to draw up a list of pros and cons, or perhaps a series of bar plots. If you like, I will help you organize them into categories." I cleared my throat. "It strikes me that this is all pointless speculation. You cannot marry me. I am not going to be left behind, pining for you, when you return to your kingdom. I have no time for pining." He gave me an astonished look. "Leave you behind! As if you would consent to that. I would expect to be burnt alive when next I returned to visit. No, Em, you will come with me, and we will rule my kingdom together. You will scheme and strategize until you have all my councillors eating out of your hand as easily as you do Poe, and I will show you everything---everything. We will travel to the darkest parts of my realm and back again, and you will find answers to questions you have never even thought to ask, and enough material to fill every journal and library with your discoveries.

Do you want to marry me?" "That's---that's beside the point." A nonsensical reply, but it came the closest to expressing how I felt. I had never even considered marrying Wendell---why on earth would I? Wendell Bambleby! Certainly I'd imagined being with him in other ways, particularly since I'd grown used to having him around---traveling with him across the continent, no doubt arguing half the time; conducting research; scouring woodland and heath for lost doors to the faerie realms. And yes, I liked the prospect of being with him often, or even all the time, and felt a sort of hollowness fill me when I thought about us parting ways. But I couldn't marry one of the Folk, particularly not a faerie king, even if he was Wendell.

Then you told me how you had tricked the boggart into thinking you a long-lost relative of his last master---a feat which had required extensive research into local lore---then bribed him with exotic seashells, for you remembered some obscure story about a boggart whose secret fantasy was to travel the world, boggarts being bound to their crumbling ruins, while I half listened in astonishment. I say half, because I was mostly just watching you, observing the way your mind clicks and whirrs like some fantastical clock. Truly, I have never met anyone with a better understanding of our nature, and that anyone includes the Folk. I suppose that's partly why--- Ah, but you really would kill me if I desecrated your scientific vessel with the end of that sentence.

How did you keep your hands off him?" She gave me a sly look that I never could have imagined on her face before. "Or did you?" "Please," Wendell said. "I ask to be excused from any descriptions of marital intimacy. This whole thing is unfair: I asked you to marry me first." "Oh, that's rich!" I exclaimed, and was about to remind him of his many dalliances, which he'd never hesitated to make me aware of

I was surprised to feel his hand brush against mine---he'd crossed the room without a whisper of sound---his grip feather-light. I froze, realizing that he was about to kiss me only a second after I knew I was going to kiss him. I leaned forward, but he put a hand on the side of my face, very gently, his fingers brushing the edge of my hair. A little shiver went through me. His thumb was by the corner of my mouth, and it made me think of the time when I had touched him there, when I'd thought he was dying from loss of blood. For a heartbeat, all the other moments we'd shared faded away, leaving behind only the small handful of times we'd been close like this, connected somehow like a bright constellation. He brushed his lips against my cheek, and I felt the warmth sink all the way to my bones, chasing out the ice of the snow king's court. "Good night, Em," he murmured, his breath fluttering against my ear and sending a river of goosebumps down my neck.

How did I explain that the stories they tell to children, or for diversion on cold nights spent by the fire, held the deepest of truths

Many of them wore their coats, for if there is one thing that unites scholars, it is complaining about the temperature of conference rooms.

Have you ever made a spice cake? I've certainly eaten it. Have you ever made anything? That's neither here nor there. I snorted.

It's funny how the practice of such simple, ancient skills can put one at ease.

I recognized his expression, for I've seen it before: that of a man trying unsuccessfully to slot me into one of the categories of womanhood with which he is familiar.

Bambleby hates to be without company to talk at.

He is more magic than person, that is the truth of it. Is this what happens to all the Folk as they age, their power hollowing them out like the fissures in an ancient glacier?

...it is always restful to be around someone who does not expect anything from you beyond what is in your nature.

whether I would agree with his theory that Professor Eddington’s relative silence at such convocations suggested a mastery of the open-eyed nap.

The afternoon held the sort of borrowed, ephemeral warmth that interrupts the advance of winter sometimes…

Such variation is common. Nevertheless, when it comes to the Folk, there is something true in every story, even the false ones.

You are not so terrible, Em. You merely need friends who are dragons like you.

Mr. Egilson?” I said politely, shaking the hand. “Well, who else would I be?” my host replied. I wasn’t sure if this was meant to be unfriendly or if the baseline of his demeanour was mild hostility

He sat with me, chattering away about our triumphant return to Cambridge and ICODEF, and myriad other things, and not expecting anything substantial in reply, which is one of my favourite qualities about him. It sounds odd to admit that I find the company of such a boisterous person restful, but perhaps it is always restful to be around someone who does not expect anything from you beyond what is in your nature.

The forest has a different quality now, girded with winter. It no longer dozes among its autumn finery like a king in silken bedclothes, but holds itself in tension, watchful and waiting. Its moments like that, I am reminded of Gauthier's writings on woodlands and the nature of their appeal to the Folk. Specifically, the forest as liminal, a "middle-world" as Gauthier puts it, its roots burrowing deep into the earth as their branches yearn for the sky. Her scholarship tends towards the tautological and is not infrequently tedious (qualities she shares with a number of the continental dryadologists) yet there is a sense to her words one only grasps after time spent among the Folk.

