Wendell appeared at my side, having finished giving instructions to the sailors, and twisted his misshapen face into a smile. He’d fixed his uncanny hands and added a few inches to his height, but he was still a long way from his former dazzling self. “Ready?” he said.

The villagers shuffled back a little. They’d all accepted that this strange, grey faerie was the dashing Wendell Bambleby, but that didn’t make them any less frightened of him, even though the face he wore now was far less intimidating than his old, painfully handsome one.

As for myself, I barely noticed the difference. I’d never had any use for his beauty, and he was unchanged in every other respect, including his ability to antagonize—he’d tailored all of my dresses whilst I was trapped in Faerie.

We said our last goodbyes, and then we stepped onto the rocking deck. Wendell took his time waving to the villagers and admiring the sight of Hrafnsvik fading into the night. I turned away as soon as I could and did not wave or look back. If I had, I would have seen Aud and Lilja brushing away their tears. I would also have seen the outline of our little cottage, which ordinarily had a curl of smoke drifting from the chimney, but now sat quiet and dark, dreaming. Shadow gave a huff, looking back at me as if certain there had been some mistake. My eyes were wet, and I had to dab at them with my sleeve, turning so that Wendell wouldn’t see. Damn this wind, I thought.

I hugged Lilja’s apple tarts to my chest as I gazed at the grey-white sea, my hand tight around Poe’s trinket. The ship sailed on as the sun began to tip its light over the horizon.

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In the end, we missed the plenary.

It didn’t much matter, of course. Wendell sat on three panels and charmed his way onto a fourth, and charmed my way onto another. I sat through the interminable dinners without overly hating them; I was on familiar ground with scholars, and I even enjoyed some of my conversations, for they were conversations of the mind with nothing to do with small talk or social conventions.

And then it was time for our presentation. I paced about in the little room behind the stage. Through the half-open door I could see the two podiums, as well as the scholars filing into the room in their dowdy suits and dresses. Many of them wore their coats, for if there is one thing that unites scholars, it is complaining about the temperature of conference rooms.

Wendell swept in at last, looking resplendent, all sharp edges and lean grace in his own black suit, as plain as any other scholar’s but immaculately tailored. His gaze swept over me in polite appraisal, though I could tell he was suppressing his smile. I glowered back. I was wearing one of the dresses he’d fixed up—out of necessity only, for I hadn’t the money to buy new ones in Paris, and we’d had no time to stop in at our apartments at Cambridge.

It had taken him a full two days to return to his former glory, which he had spent mostly in his cabin on the ship, staring into a mirror and muttering to himself as he moved his nose this way and that or stretched his limbs out. It was an appalling process, and I had spent as little time in his company during the homeward voyage as possible.

“The exhibits are prepared,” he said, and I nodded. Awaiting us behind the podium were three trunks, one containing the remnants of the faerie cloak, now badly melted but still recognizable; one a necklace the king had given me, a delicate spiderweb of ice chains that, unlike the cloak, didn’t melt; the last a jagged spire of volcanic rock from one of Krystjan’s fields, in which there was a tiny wooden door that vanished in direct sun. I felt like a magician.

He held out a hand to me. I accepted it, feeling a little shiver as I did, and he smiled. He had seemed especially happy with himself lately; I guessed the source of his pleasure to be his transformation back into his old self.

“We’re about to create quite a stir,” he said, looking misty at the prospect. “And just think—if you’d finished mulling over my proposal by now and said yes, we could have introduced you as Mrs. Wendell Bambleby. They would never stop talking about us.”

I gave him a long, thoughtful look. “What?” he said.

“It’s your chin. It’s still a little crooked.”

His hand went immediately to the feature. “It is not.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps it’s my imagination.”

While he prodded at his jaw, I looked back at the crowd, the assembled scholars arguing quietly with one another or sitting mulishly with their arms crossed, as if already going over their criticisms in their heads. I drew a deep breath, my grip tightening on my notes. Then we stepped onto the stage.

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This particular tale is one of the oldest in Ireland, and is told throughout the northwestern counties in varying iterations. Appended here for future reference. —E.W.

The Golden Ravens or, The Serving Girl and Her Faerie Housekeepers

There once was a kingdom in the bleak and mountainous north of Ireland called Burre, which was ruled by an old queen with twelve sons and daughters, including one who was half Folk. This prince was the youngest of the lot and least likely to inherit the throne; thus, in typical faerie fashion, he went about improving his odds in a roundabout way that nevertheless proved quite effective. He released the queen’s three golden ravens into the wild, which had been gifted to her by a powerful witch for luck, and this caused a great sorrow to spread over the land. The queen’s other children began squabbling amongst themselves, culminating in treacherous intrigues and assassinations.

After the golden ravens were released, the ordinary peasants of Burre also met with one misfortune after another. Crops failed, and cursed children were common. One of these was the adopted daughter of a poor serving woman. The daughter was unnaturally clumsy and brought disorder with her wherever she went, which made the serving woman’s lot very hard. The mother and daughter were dismissed from position after position, being unable to keep any house clean despite their best efforts.

One bleak winter the mother died, leaving her barely grown daughter to fend for herself. Everyone in town knew the daughter’s reputation, and she could not find any work. In desperation, she ventured far into the wild white mountains until she came upon a castle owned by a duchess, the queen’s sister. Living in such a remote location, the duchess and her family were always short-staffed, and so the duchess hired the serving girl on the spot.

The duchess set the serving girl a simple task: scrub the floor of the kitchen, particularly minding the corners where spiders had built their nests. But this task was not simple for the cursed serving girl, and no sooner had she scrubbed the floor to a shine than she tripped and upset the spice rack. The spice spilled everywhere, mingling with the damp of the newly washed floor to form a fragrant mud. The serving girl at once set to cleaning it all again, but it was no use: she seemed able only to move the muck from one place to another. She went to bed weeping, certain she would be dismissed again.