Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

I have learned there is one thing a person never tires of, no matter how long they live. And that is being in love. All else is ash and ember.

If Wendell’s stepmother has us slain before I have a chance to contribute to the scholarly debate, I will be very disappointed.

In fact, once I have retaken my throne, you will not have to do anything if you do not wish it. If you desire to sit in some corner of the castle hunched over your books and notepaper, bestirring yourself only to demand a tour of some brownie market or bogle den, then it will be done." I let out a trembling breath. "And what sort of queen would that make me?" He looked perfectly earnest as he leaned in to kiss my cheek. "Mine.

I must write it down. For it is in writing that I will discover a way out. A door within the story. There is one. It cannot end here. Yet some stories do.

Why must mortals always be solving mysteries? What is the point of life if everything is pinned and labelled in some display case? You scholars should aim to discover more mysteries, not untangle them.

You are quite yourself again, ink-stained and full of schemes to burden me with, as if I do not already have enough to do.

Poor dear," Wendell said, bending to rub Shadow's ears. "When I retake my throne, I shall dedicate a fleet of servants to his needs. They shall make for him a velvet bed in every room, with a fire burning beside each one, and the bones of my enemies will be preserved for his enjoyment." "That started off well, but I did not care for the ending," I said.

Stories are the architecture of Faerie, more powerful than magic, more powerful than kings.

Such is the way with librarians, who are almost as unpredictable as the Folk, some minatory and persnickety, others overflowing with warmth towards humanity at large.

Bloody mountains!” Wendell exclaimed after we had been hiking uphill for perhaps forty-five seconds.

What?" I said. He rose, shaking the dew from his cloak. "You have that look." He had mirrored my own train of thought, which made me scowl at him irrationally. "Which?" "The one you wear whenever you outsmart me in some area," he said. "Well," I began with a shrug, then stopped. My magnanimity was wearing thin, I'm afraid. "Haven't I?" He laughed, a clear, bright sound, and then, before I knew what was happening, he had lifted me from my feet and spun me through the air, the greenery and shadow of the forest a whirl all around me. "My beloved Emily," he murmured in my ear. "Yes, yes, all right," I said, though I did not pull away. My smugness was back, together with a warm sort of satisfaction. It was pleasing to see him this happy.

You already know more about faerie kingdoms than any mortal." "Stories," I said faintly, drawing my hand back. "I know stories." He gave me an odd look. "And have you ever needed anything else? Have you not shaken a kingdom to its foundations, found a door to a distant otherland, overthrown a queen? Hand you the right storybook, and you are capable of anything.

I was suddenly more furious with him than I had ever been. That he would make light of all this! “If you think,” I said, “that you can do something like this again—without consulting me, without even a thought—” “I know,” he said quietly. His tone froze my anger, and I saw that his eyes were damp. “I would never have put you through—that—if I had seen a single alternative. But you are wrong in one thing: I was thinking of you, Em. You were my first thought, as well as my last.

He is an old dog still,” Wendell said quietly. “There are no magics to restore youth in creatures doomed to age—only glamours. But I thought, if I could grant him another few years of health, which he may spend in your company, and in roaming his favourite paths, and napping by the fireside—” “It’s enough,” I said, then buried my face in Shadow’s fur, unable to control myself any longer. In truth, it wasn’t enough—no finite span of years ever could be. And yet it was a gift beyond measure.

Anyway, Em, I am sure you are happily ensconced in your native habitat, that dreary monument to mortal rumination that is the library, no doubt thinking of me hardly at all. Well, why would you give a thought to romance or the faerie kingdom that now belongs to you as much as to me when you have a limitless supply of dusty old tomes to mutter and scowl at? I see now that my downfall as a suitor lies in my ability to offer you only a castle, great quantities of faerie silver, and various enchantment to dazzle and provoke you, instead of the full bound collection of Dryadological Fieldnotes.

I had one of my moments of existential panic, in which I question everything that has led me to this point, before burying it under thoughts of a more practical nature, as I always do.

hand you the right storybook, and you are capable of anything

The cat only glared at me, as at home in her hostility as ever a cat can be.

The point of my scholarship is to understand the Folk. To the extent that we mortals can." "It has never struck you as a futile endeavor?" "No more than any other branch of science." I gestured to the sky. "What can mortals learn of the stars, given that we cannot walk among them? Yet we try." I opened my notebook again. "Others have argued that it is the endeavor itself that is the point of scholarship. I am not so certain of that, for I can never stop yearning for new discoveries. Even the smallest are as precious jewels to me.

He would never abandon me as Orga is so often abandoning Wendell. Dogs are proper companions, not the physical manifestation of caprice.

He had looked up from the book he’d been reading—some silly romance or other; he doesn’t read much

What an inconvenient time to meet my end, given all that I was in the middle of! But then, what person who meets an untimely end is not in the middle of their own to-do list, all of which simply turns to dust after, whether the items consist of mundane errands or the preservation of a faerie kingdom.

I let out a trembling breath. “And what sort of queen would that make me?” He looked perfectly earnest as he leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Mine.

Shadow’s world was one in which all and sundry either fawned over him or kept a respectful distance from his intimidating bulk. Each time Orga hissed at him, Shadow seemed to assume it a misunderstanding, which grew increasingly improbable as these incidents accumulated, but still less improbable, in his view, than being disliked.

Yes, I was a queen of Faerie--- and I wished to appear so. To match. For where had I ever matched before? At Cambridge, yes--- I matched with the old stones, and the dusty libraries. I suppose that, in Faerie, I had wished to match with the Folk. A foolish aim indeed! I wondered at myself now. Yet I suppose that one cannot spend one's life half in love with Faerie without wishing to be part of it, to wonder if it might feel like home in a way no mortal place ever had.

This queen seems no better." He came close to me, looking me up and down as a glint of mischief came into his eyes. "But mortals can be entertaining. And they do not break as easily as some think." Wendell's expression went from one of bemusement to towering fury with such abruptness that both Taran and I fell back a step; Taran afterwards looked annoyed as a cat following a moment of gracelessness. There came a terrible rumbling sound, coupled with that same wet rustling with which I am all too familiar, as if the attentive oaks were uprooting themselves en masse and lumbering in our direction. "You are speaking to a queen of Faerie," Wendell said, and it seemed as if the rustling leaves were in his voice.

Well, if there is one person who could unearth the proverbial needle in the haystack that is the esoteric ramblings of thousands of scholars, it is you, but if you do not find an answer, please do not sit there sulking among the stacks, or waste time harassing the poor librarians, as you were wont to do at Cambridge. Just come home. Yours, always and ever, Wendell

I wondered if I should point out that the merits of charity were somewhat lessened when one anticipated praise at the end of it, before deciding the effort unlikely to yield any fruit.

Wendell answered me seriously. “I suppose so. But then, Faerie does not really recognize marriage. That translation from the Faie is only a clumsy approximation.” He seemed to think. “Mortals, I’ve observed, sometimes marry for very silly reasons. The Folk do not, because one cannot marry someone who does not match them. The word has a connotation of accepting one’s fate.

The wind was chill, but for once it was not raining. I drew a deep breath, savouring the sense of homecoming. No, Trinity College is not Cambridge, but there is an essence shared by great universities that always puts me at ease; entering the campus grounds had felt like donning an old, cherished jumper.