The next time I took notice of you, you were sobbing all over the snow. Well, I thought, finally she's being sensible. Then I realized that you were sobbing because you'd stabbed yourself in the arm, and not out of concern for my imminent demise. I noticed that your tears were freezing as they hit the icy ground and collecting into the shape of a sword. Well, that almost killed me. I mean that---I froze for a full second, during which our yeti friend nearly skewered me through. I dodged, barely, my head whirling. One day I would like for you to explain to me how you heard of the story of Deirdre and her faerie husband, a long-ago king, which is one of the oldest tales in my realm. Do mortals tell it as we do? When the king's murderous sons schemed to steal his kingdom by starving it into torpor with endless winter, Deirdre collected the tears of his dying people and froze them into a sword, with which he was finally able to slay his children. It is a tale many of my own people have forgotten---I know it only because that poor, witless king is my ancestor. I felt the story in my blood and let my magic flow into the sword you were fashioning.

When he is not speaking or moving, he becomes perfectly still. I mean that—perfectly. I speculate that, in those moments, he returns to what he is, a piece of winter given form. It is the same stillness one finds in a frozen lake or trees weighted by heavy snow.

Somehow, one of the women found time to knit a jacket for Shadow which, combined with the other gifts, left me unaccountable flustered---given my companion's size, it would have taken her hours. Bambleby and I entertained ourselves at the cottage by coaxing a recalcitrant Shadow into his new raiment, which was patterned with flowers and equipped with a jaunty hood. The dog hung his head in abject embarrassment until his tormentors deigned to relieve him of this woolen pillory, and he spent the next hour pointedly ignoring me.

Faerie stones can be found in a variety of regions, being particularly common in Cornwall and the Isle of Man. They are unimpressive in appearance and hard to recognize with the untrained eye; their most distinguishing feature is their perfect roundness. They seem primarily to be used to store enchantments for later use or perhaps for the purposes of gift-giving. Danielle de Grey's 1850 Guide to Elfstones of Western Europe is the definitive resource on the subject. (I am aware that many dryadologists today ignore de Grey's research on account of her many scandals, but whatever else she was, I find her a meticulous scholar.) A faerie stone with a crack down it has been spent and is thus harmless. An intact stone should be left untouched and reported to ICAD, the International Council of Arcanologists and Dryadologists.

The faeries took no notice of my cry. No doubt they were used to lost travelers screaming for help. One of them grabbed me by my cloak and wrenched me painfully back and forth, like an animal wishing to drag me to the ground. But I did not need to call for Wendell again. He stepped out from behind a tree---or perhaps from the tree; I didn't see. He reached a hand out and snapped the neck of the faerie gripping me, which I had not expected, and I staggered back from both him and the crumpling body. He saw the mark on my neck, and his entire face darkened with something that seemed to go beyond fury and made him look like some feral creature. The faeries scattered like leaves, though they were too intrigued and too stupid to run. "Are you hurt?" "No." I don't know how I made myself speak. I have seen Wendell angry before, but this was something that seemed to surge through him like lightning, threatening to burn everything in its path. He moved his hand, and a hideous tree rose up from the snow, dark and terrifying, all thorns and knife-sharp branches. The boughs darted out, and he skewered the faeries on them. Once they were all immobilized, held squirming and screaming above the ground, he moved from one to the other, tearing them apart with perfect, calm brutality. Limbs, hearts, other organs I did not recognize scattered the snow. He did not rush, but killed them methodically while the others howled and writhed.

The snow had ceased, and the sky was a soft eggshell colour, the mountains dreaming under their wollen blankets. There was a loveliness in the forest's absence of colour, its haunted dark framed by grey-white boughs, as if the showfall had winnowed it down to the essence of what a forest is.

The truth is that, for the Folk, stories are everything. Stories are part of them and their world in a fundamental way that mortals have difficulty grasping; a story may be a singular event from the past, but - crucially - it is also a pattern that shapes their behaviour and predicts future events.

I sang it in the tongue in which it was composed, that of the Folk, which prosaic scholars simply call Faie. It is a rolling, roundabout speech that takes twice as long to say half as much in English, with many contrary rules, but there is no lovelier language spoken by mortals anywhere in the world.

It is most likely to be found in a similar woodland landscape, green and wet with plenty of oak groves to drink in the small magics of the common fae and create spaces for such portals to manifest---if indeed their existence is the result of mere accident or chance. These sorts of rabbit hole doors---back entrances, if you like---are often said to be accidental, in the stories. Northern Europe is the most likely location; perhaps one of the warmer forests of Russia." He stood unmoving with his hand on the door, staring at me. "Yes, I know that's a lot of conjecture," I said, misreading the look on his face. "I've not had time to give it much thought." He smiled at me, his eyes shining a little too brightly in the way they sometimes did. "We are going to make a very good team, Em." I snorted to cover the heat rising in my face. "So far, our teamwork seems rather unevenly distributed." "I may be of use to you yet, my dear dragon.

You could simply tell them you prefer silver." For this is the customary offering in Ireland, at least for the courtly fae. Almost every species of Folk disdains human metals, yet the Irish fae are unique in their ability to tolerate---and, indeed, to love---silver. It is said that they fill their vast, dark forests with silver mirrors like jewels, which drink in the little sun and starlight that penetrates the boughs and reflect it back at the will of the Folk; it is also said that they use silver to construct fantastical staircases that wind up and up those vast trunks, and bridges that hang between them like delicate necklaces.

