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The brownie—whom I have taken to calling Poe in my head, in honour of the tattered ravenskin he once wore—took longer to show himself than usual. When he appeared, it was on the opposite bank of the spring, and his form so blended with the forest floor that I could see him only when he moved.

“Good day,” I said politely. “Is something the matter?”

“Your friend was here,” he said hesitantly.

“Bambleby? Was he rude to you?” Damn him to Hell if he was. I had not spent days building trust with this creature only to have him ruin it.

Poe shook his head. “He brought me peppermints. I like peppermints.”

“What, then?”

Poe kept shooting me anxious looks. His needle-fingers went tappity-tap like rain upon the damp grass. Finally he burst out, “I don’t wish to see him again!”

“Then you shan’t,” I said. “I shall instruct him to stay away.” Oh, would I.

The faerie’s eyes grew huge. “You can command a prince?” He rushed on before I could speak. “I don’t wish to make him angry. He was kind, but I fear him. My mother always said to keep out of their way. The high ones, the queens and kings and great lords. They will trample you under their boots like mushrooms, little one, she always told me. Keep your head down. Keep to your tree. When he asks me questions, I have to answer them. I don’t like his questions.”

I had gone very still. The brownie had used a word in the faerie tongue that has several definitions—it can mean lord or sir, or another simple mark of respect. But I knew, said in that manner, with a slight lilt down the middle like a fold, it meant only one thing.

“You say he is a prince,” I repeated, clearly enunciating. “You’re certain of this?”

The faerie nodded. He came very close, close enough for me to smell the sap on his skin, which mingled strangely with the familiar smell of my old beaver hat—this he had torn apart and woven into a lumpy coat. Quietly, he said, “He wanted to know about the doors.”

Little shivers were scudding down my back. “The faerie doors? That lead into your world?”[*]

He nodded. I sat back, my mind wheeling. I have long suspected that Bambleby is part of the faerie aristocracy. That he is—or was—in line for one of their thrones is something I had not guessed, though that was not what alarmed me.

What does he want with faerie doors? Are his questions mere academic curiosity?

“Did he ask you anything else?”

Poe shook his head, and my suspicion grew. “What did you tell him?”

The faerie was almost sitting in my lap now, his long fingers curled possessively about my cloak. “That there are no doors here, in this forest. I’ve never seen one. Maybe the doors move with the snows, with the high ones. Maybe they carry them hither and thither as the wind blows down from the north.” He frowned. “They will be here soon.”

My hands tightened on the grass. “How did my friend react to this information?”

“I don’t know. He left after. I am glad he’s gone.”

As the brownie seemed distressed, I reminded him of the chocolates I had given him. In truth, my kindness was partly out of concern for my cloak—now striped with holes from Poe’s touch—as well as the leg underneath it. He hastened to check on his little hoard and then disappeared into the forest, returning with a loaf of bread still warm to the touch. He seemed calmed by the ritual, and by my appreciation of him. I promised to return on the morrow—alone.

I spent the next hour wandering the forest. I told myself that I was conducting a survey of the possible faerie paths I had noted during a previous wandering; but in truth, I needed the walk. What on earth was I to make of this revelation regarding Bambleby? Not all Folk have grand designs in their interactions with mortals, and I had come to think of him as an aristocratic dilettante. Yet did he have other reasons for cultivating a career chasing stories of his kindred?

More important, did it matter? I had my book to worry about, a book that could make my career, and why should I care about Bambleby’s intentions, provided he did not get in my way?

I was distantly aware that most people would have a different reaction to the discovery of a faerie prince in their midst, but I paid this little heed.

Shadow was before me, his head down as he sniffed at a jumble of mushrooms. Upon consulting my map, I noted these seemed to have moved from their previous location some yards away. Now, it is possible they were formed during the most recent deluge, but I thought not. They had a shape about them that my trained eye recognized, something twisted from its natural pattern and purpose. Perhaps it was a gathering place.

I grew calmer as I sank into my work, and the next few miles passed pleasantly enough. If anyone were to claim greater happiness in their careers than I do in poking about sunlit wildwoods for faerie footprints, I should not believe it.

Shadow suddenly surged ahead, his tail flashing among the thinning undergrowth. I followed him to a clearing, where I found, slumped against a tree in the sunshine with his long legs stretched out before him and his hat drawn over his face, none other than Bambleby. He seemed to have found the greenest part of the forest, which had little greenery left—a small grove of conifers.

He did not awaken from his nap when Shadow flopped down beside him, but he did when I kicked the tree, which showered him with a rain of needles.

“Is that all you ever do?” I demanded.

“Dear Emily,” he said, stretching like a cat and rubbing Shadow’s ears. “How was your day?”