Emily Wilde’s Map of the Otherlands

The problem is not the packing, I admit; I simply dislike travelling. Why people wish to wander to and fro when they could simply remain at home is something I will never understand. Everything is the way I like it here.

Em, I must confess—I am in awe of you. I believe I am also a little frightened.

Assassins are a monstrous breed. Either they attack when you are at your worst, or they are having a go at you on your birthday. I have never known a more dishonourable profession.

Rose asked me why I was not more surprised by your feat. He does not understand you as I do, Em, but as you seem to consider him a friend now, I told him the truth: in order to be surprised, I could not have known already that you are capable of anything.

Dear Emily,” he said as I sat down, not troubling to lift his head from his hand but smiling at me slantwise. “You look as if you’ve come from a wrestling match with one of your books. May I ask who won?

Can’t you sense what enchantments are stored in the stones?” I demanded. “No!” I threw my hands up in frustration. “Then why do you keep on breaking them?” “Because you told me to, you lunatic!

Would you prefer to wait?” In answer, he kissed me—much more slowly than the kiss I had given him, and more skillfully too, I’m afraid. Afterwards he didn’t lean back as I expected, but trailed his lips down my neck, sending a shiver skittering through me. “You can begin by removing your clothes,” I said. “If you would like to. To clarify, this is a suggestion, not a demand.” “Oh, Em,” he said, laughing softly against my neck. I had my hands in his hair, which was now quite mussed, something that made me absurdly happy. “I’m sorry,” I said, self-conscious now. “Perhaps I shouldn’t talk.” “Whyever not?” He drew back, examining me with a perplexed smile. “I like the way you talk. And everything else about you, in fact. Is that not clear by now?” I felt laughter bubble up inside me, but I hid it behind a mock-serious expression. “I’m not sure.” His smile changed, and he trailed his hand down the side of my neck. “Let me show you.

Like me, he appeared relieved by the interruption—both of us, it seemed, would rather confront a supernatural intruder than fumble our way out of an emotional exchange.

I knew you were the real threat. Mortals always are, aren’t they? If you read the stories. The arrogant faerie prince who can make gold from straw is always undone by the humble miller’s daughter, not some powerful rival of his own stature.

Wendell half sat, half crouched in a hollow in the mountainside, one hand over his eyes, showing no interest whatsoever in our impossible surroundings, and I realized what was happening: somehow the poison had curdled the magic inside him, and any use of enchantment pained him. I knelt at his side and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “Is there anything I can do?” “Yes,” he murmured. “Say that you’ll marry me.” “God.” So he was well enough to tease me, at least—that was some relief. “Perhaps I will refuse you here and now. Disappointment in love may provide a welcome distraction from the poison.” “Only you, Em, would refer to heartbreak as a distraction. I think I would have a more sympathetic response if I asked to marry a bookcase.

You must try your best to make friends, for those who are small cannot easily stand alone.

Where the bloody hell did you hide my things, you imp?” he demanded. Ariadne gave him a weary but victorious grin. “Your cloak is in the closet inside Dr. Rose’s spare one, which I turned inside out. You looked right past it. As for the boots, one is in the flower box outside and the other is in plain view in my bedroom, which you hate to look at because of the mess.” “Good Lord,” Wendell muttered. “You have your aunt’s devious mind.

Don’t bother,” I said drily. “I don’t expect you to comprehend a guilty conscience. You’re going to strain something.

I’m afraid I have not gotten over my resentment of him for saving me from the snow king’s court in Ljosland earlier this year, and have made a solemn vow to myself that I shall be the one to rescue him from whatever faerie trouble we next find ourselves in. Yes, I realize this is illogical, given that it requires Wendell to end up in some dire circumstance, which would ideally best be avoided, but there it is. I’m quite determined.

Yes, I wanted to remain here in Faerie, with Wendell. Yes, I knew it went against reason and common sense--- ordinarily two of my strengths. My arguments with Rose had been nonsense all along, because the truth was that I agreed with him. Of course it wasn't a sane decision to befriend a monarch of the Folk, let alone marry one, particularly if he reigned over the Silva Lupi. Nor did I think Wendell was different from other Folk, particularly--- kinder, less enigmatic, or somehow more human. I simply didn't care. I loved him, and I suspected that I would grow to love this beautiful, horrifying place if given the chance. I wanted the chance. I wanted Faerie, its every secret and its every door. If there was danger in my decision--- and I knew there was--- then so be it. I would accept danger, if it meant I could have this.

One of the guiding principles of dryadology,” I said, “is this: do not cross the sort of Folk who make collections of human body parts.