I followed his gaze on my pillow, upon which rested a thing I did not recognize, woolen and oddly shaped. I seized it abruptly, indignant. It was my jumper! "How---what have you---" "I'm sorry," he said, not looking up from the flicker and flash of the needle. "But you cannot expect me to live in close proximity to clothing that barely deserves the word. It is inhumane." I shook out the jumper, gaping. I could hardly tell it was the same garment. Yes, it was the same color, but the wool itself seemed altered, becoming softer, finer, without losing any of its warmth. And it was not a baggy square anymore; it would hang only a little loose on me now, while clearly communicating the lines of my figure. "From now on, you will keep your damned hands off my clothes!" I snapped, then flushed, realizing how that sounded. Bambleby took no notice of any of it. "Do you know that there are men and women who would hand over their firstborns to have their wardrobes tended by a king of Faerie?" he said, calmly snipping a thread. "Back home, every courtier wanted a few moments of my time." "King?" I repeated, staring at him. And yet I was not hugely surprised---it would explain his magic. A king or queen of Faerie, the stories say, can tap into the power of their realm. Yet that power, while vast, is not thought to be limitless, there are tales of kings and queens falling for human trickery. And Bambleby's exile is of course additional testimony.

The tailor looked at the ceiling, and then he turned to the attendants with a smile that somehow managed to be charming, despite his ugliness. "Her Highness is modest," he said. "I must undress her now, and she'd rather we have some privacy." Oh, God. If I hadn't known it was Bambleby before, I did now. Even through my shock and confusion, I couldn't help glaring at him.

There was no doubt that the tree before us was the tree; it could have stepped from the tales into the forest. It was centered in an oddly round clearing, as if the other trees had all felt inclined to back away, and was towering but skeletal, its trunk only a little wider than I was and its many, many branches arching and tangling overhead, like a small person propping up a tremendous, many-layered umbrella. But the strangest thing about the tree was its foliage. There were leaves of summer-green mixed in with the fire and gold of autumn; tidy buds just opening their pink mouths, and, here and there, red fruits dangling in clusters, heavy with ripeness. These fruits could not be easily identified; they were roughly the size of apples, but furred like peaches.

You can't reveal to me that you're Folk---it must have been part of the enchantment that exiled you from your world. Isn't that it? I've heard of that---yes, that account of the Gallic changeling. And isn't it a peripheral motif within the Ulster Cycle?* * There are, in fact, several stories from France and the British Isles which describe this sort of enchantment. In two of the Irish tales, which may have the same root story, a mortal maiden figures out that her suitor is an exile of the courtly fae after he inadvertently touches her crucifix and burns himself (the Folk in Irish stories are often burning themselves on crucifixes, for some reason). She announces it aloud, which breaks the enchantment and allows him henceforth to reveal his faerie nature to whomever he chooses.

All dryadologists accept the existence of those doors that lead to individual faerie homes and villages, such as those inhabited by the common fae. Theories about a second class of door are more controversial, but I myself believe highly credible, given the stories we have of the courtly fae. These are thought to be doors that lead deep into Faerie, into a world wholly separate from our own.

Here of course I refer to Wilson Blythe’s Wilderfolk Theory, widely accepted by dryadologists and often referred to as the Blythian school of thought. Numerous guides have been written on the subject, but essentially Blythe views the Folk as elements of the natural world that have gained consciousness through unknown processes. According to Blythian thought, then, they are tied to their home environments in ways we humans can barely hope to grasp.

Egilson was prompt in preparing our supper, which was accompanied by a dozen buns and, perhaps as a form of apology for the lack of apple tart, a basket of greyish-blue fruits aptly named iceberries. Finn delivered the lot, along with his apologies---there were no apples to be had in Hrafnsvik, and he had no experience with bread pudding, but he hoped we would enjoy his briòsupa, which he and Krystjan guessed to be the closest Ljoslander approximation. It was made with rye bread and plenty of cinnamon, cream, and raisins, and smelled divine.

A faerie crouched beside me. It was very small, its frame skeletal with a face full of teeth and two sharp black stones for eyes tucked beneath a ravenskin that it seemed to wear as a sort of cloak, but the skin had been poorly cleaned and the eyes were absent. It had all the substance of cobwebs and was both there and not there; viewed from certain angles, it was merely the shadow of a stone, and from others, a live raven. It was digging around in my pockets with fingernails the length again of its spindly arms and sharp enough to slit my throat without my noticing the injury immediately.

Whatever he touched burst into bloom, scattering the snow with leaves like beaten emeralds, red berries, pussy willows and seed cones, a riot of color and texture crackling through that white world. Soon enough our little wilderness path could have been a grand avenue decked out for a returning general's triumphant procession. Birds hunkered down for the long winter crept out of their burrows, chirruping their alarmed delight as they grew drunk on berries. A narrow fox darted across our path, a starling clutched in its mouth, sparing us a dismissive glance as it slunk back into the velvet shadow.

I could have gone on about faerie stories—I’ve written several articles on the subject—but I didn’t know how to talk to him about my scholarship, if what I said would be nonsense to his ears. The truth is that, for the Folk, stories are everything. Stories are part of them and their world in a fundamental way that mortals have difficulty grasping; a story may be a singular event from the past, but—crucially—it is also a pattern that shapes their behaviour and predicts future events. The Folk have no system of laws, and while I am not saying stories are as law to them, they are the closest thing their world has to some form of order.

