OceanofPDF.com
Emily Wilde’s Encyclopaedia of Faeries is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Heather Fawcett
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Del Rey and the Circle colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Fawcett, Heather (Heather M.), author.
Title: Emily Wilde’s encyclopaedia of faeries / Heather Fawcett.
Description: New York: Del Rey, [2023]
Identifiers: LCCN 2022000431 (print) | LCCN 2022000432 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593500132 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593500149 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593597620 (international edition)
Subjects: LCGFT: Magic realist fiction. | Romance fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PR9199.4.F39 E45 2023 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.F39 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220218
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022000431
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022000432
Ebook ISBN 9780593500149
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Virginia Norey, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Vera Drmanovski
ep_prh_6.0_142226817_c0_r0
OceanofPDF.com
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
20th October, 1909
20th October—Evening
21st October
21st October—Evening
22nd October
23rd October
28th October
29th October
29th October—Evening
30th October
31st October
12th November
14th November
15th November
16th November
17th November
18th November
19th November
—? November
20th November
22nd November
23rd November
26th November
26th November—Late
2nd December (?)
3rd December (?)
4th December (?)
17th December (?)
22nd December (?)
23rd December (?)
25th December (?)
30th January
30th January—Later (Presumably)
3rd February
4th February
13th February
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
About the Author
OceanofPDF.com
20th October, 1909 Hrafnsvik, Ljosland Shadow is not at all happy with me. He lies by the fire while the chill wind rattles the door, tail inert, staring out from beneath that shaggy forelock of his with the sort of accusatory resignation peculiar to dogs, as if to say: Of all the stupid adventures you’ve dragged me on, this will surely be the death of us. I fear I have to agree, though this makes me no less eager to begin my research.
Herein I intend to provide an honest account of my day-to-day activities in the field as I document an enigmatic species of faerie called “Hidden Ones.” This journal serves two purposes: to aid my recollection when it comes time to formally compile my field notes, and to provide a record for those scholars who come after me should I be captured by the Folk. Verba volant, scripta manent. As with previous journals, I will presume a basic understanding of dryadology in the reader, though I will gloss certain references that may be unfamiliar to those new to the field.
I have not had reason to visit Ljosland before, and would be lying if I said my first sighting this morning didn’t temper my enthusiasm. The journey takes five days from London, and the only vessel to get you there is a weekly freighter carrying a great variety of goods and a much smaller variety of passengers. We ventured steadily north, dodging icebergs, whilst I paced the deck to keep my seasickness at bay. I was among the first to sight the snowbound mountains rising out of the sea, the little red-roofed village of Hrafnsvik huddled below them like Red Riding Hood as the wolf loomed behind her.
We inched carefully up to the dock, striking it hard once, for the grey waves were fierce. 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 came to the realization that I was the only one disembarking. The captain set my trunk down upon the frosty dock with a thunk, giving me his usual bemused smile, as if I were a joke he only half understood. My fellow passengers, it seemed, few that there were, were headed for the only city in Ljosland—Loabær, the ship’s next port of call. I would not be visiting Loabær, for one does not find the Folk in cities, but in the remote, forgotten corners of the world.
I could see the cottage I had rented from the harbour, which astonished me. The farmer who owned the land, one Krystjan Egilson, had described it to me in our correspondence—a little stone thing with a roof of vivid green turf just outside the village, perched upon the slope of the mountain near the edge of the forest of Karrðarskogur. It was such stark country—every detail, from the jumble of brightly painted cottages to the vivid greenery of the coast to the glaciers lurking on the peaks, was so sharp and solitary, like embroidered threads, that I suspect I could have counted the ravens in their mountain burrows.
The sailors gave Shadow a wide berth as we made our way up the dock. The old boarhound is blind in one eye and lacks the energy for any exercise beyond an ambling walk, let alone tearing out the throats of ill-mannered sailors, but his appearance belies him; he is an enormous creature, black as pitch with bearish paws and very white teeth. Perhaps I should have left him in the care of my brother back in London, but I could not bear to, particularly as he is given to fits of despondency when I am away.
I managed to drag my trunk up the dock and through the village—few were about, being most likely in their fields or fishing boats, but those few stared at me as only rural villagers at the edge of the known world can stare at a stranger. None of my admirers offered help. Shadow, padding along at my side, glanced at them with mild interest, and only then did they look away.
I have seen communities far more rustic than Hrafnsvik, for my career has taken me across Europe and Russia, to villages large and small and wilderness fair and foul. I am used to humble accommodations and humble folk—I once slept in a farmer’s cheese shed in Andalusia—but I have never been this far north. The wind had tasted snow, and recently; it pulled at my scarf and cloak. It took some time to haul my trunk up the road, but I am nothing if not persevering.
