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From: Wendell Bambleby

Faerie via Corbann

Dearest Emily,

I do not like this promise I made to you, that I would match the passage of time in my realm to that of the mortal world. Surely you would not object to me speeding things along a little, so that I should only have to wait another hour or two for your return. And anyway I am half convinced that the enchantment has gone awry somehow, for surely it has not merely been a day since you left. How dull it is without you! At least I have Niamh to talk to, and I have even taken to summoning my uncle every so often to keep me company, which he does not seem to appreciate, surly old recluse that he is. I have had some good conversations with Callum, and I seem to be making progress in convincing him that he need not be afraid of me. My dreadful sister has been following me about, but I do not count her as company, for all she does is mope. And what reason does she have to carry on so? I have endured a great deal more hardship than she, and yet here I am, engaging in all sorts of industry and enduring tedious demands upon my time; nor have I had one word of sympathy from her. I don’t know why she has suddenly chosen to inflict her presence upon me; I even woke this morning to find her curled up outside my door under a blanket, asleep. I attempted to talk to her kindly, which I knew you would appreciate, as you seem to have some sympathy for the wretch, but she only spat insults at me. Is this situation better or worse than when she was trying to kill me? Worse, I think. I could throw her back into the dungeons if she were up to no good. You will only be angry with me if I do so otherwise.

Anyway, Em, I am sure you are happily ensconced in your native habitat, that dreary monument to mortal rumination that is the library, no doubt thinking of me hardly at all. Well, why would you give a thought to romance or the faerie kingdom that now belongs to you as much as to me when you have a limitless supply of dusty old tomes to mutter and scowl at? I see now that my downfall as a suitor lies in my ability to offer you only a castle, great quantities of faerie silver, and various enchantments to dazzle and provoke you, instead of the full bound collection of Dryadological Fieldnotes.

Please return tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.

Love always,

Wendell

And the next day:

To: Dr. Emily Wilde

11 Scholars’ Square, Trinity College

Dublin

From: Wendell Bambleby

Faerie via Corbann

Dearest Emily,

You have not heeded my request to return today, I see. Will you be back tomorrow? Surely you will have exhausted the supply of relevant tomes by then, given how quickly you devour them.

I know you are annoyed with me for pestering you with letters, when you have only gone away in the first place to unravel the threat to my kingdom, but Em, do you truly believe the answer to my stepmother’s curse may be found in a library? Particularly when you consider how little scholarship understands about my realm. After all, you once thought it quite a fearsome place, did you not? Now you know how exaggerated such accounts are.

(I gave a strangled snort at this.)

Well, if there is one person who could unearth the proverbial needle in the haystack that is the esoteric ramblings of thousands of scholars, it is you, but if you do not find an answer, please do not sit there sulking among the stacks, or waste time harassing the poor librarians, as you were wont to do at Cambridge. Just come home.

Yours, always and ever,

Wendell

Today I had a much longer letter from him, which included an update on Orga’s campaign against Lord Taran—she somehow obtained entry to the wing of the castle he shares with Callum, whereupon she shredded half of his boots, namely the left half of every pair, a remarkable display of efficiency. There were also the usual demands for my return and complaints about his sister, and the news that he had fired half the Council (“the more insufferable half”) and replaced them with mortals, which he seemed convinced I would be delighted by, though I did not have the sense that he had applied any criterion in the selection beyond a lack of faerie ancestry. It would be nice if he would include something useful in his missives—the queen’s curse is spreading every day, but how much? Perhaps he does not wish to alarm me, though it is also possible that he does not consider the information as relevant as his visit to Margret and Lilja, including an update on Margret’s progress in mastering traditional Irish baked goods.

This morning I made my way from my rented rooms to the library, stopping only to take a quick coffee and buttered scone at one of the campus cafés. (I was once able to make do without breakfast, but I have fully succumbed to the habit now, it seems.) Trinity is smaller than Cambridge, though elegant in its own right, a mix of gothic architecture jostling good-naturedly with modern brickwork, and a great deal of green lawns and quiet promenades. The library is particularly admirable, with a vaulted ceiling and warmly lit atrium, off which one may find innumerable reading rooms and shelves stretching from floor to ceiling. Though the task before me is a grim one, I have found these homely surroundings to be a balm upon my anxieties.

Yesterday I made a discovery that I believe will be of immense help in our plight, and today my goal was to cross-reference the tale in question with stories from other Irish realms. I claimed a desk and switched on the electric lamp, then took up my notebook, in which I had jotted down the shelf number and location of several volumes. Shadow, meanwhile, settled in for a nap under the desk. One of his many talents is his ability to make himself scarce; dogs are rarely welcomed in libraries, but he seemed to blend into the shadows in that corner of the room, and I did not think he would be noticed unless one looked closely.

I had to visit the special collections room again—an experience I was not anticipating—but thankfully the man who had taken such offence to me before was not working that day, and I was assisted by a kindly old woman who not only located the volume I required, but suggested I consider another book of folktales, similar in theme, which I had overlooked before, having assumed from the title that it was written in Irish. Such is the way with librarians, who are almost as unpredictable as the Folk, some minatory and persnickety, others overflowing with warmth towards humanity at large. I thanked the woman, hefted my stack (ten books in total), and made my way carefully back to my desk, sweating a little.

I did not note the passage of the hours at first. However, shortly past midday, an older scholar wearing a bowtie and carrying a handkerchief he kept wiping over his bald head established himself at the desk across from mine, despite the abundance of empty space elsewhere. Naturally, he then proceeded to hum softly under his breath as he paged through the bound volume of journals before him, occasionally muttering criticisms, usually pertaining to the shortsightedness of the authors. Glaring at this oblivious person had no effect; indeed, he only seemed to grow more loquacious, as if desiring to further impose his presence upon my sanctuary. Well, it was not as if I were trying to rescue a kingdom from destruction, and might need a little peace and quiet to think. It was like sharing office space with Professor Walters again.

After a quarter hour of this I decided I had earned a stroll upon the green; with any luck, the man would be gone when I came back. I woke Shadow, switched off my lamp, and placed my library card with its Cambridge seal upon it atop the books as evidence that I would be returning, to ward off any overindustrious shelvers. Then I wandered outside with Shadow padding at my heels.

The wind was chill, but for once it was not raining. I drew a deep breath, savouring the sense of homecoming. No, Trinity College is not Cambridge, but there is an essence shared by great universities that always puts me at ease; entering the campus grounds had felt like donning an old, cherished jumper. I adjusted my scarf and headed towards the open sunny expanse of the neighbouring green, where several students were seated on benches, taking advantage of the miserly winter warmth.

I paused for a moment in the sunlight, but the chill lingered. Now that I was away from my books, the thoughts rushed back like a flock of dark birds. I missed Wendell with a sudden and painful ache that left me short of breath, a sensation that would have surprised me had I not been experiencing it regularly, even when he’d been there beside me.

For two days after our visit to the yew grove, I’d buried myself in Irish folklore, and there I’d found the answer I sought, in all its horrifying simplicity. I’d had an inkling—of course I had.