Which of the Irish kingdoms is yours?" "Oh---it's the one you scholars call Silva Lupi," he said. "In the southwest." "Wonderful," I murmured. Faerie realms are named for their dominant feature---statistically, the largest category is silva, woodland, followed by montibus, mountains---and an adjective chosen by the first documenting scholar. Ireland has seven realms, including the better-known Silva Rosis. But Silva Lupi---the forest of wolves---is a realm of shadow and monsters. It is the only one of the Irish realms to exist solely in story---not for lack of interest, of course, a number of scholars have disappeared into its depths.

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 color to another, and those trees which seemed darker and cruder than the others, as if they had drunk 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 favored.

We rode for perhaps an hour with the snow tapping at our cheeks before we came to a little gully where the mountainside folded itself around a grove of misshapen willows. Even if the changeling hadn't directed us there, I would have taken it for a faerie door of some sort; though there are many sorts of doors, they all have a similar quality which can best---and quite inadequately---be described as unusual. A round ring of mushrooms is the obvious example, but one must additionally be on the lookout for large, hoary trees that dwarf their neighbors; for twisted trunks and gaping hollows; for wildflowers out of sync with the forest's floral denizens; for patterns of things; for mounds and depressions and inexplicable clearings. Anything that does not fit.

Many of the gifts were for me. There were jewels and gowns and furs and paintings--- done on ice canvases that made everything bleed together far more than watercolors---and a strange, empty box with a base of some sort of pale velvet that the faerie claimed would sprout white roses with diamonds in them if left outside at midday, and blue roses with rubies if left outside at midnight. There were other nonsensical presents along these lines, including a saddle of shapeless grey leather that would allow me to ride the mountain fog, though no explanation was given as to why I should wish to do this. The only presents I truly appreciated came in the form of ice cream, which the Hidden Ones are obsessed with and cover with sea salt and nectar from their winter flowers.

But you looked away, and seemed to be avoiding looking at Shadow too, so that I immediately began to think about how it had been him who had led me to you, and then about all of his uncanny ways, not least of which is his choice of a creature like you for a master. I patted his head, feeling about for the glamor, as I have never bothered to do before---and why should I; I do not make a habit of looking beneath people's pets to see if there is a monster hiding there---and sure enough, there it was, and when I moved the magic aside, a bloody Black Hound stared back at me, all glowing eyes and glistening fangs. You looked worried, for some reason, but you calmed down when I started laughing. "Where did you get him?" I said. "In Scotland," you replied. "He's a Grim. I rescued him from a boggart, who was tormenting him for sport.

Below us was a frozen lake. It was perfectly round, a great gleaming eye in which the moon and stars were mirrored. Lanterns glowing the same cold white as the aurora dangled from the lake's edge to a scattering of benches and merchant-stands, draped in bright awnings of opal and blue. Delicious smells floated on the wind---smoked fish; fire-roasted nuts and candies; spiced cakes. A winter fair.* * Outside of Russia, almost all known species of courtly fae, and many common fae also, are fond of fairs and markets; indeed, such gatherings appear in stories as the interstitial spaces between their worlds and ours, and thus it is not particularly surprising that they feature in so many encounters with the Folk. The character of such markets, however, varies widely, from sinister to benign. The following features are universal: 1) Dancing, which the mortal visitor may be invited to partake in; 2) A variety of vendors selling foods and goods which the visitor is unable to recall afterwards. More often than not, the markets take place at night. Numerous scholars have attempted to document these gatherings; the most widely referenced accounts are by Baltasar Lenz, who successfully visited two fairs in Bavaria before his disappearance in 1899.

Wendell was no sooner gazing at the silver sewing needles than he was brushing away a tear. "They are like my father's," he said wonderingly. "I remember the flicker of them in the darkness as we all sat together by the ghealach fire, with the trees surrounding us. He would bring them everywhere, even the Hunt of the Frostveiling---that is the first hunt of autumn, the largest of the year, when even the queen and her children roam through the wilds with spears and swords, riding our best---oh, I don't know what you would call them in your language. They are a kind of faerie fox, black and golden together, which grow larger than horses. My brothers and sisters and I would crowd round the fire to watch him weave nets from brambles and spidersilk. And all the moorbeasts and hag-headed deer would cower at the sight of those nets, though they barely blinked at the whistle of our arrows." He fell silent, gazing at them with his eyes gone very green. "Well," I said, predictably at a loss for an answer to this, "I hope they are of use to you. Only keep them away from any garments of mine." He took my hand, and then, before I knew what he was doing, lifted it to his mouth. I felt the briefest brush of his lips against my skin, and then he had released me and was back to exclaiming over his gifts. I turned and went into the kitchen in an aimless haste, looking for something to do, anything that might distract me from the warmth that had trailed up my arm like an errant summer breeze

