The landscape surrounding the village was given over to fields. These were not the tidy hillsides I was used to, but riddled with lumps, volcanic rock in haphazard garments of moss. And if that wasn’t enough to disorient the eye, the sea kept sending waves of mist over the coastland.

I reached the edge of the village and found the little footpath up to the cottage—the terrain was so steep that the path was a series of switchbacks. The cottage itself rested precariously upon a little alcove in the mountainside. It was only about ten minutes beyond the village, but that was ten minutes of sweaty inclines, and I was panting by the time I reached the door. It was not only unlocked, but contained no lock at all, and when I pushed it open, I found a sheep.

It stared at me a moment, chewing at something, then sauntered off to rejoin its fellows as I politely held the door. Shadow gave a huff but was otherwise unmoved—he’s seen plenty of sheep in our rambles in the countryside around Cambridge, and looks upon them with the gentlemanly disinterest of an aging dog.

Somehow the place felt even colder than the outdoors. It was as simple as I had imagined, with walls of hearteningly solid stone and the smell of something I guessed to be puffin dung, though it could also have been the sheep. A table and chairs, dusty, a little kitchen at the back with a number of pots dangling from the wall, very dusty. By the hearth with its woodstove was an ancient armchair that smelled of must.

I was shivering, in spite of the uphill trunk-dragging, and I realized I had neither wood nor matches to warm that dingy place, and perhaps more alarmingly, that I might not know how to light a fire if I did—I had never done so before. Unfortunately, I happened to glance out the window at that moment and found that it had begun to snow.

It was then, as I stared at the empty hearth, hungry and cold, that I began to wonder if I would die here.

Lest you think me a newcomer to foreign fieldwork, let me assure you this is not the case. I spent a period of months in a part of Provence so rural that the villagers had never seen a camera, studying a river-dwelling species of Folk, les lutins des rivières. And before that there was a lengthy sojourn in the forests of the Apennines with some deer-faced fate and half a year in the Croatian wilderness as an assistant to a professor who spent his career analysing the music of mountain Folk. But in each case, I had known what I was getting into, and had a student or two to take care of logistics.

And there had been no snow.

Ljosland is the most isolated of the Scandinavian countries, an island situated in the wild seas off the Norwegian mainland, its northern coastline brushing the Arctic Circle. I had accounted for the awkwardness of reaching such a place—the long and uncomfortable voyage north—yet I was realizing that I had given little consideration to the difficulties I might face in leaving it if something went wrong, particularly once the sea ice closed in.

A knock upon the door launched me to my feet. But the visitor was already entering without bothering about my permission, stamping his boots with the air of a man entering his own abode after a long day.

“Professor Wilde,” he said, holding out a hand. It was a large hand, for he was a large man, both in height and around the shoulders and midsection. His hair was a shaggy black, his face square, with a broken nose that came together in a way that was surprisingly becoming, though in an entirely uninviting way. “Brought your dog, I see. Fine beast.”

“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. I should mention here that I am terrible at reading people, a failing that has landed me in my fair share of inconveniences. Bambleby would have known exactly what to make of this bear of a man, would probably already have him laughing at some charmingly self-effacing joke.

Bloody Bambleby, I thought. I haven’t much of a sense of humour myself, something I dearly wish I could call upon in such situations.

“Quite a journey you’ve had,” Egilson said, staring at me disconcertingly. “All the way from London. Get seasick?”

“Cambridge, actually. The ship was quite—”

“Villagers stared as you came up the road, I bet? ‘Who’s that little mouse of a thing, coming up the road?’ they were thinking. ‘She can’t be that fancy scholar we’ve been hearing about, come all the way from London. Looks like she’d never survive the journey.’ ”

“I wouldn’t know what they were thinking about me,” I said, wondering how on earth to turn the conversation to more pressing matters.

“Well, they told me,” he said.

“I see.”

“Ran into old Sam and his wife, Hilde, on the way up. We’re all very curious about your research. Tell me, how is it that you plan on catching the Folk? Butterfly net?”

Even I could tell this was meant to be mocking, so I replied coolly, “Rest assured that I have no intention of catching one of your faerie folk. My goal is simply to study them. This is the first investigation of its kind in Ljosland. I’m afraid that, until recently, the rest of the world saw your Hidden Ones as little more than myth, unlike the various species of Folk inhabiting the British Isles and the continent, ninety percent of which have been substantively documented.”

“Probably best it stays that way, for all concerned.”

Not an encouraging statement, that. “I understand that you have several species of faerie in Ljosland, many of which can be found in this part of the Suðerfjoll Mountains. I have stories of Folk ranging from brownie type to courtly fae to investigate.”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” he said in a flat voice. “But you’d be best confining your investigations to the wee ones. No good will come of your provoking the others, for yourself or for us.”

I was immediately intrigued by this, though 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. But my questions were forestalled by the wind, which blew open the door and spat a great breath of snowflakes into the cottage. Egilson shouldered it closed again.

“It’s snowing,” I said, an uncharacteristic inanity. I’m sorry to say that the sight of snow drifting into the fireplace had me edging once again towards morbid despair.

“It does that on occasion,” 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. “Not to worry, though. Winter isn’t here yet, it’s just clearing its throat. These clouds will open up momentarily.”

“And when will winter arrive?” I enquired grimly.

“You’ll know it when it does,” he said, a sideways sort of answer that I would soon grow accustomed to, for Krystjan is a sideways sort of man. “You’re young to be a professor.”

“In a sense,” I said, hoping to discourage this line of questioning with vagueness. I am not really young for a professor now, at thirty, or at least not young enough to astonish anyone; though eight years ago I had indeed been the youngest professor Cambridge ever hired.

He gave an amused grunt. “I’ve got to be getting on with the farm. Can I help you with anything?”

He said it perfunctorily, and looked to be on the verge of slipping away sideways through the door even as I replied quickly, “Tea would be lovely. And firewood—where would that be kept?”

“In the wood box,” he said, puzzled. “Next to the fireplace.”

I turned, and saw the aforementioned box immediately—I had taken it for some sort of rudimentary armoire.

“There’s more in the woodshed out back,” he said.

“The woodshed,” I breathed with relief. My fantasies of freezing to death had been premature.