Or perhaps tomorrow.

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I can hardly hold pen to paper, my hand shakes so. The cottage is cold as a grave, naturally, but that is not the reason.

I have met one.

I did not expect success upon setting out today—I had little yesterday, and returned home after a long exploratory ramble too wearied to do anything other than eat a bit of cheese and tumble into bed. In the morning, I obtained from Finn a detailed map of the Karrðarskogur and nearby mountains and divided it into grid sections of one square mile, extending ten miles in each direction (twenty miles being the upper limit of what I estimated I could walk in a day). Before commencing my systematic search, though, I wished to further familiarize myself with the terrain and develop an intuition for the place. Thus intentioned, I set off towards the sulphuric spring I had explored previously.

I located it without much trouble, puffing away in its forest bower, a useful landmark. I was delighted to see that my offerings were gone. As I turned to casually scan the forest, I caught a wink of light. There, in a knob of volcanic rock jutting from the ground, was the diamond, pressed into the stone like a tiny doorknob.

I settled myself by the spring, removing my boots once again. I anticipated a long wait before my friend noticed my presence.

I had spent barely a moment there, however, when I felt the smallest of tugs on my coat.

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.

I was not surprised by the creature’s appearance, despite its unsightliness, but I had not been expecting it. I did not shriek or start away, of course, but I stiffened ever so slightly.

Immediately, the faerie was gone. I followed its progress by the birds, which fell silent in the tree to my left.

“It’s all right,” I said coaxingly in Faie, for it was clear that the faerie was young. Only the juveniles startle easily, in my experience, while adults have more confidence, particularly the ones who look like that. “I’ve come to bargain.”

“For what?” came a small voice out of the forest, nearer than I had guessed.

“For whatever you like,” I responded, “if it’s in my power to give it.”

It was a neat answer that has gotten me out of many close calls, for whatever you promise a faerie you must provide, or you will lose everything.

“I like skins,” the faerie said. “Will you give me a bearskin?”

“And how do you know what bears are?” For there are none in Ljosland.

“How do you think?” it replied. “From stories. I like those too.”

I thought it over. “I will give you a beaver skin.” Oh, I was going to miss that hat. “We will see about the bear. Now will you hear what I want in return?”

“I already know that.” The faerie was sitting on the edge of the spring—I would not have known if it hadn’t spoken, for it was like a fold in the ground. “You’re a noser. Poke, poke, poking your nose in. You want to know about me, but I shan’t tell you anything.”

“Why not?”

He—it was a he, I think—seemed not to expect the question. “I don’t like talking about myself.”

I tried not to let my delight show. The faeries of Ljosland should have known nothing about scholars—nosers are what the common fae call us on the continent. Not unless the faerie realms overlap, as I have argued on numerous occasions. The Folk can slip through locked doors and disappear into trees. Why would an ocean or mountain range keep them separate from one another?

“Then we seem to be at an impasse,” I said, affecting puzzlement. “Why ask for anything if you already knew what I wanted, and that you would not grant it?”

The faerie looked down at his hands, blushing and mumbling to himself. 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,” the faerie said. He was beside me now, his long, long needle-fingers curved over the edge of a rock.

I spat out a piece of the crust. “My host is a poor cook.”

“I’m a very good cook,” the faerie said as soon as the sentence left my lips. I smothered a smile. Many of the common fae need little convincing to aid mortals and in fact enjoy the arrangement.

“Are you indeed?”

He nodded, suddenly solemn. “I shan’t tell you my secrets. But I will bring you bread if I may have the skin.”

I pretended to think it over. “Very well.”

I rummaged in my backpack and pulled out another tin of Turkish delights. I popped one into my mouth, then held out a handful to the faerie. His black eyes bulged.

“An offering only,” I said. “Not part of our bargain.”

He swelled with pride. Ljoslanders regularly leave offerings for the common fae, but I wondered if this little faerie had ever had something left for him in particular. He speared the candy upon his fingertips and was gone, not in any direction I could perceive; he seemed to step into the landscape as if it were a door. I gathered myself and continued on my walk, already composing a description of the faerie for my encyclopaedia, as delighted with my progress as the faerie had been with his sweets.

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The weather has taken a turn. Some days have proven too foul for me to set foot out of doors, a combination of hail and sleet. I have been able to explore another section of forest, where I found a smaller hot spring and—high above the village—the edge of a glacier. I spied several cavernous fissures amongst the ice where the villagers had left food offerings long ago. I wondered what faerie, or faeries, had abandoned the place.

I was not worried about missing my new friend, for the Folk are not bound by time in the way that we mortals are. He would have my bread for me whether I visited next week or next month. I sent off a letter to my brother with sufficient funds to purchase a bearskin. He will grumble and write to me with complaints that he is very busy with his shop and his wife, not to mention their four children, and that he hasn’t time to assist with my faerie escapades, but he will send it all the same.

My breakfasts continued to be burnt. One morning, my butter had tiny fish bones in it. Yet I could get no explanation from Aud as to how I had offended her. When I attempted to apologize for questioning her about Auður, she gave me a perplexed smile and assured me that no apology was necessary. I was beginning to conclude that the whole thing was some wild imagining of Krystjan’s, until I visited Hrafnsvik’s only shop. That is when the fear that I would freeze to death was replaced by the fear that I would starve.