Now, there are a few dryadologists who could resist the opportunity to sample faerie food, the enchanted sort served at the tables of the courtly fae---I know several who have dedicated their careers to the subject and would hand over their eye teeth for the opportunity. I stopped at a stand offering toasted cheese---a very strange sort of cheese, threaded with glittering mold. It smelled divine, and the faerie merchant rolled it in crushed nuts before handing it over on a stick, but as soon as it touched my palm, it began to melt. The merchant was watching me, so I put it in my mouth, pantomiming my delight. The cheese tasted like snow and melted within seconds. I stopped next at a stand equipped with a smoking hut. The faerie handed me a delicate fillet of fish, almost perfectly clear despite the smoking. I offered it to Shadow, but he only looked at me with incomprehension in his eyes. And, indeed, when I popped it into my mouth, it too melted flavorlessly against my tongue. I took a wandering course to the lakeshore, conscious of the need to avoid suspicion. I paused at the wine merchant, who had the largest stand. It was brighter than the others, snow piled up behind it in a wall that caught the lantern light and threw it back in a blinding glitter. I had to look down at my feet, blinking back tears, as one of the Folk pressed an ice-glass into my hand. Like the food, the wine smelled lovely, of sugared apples and cloves, but it slid eerily within the ice, more like oil than wine. Shadow kept growling at it, as he had not with the faerie food, and so I tipped it onto the snow. Beside the wine merchant was a stand offering trinkets, frozen wildflowers that many of the Folk threaded through their hair or wove through unused buttonholes on their cloaks, as well as an array of jewels with pins in them. I could not compare them to any jewels I knew; they were mostly in shades of white and winter grey, hundreds of them, each impossibly different from the next. I selected one that I knew, without understanding how, was the precise color of the icicles that hung from the stone ledges of the Cambridge libraries in winter. But moments after I pinned it to my breast, all that remained was a patch of damp.

That's true enough," he said, looking me up and down with a pained expression. He looked down at himself after, as if he needed to soothe his eyes with his own beauty.

Erika didn’t burn down your barn!” Lilja said. “It’s still standing.” “Thanks to the rainstorm, not her.” To me, Margret added, “Lilja has a habit of romancing madwomen.” “I do not!” “Either that or you turn them mad, then. I suppose I’ll be locked up in due course. Perhaps after I set the village alight.

He took my hand, and then, before I knew what he was doing, lifted it to his mouth. I felt the briefest brush of his lips against my ski, and then he had released me and was back to exclaiming over his gifts. I turned and went into the kitchen in an aimless haste, looking for something to do, anything that might distract me from the warmth that had trailed up my arm like an errant summer breeze, and settled for preparing a light repast from the remains of our provisions.

He took my hand, and then, before I knew what he was doing, lifted it to his mouth. I felt the briefest brush of his lips against my skin, and then he had released me and was back to exclaiming over his gifts. I turned and went into the kitchen in an aimless haste, looking for something to do, anything that might distract me from the warmth that had trailed up my arm like an errant summer breeze, and settled for preparing a light repast from the remains of our provisions.

The snow had ceased, and the sky was a soft eggshell colour, the mountains dreaming under their woollen blankets. There was a loveliness in the forest’s absence of colour, its haunted dark framed by grey-white boughs, as if the snowfall had winnowed it down to the essence of what a forest is.

The snow had ceased, and the sky was a soft eggshell colour, the mountains dreaming under their woollen blankets. There was a loveliness in the forest's absence of colour, its haunted dark framed by grey-white boughs, as if the snowfall had winnowed it down to the essence of what a forest is.

I have always hated this sort of thing. I would sooner interview a dozen bloody changelings than navigate my way through this thicket of social conventions.

inchoate

Well, footnotes in dryadology are sometimes like the Folk themselves, leaping out at you from nowhere.

I am reminded of Gauthier’s writings on woodlands and the nature of their appeal to the Folk. Specifically, the forest as liminal, a “middle-world” as Gauthier puts it, its roots burrowing deep into the earth as their branches yearn for the sky.

it’s not uncommon for me to forget to eat when I am buried in some academic mystery.

Em,” he said without looking up from his work, after I had snuck yet another glance in his direction, “either you are plotting how best to have me murdered and stuffed for one of your exhibits, or you are still concerned that I am bewitched. You are so contrary that I would not be surprised by both concurrently. Perhaps you could set my nerves at ease.

Crystals of snow nestled in his golden hair, which was very distracting. I am used to ignoring his good looks, but that hair of his is a difficult matter. I’ve observed that most people are taken in by his smile or his eyes, but for me, it’s that damned hair—one can’t help imagining what it feels like, is the problem.

It sounds odd to admit that I find the company of such a boisterous person restful, but perhaps it is always restful to be around someone who does not expect anything from you beyond what is in your nature.

Intellectual curiosity. I am an explorer, Wendell. I might call myself a scientist, but that is the heart of it. I wish to know the unknowable. To see what no mortal has seen, to—how does Lebel put it? To peel back the carpeting of the world and tumble into the stars.

I returned to the cottage to compile my notes. It was empty, though I could see two tiny specks upon a

replied Egilson with a touch of black humour that I found preferable to false friendliness, which is not the same as saying I appreciated it.

There is something that Bambleby does which would be noticeable only to those who spend a great deal of time around the Folk. It is the way in which his emotions seem to slide through him like water, one giving way to another as abruptly as waves on the shore.

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.

If I frightened my cat as I had Shadow, she’d ignore me for days, or possibly put a curse on me, but then cats have self-respect.

Intellectual curiosity. I am an explorer, Wendell. I might call myself a scientist, but that is the heart of it. I wish to know the unknowable.

I sobbed there in the snow for a moment or two, from relief as much as from the pain.

