I think I replied something ungracious about shutting up; it’s all a bit hazy. I managed to get an ordinary blow in when the faerie was looking for me in a hazel tree I’d summoned—I was summoning all sorts of trees and shrubberies, more to distract him than anything else, and the icy mountainside was beginning to look like the domain of some mad hedgewitch. My hand still stings from that blow as I write this; it was like punching solid ice.

You just kept yelling, though. “Think of the stories, Wendell—there’s always a loophole, a door! I can find it, if you’d just tell me what you need!”

“A sword!” I shouted back, half hysterical at this point and not thinking for a second that you’d actually pull a sword out of the snow. I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to blast a hole in time itself to get rid of this bloody iceman; and oh, what a mess that would be to clean up. It’s not something I’ve done before, so who knows, I might’ve blasted myself to pieces in the process, leaving you to put me together again, which I’ve no doubt you would have managed with perfect detachment.

The next time I took notice of you, you were sobbing all over the snow. Well, I thought, finally she’s being sensible. Then I realized that you were sobbing because you’d stabbed yourself in the arm, and not out of concern for my imminent demise. I noticed that your tears were freezing as they hit the icy ground and collecting into the shape of a sword.

Well, that almost killed me. I mean that—I froze for a full second, during which our yeti friend nearly skewered me through. I dodged, barely, my head whirling. One day I would like for you to explain to me how you heard of the story of Deirdre and her faerie husband, a long-ago king, which is one of the oldest tales in my realm. Do mortals tell it as we do? When the king’s murderous sons schemed to steal his kingdom by starving it into torpor with endless winter, Deirdre collected the tears of his dying people and froze them into a sword, with which he was finally able to slay his children. It is a tale many of my own people have forgotten—I know it only because that poor, witless king is my ancestor.

I felt the story in my blood and let my magic flow into the sword you were fashioning. Unfortunately, our enemy noticed there was trickery afoot and lunged towards you, so you dropped the sword in the snow. Lilja, though, was once again firing on all cylinders—she snatched up the sword before the faerie could crush it, and threw it to me.

I caught it, of course, and in the same instant I interposed myself between you and him, catching the blade of his sword with my own. From that moment on, things were much more enjoyable. I do like swordplay—I began my lessons when I was virtually still in the cradle, as do all royals in my realm. I didn’t kill the man straight away, but made him dance a while first, running through several of my favourite patterns, forcing him back, and then back again. He wasn’t bad, though he wasn’t much of a challenge, either—few Folk are. It’s a pity sword fighting isn’t de rigueur in the mortal world anymore. I could end every tedious argument with the department head by challenging him to a contest in the quadrangle.

Anyway. Eventually I grew bored of the whole thing and knocked the sword out of his hand. Then I knocked his head off with one well-aimed stroke, nice and clean and hugely satisfying. In fact, I liked it so much that I wound back time and did it again, just to hear the lovely thunk of his head hitting the snow. I had just decided to have a third go at it—for we Folk like things that come in threes, you know—when you roared at me to stop. I turned, and saw that Lilja was being sick in the snow, which distressed me, as I’ve decided that I quite like her. I’m not sure if it was due to the general mess that accompanies decapitation or the fact that mortals are not used to seeing time moved back and forth like the pages in a book, but I felt sorry anyway. I will have to make amends to her when we return to Hrafnsvik—perhaps she would like a tree that fruits year-round, or a dress that changes colour at her will, which neither stains nor wrinkles? I’ll think on it.

I suppose this is as good a place as any to leave things, as I see that you are stirring—I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t dislodge you when you slumped against me in sleep, your head coming to rest on my shoulder. No, silly me; of course you’ll mind, but perhaps I don’t care.

OceanofPDF.com

I thought long and hard about throwing all that into the fire. Well, all right, not that long and hard; Wendell’s account is helpful, I admit, and in fact put about a dozen research questions into my head—not least of which regards the ability of faerie monarchs to manipulate time—but no doubt he would only smirk if I posed them to him and make some joke about bibliographies. As much as it infuriates me when anyone else so much as touches my journal, let alone has the gall to fill it with their perfect handwriting (for of course his handwriting is beautiful, even when composed in a horse-drawn sleigh), I am not going to let my pet peeves take precedence over scholarship.

I slept most of the way back to Hrafnsvik, which astonished me. During one of my few waking moments, Wendell explained that I had allowed myself to take part in a powerful enchantment—the making of the sword—and as I had no magic myself, the enchantment had instead absorbed much of my mortal strength, and it would take time for that to recover. This fascinating statement immediately filled me with questions: Is that what Deirdre did, sacrificing her own strength for her faerie husband’s sake, and is that why she died shortly thereafter? By what alchemy does mortal strength contribute to faerie magic, and is it only the courtly fae who have access to this? But I was asleep again before I could ask him.

Once we returned to the cottage, I tumbled into bed and slept for another night and a morning, and when I awoke, I felt whole again.

“Wendell?” I called. I don’t know why I did so—I was on the edge of sleep still, and for some reason the quietness of the cottage alarmed me. But he came into the room, smiling smugly.

“I have been up for hours,” he said, which I did not for a second believe. “Shall I send for breakfast?”

“Oh, yes.”

He had already eaten, but that did not stop him from helping himself to the food brought by Finn and Krystjan—hearty dark bread, smoked fish, goose eggs, a variety of cheeses, and blueberries that had been canned fresh in syrup, which they had mixed into oatmeal and yogurt and piled with toasted sugar. It was a more elaborate breakfast than any we’d been served before, and even stranger, both Finn and Krystjan delivered it. Bambleby invited them jovially to dine with us, an overture that was immediately accepted. This suited me well, as I was able to eat in peace while Bambleby entertained himself with directing his charms at two willing recipients, both of whom were full of questions regarding our exploits. Lilja and Margret, I learned, had been safely delivered by Wendell to Lilja’s family home, and were both in good cheer; Lilja’s parents were beside themselves with relief and gratitude, while Lilja’s younger siblings were enthralled by the strange but lovely scar upon Margret’s forehead. I was more than content that Bambleby had absorbed the initial onslaught of praise, which no doubt factored into his present high spirits. He answered Finn and Krystjan’s questions elaborately, and somehow a wolf pack and a fearsome ice storm found their way into our journey to the Hidden Ones’ fair, as if the tale was in need of embellishment. The men hung on his every word, which I was used to, but there was something in the way they hesitated in their speech, as if every word directed at Bambleby needed to be carefully selected, and the way Finn cast nervous looks at Krystjan whenever his natural abrasiveness came through—that was entirely new.