I grew calmer as I sank into my work, and the next few miles passed pleasantly enough. 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.

Shadow suddenly surged ahead, his tail flashing among the thinning undergrowth. I followed him to a clearing, where I found, slumped against a tree in the sunshine with his long legs stretched out before him and his hat drawn over his face, none other than Bambleby. He seemed to have found the greenest part of the forest, which had little greenery left—a small grove of conifers.

He did not awaken from his nap when Shadow flopped down beside him, but he did when I kicked the tree, which showered him with a rain of needles.

“Is that all you ever do?” I demanded.

“Dear Emily,” he said, stretching like a cat and rubbing Shadow’s ears. “How was your day?”

“Delightful.” As he showed no evidence of bestirring himself, I grudgingly seated myself on the grass. “Our friend in the village was no wight, but a changeling of the courtly fae. I had to interrogate the creature with iron. Unassisted.”

“I’m sure you held your own, as you always do.” The hat slid back down his forehead. I took it from him, and he blinked in the sudden sunlight.

“Oh dear. What have I done to earn that basilisk stare?”

“We have agreed to work together. Yet now I hear that you have seen fit to trample on my research. The brownie by the spring, whose trust I have spent days in cultivating, would barely speak to me after your visit.”

“What?” He looked genuinely baffled. “I brought the little one peppermints and asked a few questions. Nothing more.”

“He seemed frightened of you.” I added quickly, “Though he would not say why. In any case, you cannot go there again.”

“Your wish is my command, Em.” He regarded me with amusement. “Is that all that has upset you? Surely there are other brownies in this wood for you to pester if that one has soured on you.”

I thought quickly, hiding it behind a frown. It had become clear to me, in a way that it never had before, that it would be wise for me to be frightened of Bambleby. And if I could not muster fear—a dubious proposition, to be sure—I should at least attempt wariness, if for no reason other than that he is Folk. My suspicion is suspicion no more, but fact.

“You have done nothing since your arrival but laze about,” I told him. “As well as jeopardize the only meaningful connection I have established with the Hidden Ones. You don’t realize how hard I have been working, Wendell, or how important this is to me.”

“I do, though,” he said, and I was alarmed by how earnest he became. “And I’m sorry, Em, if I’ve given you reason to think otherwise. I assure you that I have been working quite hard today.” He looked down at his sprawled self. “More or less. I walked a great deal of the Karrðarskogur. I even discovered a small lake high upon the mountain with evidence of kelpie habitation. Well, whatever they call such creatures in this blasted cold country.”

“Kelpie?” My mouth fell open. “What lake? I saw no lakes.”

He looked far too pleased with himself. “That’s because you missed it, my dear. It was about half a mile beyond the extent of your map.”

“Show me.”

He groaned. “But I just came from there. You are far too vigorous for a scholar. Another day, please. Why don’t you tell me about your interview with our new changeling friend?”

He was changing the subject, but I admit I had little energy for climbing up into the peaks after the day I’d had, and so gave him a summary of my interrogation at the farmhouse.

“He is terrorizing them, Wendell,” I concluded.

“So it seems,” he said, though he did not appear particularly interested. “And he would tell you nothing of his parents?”

I shook my head. “The motives of the courtly fae in stealing children have never left the realm of academic speculation. If only we could ask one of them.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” he said blandly.

I gritted my teeth. “Otherwise, I don’t know how we’ll ever figure out their purpose in this instance.”

“Purpose? Or purposes? The Folk are diverse in many ways; no doubt this is one of them.”

I could detect no hidden meaning in his words, and so decided to take them at face value. Perhaps he truly had no idea why the Folk of Ljosland stole children. Indeed, he was so detached about the whole thing that I felt a sliver of doubt enter me. Yet what reason would Poe have had to lie about Bambleby’s identity?

“I would like to at least try to help.”

“Help whom?”

I wanted to shake him. “Mord and Aslaug!”

“Ah. How do you propose to do that? Their son will die if the changeling is killed. If we somehow chase it from its abode, it will die, and thus the outcome is the same.” He leaned back against the tree, his eyes drifting shut again. “Besides, it would hardly be professional. We’re here to observe, not interfere.”

I watched him carefully. “Perhaps you could visit them.”

His eyes opened to slits. “And what will that accomplish?”

His voice was as bored as ever, but there was an undercurrent of something that made me feel as if I was edging onto dangerous ground. Only I didn’t care. I knew that if I left Mord and Aslaug with the changeling without making every effort to free them from its poisons, I would regret it until the end of my days.

“I don’t know,” I said, meeting his gaze levelly. It was true enough. I don’t know what powers he has or what he is capable of. “Perhaps you can get more information out of the creature than I could. The Folk of Ljosland clearly find you disagreeable company, for reasons unimaginable to myself.”

He laughed. His eyes become very green when he laughs; you wonder if the colour will spill from them like sap. “I hardly recognize you, Em. I never would have thought that you of all people would come to care for any of these villagers. Are they not mere variables in your research?”

“It’s not that I care for them,” I said heatedly, before realizing that my offence rather made his point for him. I could tell by his smile that he knew it too.

“I’ll pay your afflicted horticulturalists a visit tomorrow,” he said. “Will that suit?”

“Thank you.” I stood, feeling off-balance and wishing to escape the conversation. “Perhaps we can return to the cottage. I would like to review your notes, and hear what your students have discovered.”

“Very well.” He looked at me woefully, as if expecting me to help him up. I folded my arms. With a dramatic groan, he pulled himself to his feet with his customary grace, and we departed the Karrðarskogur.

Skip Notes

* 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.

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Bambleby insisted on a visit to the tavern last night, naturally, a divertissement eminently acceptable to our two assistants, who were wearied from their work in the field. Lizzie and Henry, both attractive if bland ambassadors of the scientific community, were warmly welcomed by rustics and gentry alike, and bonded quickly with the village youth over their enthusiasm to sample the local wallop. Bambleby, of course, was in his element. With a speed that I suspected to be record-setting even in his books, he soon had half the tavern roaring with laughter over one of his many stories of foreign misadventure, delivered in charmingly accented Ljoslander, whilst the other half gossiped about him at a distance, including several ladies whom I overheard scheming over private invitations of a decidedly unacademic nature. The result was easily the most enjoyable evening I have spent in Hrafnsvik, as the villagers largely forgot about my existence amidst the gale-force winds of Bambleby’s personality. I was delighted to sit in the corner with my food and a book and speak to no one.