He smiled. "This is all going into your book, isn't it?" "I was not even thinking about my book," I said defensively--- I was only half lying. With my encyclopaedia complete, I have, as Wendell knows, turned my attention to another large project--- creating a mapbook of all the known faerie realms, as well as their doors. Such a book will be a patchwork thing, unavoidably so--- faerie realms are often attached to specific geographical locations in the mortal world, though only a few have been explored in a meaningful way--- but I wish to use it to argue Danielle de Grey's point: that the realms are more interconnected than previous scholarship has suggested. Finding evidence of the nexus would be the linchpin of the entire project.

He pressed his hands to his face. "Yesterday you were angry at my lack of assistance. Today you bite my head off for helping. You are the most contrary person I have ever known.

What is this?" It appeared to be written in Ljoslander. "A novel," he said. He pulled out another book, which I barley caught. " On the smutty side, I'm afraid - not to your tasted at all.

How you've convinced almost an entire village to hate you in the space of a week is beyond me.

He's prettier when he's asleep, eh? You don't notice that big mouth of his.

Guilt nudged at me, and I could not quash this time, so I did what I was used to doing with troublesome feelings and shoved it down until it was buried by other things.

He gave me a look as ancient and unyielding as winter,

Of course I guessed that you had concocted some scheme in the night, which you would no doubt carry out with your usual reptilian efficiency, no help needed from the faerie king you have dragged along with you like a half-forgotten doll.

I suppose that’s partly why—

I suppose that’s partly why— Ah, but you really would kill me if I desecrated your scientific vessel with the end of that sentence.

I noticed that your tears were freezing as they hit the icy ground and collecting into the shape of a sword.

Then I knocked his head off with one well-aimed stroke, nice and clean and hugely satisfying. In fact, I liked it so much that I wound back time and did it again, just to hear the lovely thunk of his head hitting the snow.

Shall I make an appointment?” he said, then laughed. “Yes, I believe you would like that. Well, name the time when it would be convenient for you to receive a declaration of love.

Were you expecting me to throw myself at you? Would you have then said a dozen pretty things about my eyes or hair?” “No, it would have been, ‘Get off me, you imposter, and tell me what you did with Emily.’ 

I cleared my throat. “It strikes me that this is all pointless speculation. You cannot marry me. I am not going to be left behind, pining for you, when you return to your kingdom. I have no time for pining.” He gave me an astonished look. “Leave you behind! As if you would consent to that. I would expect to be burnt alive when next I returned to visit. No, Em, you will come with me, and we will rule my kingdom together.

Shit,” I said, or rather mouthed—so the enchantment would allow me to mouth curses: what a comfort.

I had broken the enchantment I had fallen under (I provided no details as to how, in case he flew into one of his homicidal rages and began decapitating the sheep or something),

I’ll see that we adequately replace his dowry. He won’t sorrow, then, for it will free him up to marry someone prettier than you.

What?” I said, giving him a blank look. Then I blinked, taking in his plain appearance, unchanged from before. “Oh, yes, of course.” He stared at me. “You didn’t notice?” I said that I hadn’t, and he stomped off to the kitchen in high dudgeon.

I shall instruct him to stay away.” Oh, would I. The faerie’s eyes grew huge. “You can command a prince?

Do you not heat your houses with wood,” I said, all innocence, “in the place you come from?” He gave me a withering look. “I’m quite happy to say that, in Dublin, we have servants to deal with these things.” “Well, this is not Dublin, and I’m not getting anywhere. You have to help.

And you have thus far been unsuccessful.

Bambleby and I entertained ourselves at the cottage by coaxing a recalcitrant Shadow into his new raiment, which was patterned with flowers and equipped with a jaunty hood. The dog hung his head in abject embarrassment

I didn’t see. He reached a hand out and snapped the neck of the faerie gripping me, which I had not expected, and I staggered back from both him and the crumpling body. He saw the mark on my neck, and his entire face darkened with something that seemed to go beyond fury

You alone have the talent of scowling loudly. I’ve often wondered how you manage it.

Will you credit me in a footnote?” “We will present our findings together.

if what I said would be nonsense to his ears.

That and the fact that he considers himself my dearest friend, which is only true in the sense that he is my sole friend.

I suppose people are often looking for a way to explain me, and a childhood of neglect or deprivation is as good as any.

Finn seemed oddly flustered after my conversation with the headwoman,

I’ve studied the enchantments left behind by the courtly fae—the tall ones—as well as numerous firsthand accounts, but I’ve never met one.” Besides Bambleby, perhaps.

I reached into my backpack and drew out the remnants of Finn’s burnt loaf. Sighing heavily, I broke it in half and began to chew. “That looks foul,

Come down to the tavern," he said after dark had fallen. "No, thank you," I said, glancing up from the dryadology journal I was jotting notes from - I was working on the bibliography for my encyclopedia. "I'd like an early night." "You don't have to stay long. You'd rather sit here with your nose in a book?" "Vastly," I said, and he shook his head at me, not in disgust but utter bemusement.

I was merely going to point out the coffee," I said. Bambleby was allergic to serious conversation - or indeed, any work at all - that took place before breakfast.

while I sat by the crackling fire with my tea,

Yes.” He flicked another page. “And you shall shut yourself away forever in those old stones with your books and your mysteries like a dragon with her hoard, having as little association with the living as possible and emerging only to breathe fire at your students.