Other women snore, or talk in their sleep. I don't recall ever being woken up by the sound of vigorous pencil scratching." "You could always ask one of those other women to marry you," I said. "Though it may not be easy to find one who is quite so tolerant of faerie assassins and strange quests as I am.

I drew my cardigan more tightly about me—it was the chill of the air, I told myself, not Rose’s words. “I appreciate your advice, Farris. Genuinely. But I know Wendell.” “Emily.” He pointed up at the beech tree boughs, which waved to and fro, scattering more leaves about us. “Do you know the wind?” And with that gloomy koan, he left me.

I realized that part of me had been waiting for Wendell to make a miraculous recovery. To rescue us all, as well as himself, just when we needed him most. It would fit the pattern of innumerable stories. But perhaps Wendell wasn't part of his kingdom's story anymore. Or he was, but merely as a footnote, a trial for his stepmother to overcome as she rose from powerful to unstoppable-- to irrevocably weave herself into the fabric of her world, as the king of Ljosland had. And if he was a footnote, what did that make me? I leaned close, breathing in the smell of his hair--- the salt of sweat; smoke from the fire; and the distant smell of green leaves that never left him. "My answer is yes," I whispered in his ear.

In order to be surprised, I could not have known already that you are capable of anything.

Perhaps you can burrow down into the turf and make from the moss a quilt, as the rhyme goes, but I cannot."* *Pillows made of stones, Bed of old kings' bones, Quilt of moss and earth, Deep beneath the turf, Sleeps the faerie child, Dreaming of the wild, Hidden and unknown. --- From "Now the Faeries Sleep," a nursery rhyme originating in Kent, c. 1700.

But the reality is that one would have to be an utter idiot to marry one of the Folk. There are perhaps a handful of stories in which such a union ends well and a mountain of them in which it ends in madness or an untimely and unpleasant death. I am also, of course, constantly aware of the ridiculousness of my being the object of a marriage offering by a faerie monarch.

You’re as clumsy as blind bears and yet still you go charging about as if you aren’t the most fragile creatures in the world. Watch your feet.

No, Emily--- it was you I worried about. From the first rumors I heard of you, of your cleverness, your high regard for my silly son, I knew you were the real threat. Mortals always are, aren't they? If you read the stories. The arrogant faerie prince who can make gold from straw is always undone by the humble miller's daughter, not some powerful rival of his own stature." My stomach grew queasy. I had never felt so out of my depth when conversing with one of the Folk, not even the snow king of Ljosland. Wendell had been right, but it was no comfort to know that his stepmother had been afraid of me. I am used to being underestimated by the Folk--- nothing could be more dangerous than the opposite.

Establishing contact with the common fae of this region may lead us to your door." He looked dubious. "You were lucky with Poe. Your luck will run out if you aren't careful." "I'd wager it ran out long ago, as I'm presently traipsing round the world on an errand for an indolent monarch," I replied acidly

And if you are going to be an old hen about it and waste your time clucking over every scrap of clutter, you should know in advance that I won't be assisting." "Old hen!" he exclaimed. "Well, of course you won't help. You'll spend the evening in your preferred manner, hunched over in some dark corner like a troll.

Naturally, Wendell's apartments are absurdly comfortable, and somehow there is the atmosphere of a forest about them, though I know this makes little sense. The ceilings are very high, rather like the canopy of an ancient grove--- I suspect he has enchanted them somehow--- and always there is the sound of rustling leaves, though this abruptly ceases if you listen too closely. I would have expected a lot of luxurious frippery from faerie royalty, but his furnishings are simple--- a scattering of sofas, impossible soft; a huge oak table; three magnificent inglenook fireplaces; and a great deal of empty floor through which an impossible little breeze is always stirring, smelling of moss. For decoration there is the mirror from Hrafnsvik with the forest reflected inside it and a few silver baubles, sculptures and vases and the like, which catch the light in unexpected ways, but that's it. And, of course, the place is so clean one feels one may sully it by breathing too hard.

Toss me one of your pencils!" "Have you gone mad?" I cried even as I removed the pencil from my cloak pocket and threw it at his head. It began to transform before it even reached him, elongating and flashing through the shadows--- a sword. I regretted aiming for his head then, but Wendell caught it with the grace of a trained swordsman, which of course he was. Watching Wendell with a sword is like watching a bird leap from a branch--- there is something thoughtless about it, innate. One has the sense that he is less himself without a sword, that wielding it returns him to the element most natural to him. He drove the sword into the nearest sheerie, and before it had fallen he had spun round to slash at the one behind him, slicing it open like overripe fruit. The other three fell just as easily.

The foot would not fit in my briefcase, so I wrapped it in cloth and wrestled it into an old knapsack I sometimes carry with me on expeditions.