The forest has a different quality now, girded with winter. It no longer dozes among its autumn finery like a king in silken bedclothes, but holds itself in tension, watchful and waiting.

They have never known what to make of me. When I read every book in my grandfather’s library—I must have been eight or so—and came to them with certain thorny passages memorized, I had expected my mother and father to offer clarity—instead, they had stared at me as if I had suddenly become very far away.

that he should set his sights upon acquiring external affirmations of self-expertise.

Shadow kam auf leisen Sohlen zu mir und legte mir den Kopf aufs Knie, alles war vergeben, wie es bei Hunden immer ist. Wenn ich meine Katze so erschreckt hätte wie Shadow, würde sie mich tagelang ignorieren oder mir vielleicht einen Fluch auferlegen, aber Katzen haben ja auch Selbstachtung.

Changelings are monstrous offspring produced by the courtly fae, weak and sickly creatures who bring misfortune upon a household for as long as they remain there, but they are not vicious or malevolent.

Los momentos como este me recuerdan a los textos de Gauthier sobre la naturaleza de la atracción que sienten las hadas por los bosques. En especial, la espesura como algo liminal, un «mundo entre medias», como dice Gauthier, con sus raíces extendiéndose en la profundidad de la tierra mientras sus ramas ansían el cielo.

I informed him that the cottage had been perfectly satisfactory as it was, to which he replied that the place had been so dank and cheerless as to be suitable only to bats and unsociable gargoyles brooding over their books, and he would sooner put his eyes out than endure weeks of such wretched environs.

It was cozy in the manner of all such country establishments from England to Russia, a wash of shadows and firelight, crowded with bodies and cooking smells, its ceiling held up by what looked like driftwood logs. Above the bar, where one might find a pair of antlers on the continent, there hung instead the tremendous mandible of a whale.

I can't recall the last time I cried before going to Hrafnsvik - likely I had been a small child. I won't be maudlin, yet i couldn't help but feel that something inside me had loosened - something small but troublesome, like a pebble caught in a shoe.

Verba volant, scripta manent.

I have seen Wendell angry before, but this was something that seemed to surge through him like lightning, threatening to burn everything in its path.

Everything about this man made me feel utterly insignificant, like a trinket his gaze had been caught by, which he might at any moment choose, idly, to crush between his fingers.

I’d of course heard hints of the fearsome nature of the courtly fae of Ljosland—that is, those faeries who assume near-human form.

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 color to another, and those trees which seemed darker and cruder than the others, as if they had drunk 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 slaty-sweet Ljosland candies that several of the sailors had favored.

Upon the bed sat a boy, pale as moonlight on new snow. I stopped short, for the creature was nothing like the changelings I have encountered before---ugly, spindly things to a one, with the brains of animals. The boy's long hair was bluish and translucent, and upon his skin was a glimmer like frost. He was beautiful, with an uncanny grace, his eyes sharp with intelligence.

I managed a single glance over my shoulder, and what did my gaze fall upon but my encyclopaedia, pages stacked tidily beneath my paperweight, little bookmarks sticking out the sides indicating sections requiring revision. That pinnacle of faerie scholarship, which I had only weeks ago likened to a museum exhibit of the Folk, neatly pinned down and labelled by the foremost expert on the subject---that is, me---brimming with meticulously documented accounts of foolish mortals who bumbled into faerie plots and games.

The dress was perfect, every inch of it, covering me in emerald green drapery that flowed like the boughs of a weeping willow, the bodice embellished with crushed pearls that made a whispery sound when I moved.

The shoes were of white leather and fur, with impractical heels that would add half a foot to my height, but unlike every other adornment I had been presented with, they did not sparkle with frost or ice-encrusted jewels. Somehow, he had woven the fur with the petals of cherry blossoms, as if the pale beast who had owned the pelt had rubbed its back against a tree. When I touched them, a spring breeze fluttered against my fingers, and I smelled rain and green, growing things. "If you would allow me the honor, Your Highness?" Wendell said. In one quick, graceful motion, he slid the boots from my feet and replaced them with the shoes. They fit perfectly, and oh, they were so warming. I felt astonished that I hadn't realized how cold my feet had been before.

We came next to a side door that led us back to the courtyard, where the ice now ran red with blood, then he made us all leap through a window that brought us to a winter garden, filled with flowers the color of twilight punctuated with violent hedges, their leaves black and spiky and their berries bright with poison.

Shadow lay curled at my side and rolled upright with a delighted snort when he sensed I was awake. He shoved his huge muzzle into my face and licked me, while I half patted, half swatted him away. I'm afraid his breath is immune to glamor and smells exactly as you'd expect a Black Hound's breath to smell---rather deathly.

Awaiting us behind the podium were three trunks, one containing the remnants of the faerie cloak, now badly melted but still recognizable; one a necklace the king had given me, a delicate spiderweb of ice chains that, unlike the cloak, didn't melt; the last a jagged spire of volcanic rock from one of Krystjan's fields, in which there was a tiny wooden door that vanished in direct sun. I felt like a magician.

Golden feathers began to fly through the air, and the wedding guests could not at first make sense of it. The oíche sidhe kept whacking and whacking until the serving girl split apart like an overripe plum and became what she had been long ago, though neither she nor the mother who raised her had guessed it---a golden raven, one of the three enchanted birds that the prince had released to bring strife to the kingdom. The serving girl flitted out the window, free at last, while the oíche sidhe dusted their hands and went smilingly back into hiding. They stopped pomading chickens and turning pajamas into evening wear, which was ultimately a relief to the duchess, who had been down to her last nightgown. As for the prince, the serving girl's disappearance finally gave him a purpose in life. He retreated to the wilderness to learn magic from witches and any Folk who would teach him. Eventually he succeeded in turning himself into a raven, whereupon he flew off in search of his beloved. In the northeast of Ireland it is said that he is still searching for his golden bride to this day, and that if you listen closely, you can hear her name in the croaking of the ravens.

I fetched a pair of metal tweezers from my pack and carefully plucked a leaf from the frost. It was lovely, segmented like a maple and white as the trunk and boughs, though it also had a coating of short white hairs, like some sort of beast. I placed the leaf within a small metal box I habitually use to collect such samples, many of which have found their place in the Museum of Dryadology and Ethnofolklore at Cambridge.

He seemed unable to enjoy the stark beauty of it all, the wild terror of the mountains, the towering glaciers, the little ribbons of time that clung to the rock in the form of frozen cataracts. The aurora danced above us both nights, green and blue and white undulating together, a cold ocean up there in the sky, and even that he barely glanced at. On the second night, he used his magic to summon a thick green hedge of prickly holly and a trio of willow saplings that enfolded our tent in drapery like bed curtains to keep out the chill wind. "Will you look at that!" I couldn't help but exclaiming as I sat by the fire, gazing up at the riot of light. I will admit, I wished for him to share the sight with me and was disappointed when he only sighed. "Give me hills round as apples and forests of such green you could bathe in it," he said. "None of these hyperborean baubles." "Baubles!" I exclaimed, and would have snapped at him, but his face as he gazed into the fire was open and forlorn, and I realized that he wasn't trying to be irksome---he missed his home. He had been longing for it all along, and this place, so alien and unfriendly, had sharpened the longing into a blade.

Looking back now, I wonder if I was observant enough. Certainly I was alert---I always am, during fieldwork---but I suspect that the unfamiliarity of the landscape, the high, dark mountains swaddled in snow, lulled me into a belief that no living thing could accost me here, certainly nothing fae, creatures I have spent my career associating with greenery and water and life. Fortunately, my reflexes are sharp. The instant the light flared through the trees, I halted and gripped my coin. It was a grayish light with no warmth in it, like a star. A wind moved through the trees, and there came a whisper of bells. Had I not been touching metal, I might have been bespelled, and as it was my head still spun a little, but I am used to brushing against faerie enchantments and stood my ground.

Above us, the aurora was bleeding. I stood frozen. The long ribbons of white unfurled all the way to the ground, growing filmier as they went. The green and blue of the aurora was unaffected. It was as if something were drawing the silvery whiteness to earth, like fingers pulling paint down a canvas, to a place just beyond the curve of the mountain---less than a mile away.

We had stepped into their realm. As soon as I was certain, I drew Shadow to me again. As we moved deeper into the faerie world, Shadow had grown larger. He was now twice the size, his muzzle coming up to my chest. His snout was sharper, wolfish, his paws enormous. But he followed me as calmly as ever, his black eyes trusting.

I thought of Bouchard's discovery of a curious stone slab in Rosetta, and Gadamer peeping through the trees at the goblin city. Was this what they had felt? It was awe, of course, mingled with stunned disbelief. I suppose that when one spends their career working towards a goal, constructing all sorts of fantasies about what that goal will look and feel like, one is left a little senseless when the scaffolding comes crashing down around them.

Shadow continues his search outside for a door to the mortal realm. I have faith in him, my oldest, most loyal friend---if there is a way out, he will find it.

He reached a hand out and snapped the neck of the faerie gripping me, which I had not expected,

As a rule, I avoid accepting favours from the locals while conducting fieldwork, as I dislike the potential for partiality it produces.

attempt to cover the fact that Egilson had included this information in one of our early letters.

but I was already running, and so we ran across the mostly frozen river like a bride from a nightmare, her train supported by a servant.

Shadow padded up to me and put his head on my knee, all forgiven, as it always is with dogs. If I frightened my cat as I had Shadow, she’d ignore me for days, or possibly put a curse on me, but then cats have self-respect.

Yes, we place all humanlike faeries into the category of courtly fae—you understand, then, that there are two main groupings of Folk, courtly and common. As far as the courtly fae are concerned, there are too many subcategories to list, and I’ve little idea whether any of them will apply to those you call the ‘tall ones.’ ” “We rarely call them anything,” Finn said. “It’s bad luck.

The gangway was lowered by means of a winch operated by an old man with a cigarette clamped nonchalantly between his teeth—how he kept it lit in that wind was a feat so impressive that hours later I found myself thinking back to the glowing ember darting through the sea spray.

I missed you, Em,” he said. “It was strange not having you across the hall, scowling at me.” “I wonder at your ability to detect my scowls through the wall. Are your senses heightened in other ways?

I had rescued Lilja and Margret not for their own sakes, but for scholarship.

I appreciate blunt people. It takes the guesswork out of conversations, and as someone who is terrible at guesswork and always putting her feet wrong, this is invaluable.

Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones Emily Wilde’s Encyclopaedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader by Anne Fadiman