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Wendell was nodding. “I am glad there will be another mortal at court. In fact, I believe I will invite others to join us. Perhaps we should have an equal number of them on our Council, Em. What do you think?”

“You say that as if it is out of the goodness of your heart,” I said with a snort. “Really it is because you find mortals easier to charm than other Folk.”

He gave me an amused look. “Ah, but there you’re wrong—I prefer the company of those who are difficult to charm.”

Lord Taran finished his tea and stood, setting the cup carefully on the rock. “I will go on ahead. Naturally, everyone is expecting you to appear at some point, and so a number of the queen’s soldiers are lying in wait for you at various places around the castle grounds. I will get them out of the way, at least. Then you can sweep in and terrify us all with your sewing kit, my lord.”

I glared at him, and he raised his eyebrows innocently. “No? Broom collection, perhaps?” And, laughing at my expression, he marched off into the forest.

“Good riddance,” I muttered. I turned to find Wendell smiling at me fondly.

“We are fortunate to have my uncle on our side,” he said. “He is sometimes called Eldest, for he is possibly the oldest person in the entire realm, and widely feared.”

“He is insufferable.”

“He’s also correct,” Wendell said, unperturbed. “It is no easy task to frighten my court. We are too used to monsters. And none of them have ever viewed me as a fearsome figure.”

“Your magic is growing stronger,” I said bluntly. “I have been watching you. You have never used it so freely, and it does not seem to tire you.”

“I—” Wendell blinked. For a moment, he looked as he had when he stood at the threshold of his door—slightly lost. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I believe it is a good sign,” I said. Also an unnerving one, but I did not bother to mention this. I had not accompanied him to Faerie only to lose heart and sit quaking in some corner, had I? Shoving my anxiety to one side, I sat up straighter and continued, “Several of the oldest stories suggest that the realm recognizes its rightful lord or lady. I can only hope your court is ready for an unorthodox display of power.”

Skip Notes

*1 Possibly the most widely misidentified faerie species. Even experienced dryadologists have been known to mistake natural phenomena, fireflies, or indeed other forms of faerie activity for will-o’-the-wisps. Found in old-growth forests throughout the world, these nocturnal trooping faeries are barely two inches in height, and most of that is their mothlike wings, which dwarf their tiny bodies. They were once believed to be bioluminescent, but Sofia Wagner’s 1822–24 field study in Belgium demonstrated that, in fact, each wisp carries a glass lantern with a tiny flame inside it, which Wagner posited is used for communication (a theory supported by Brendan O’Reagan, whose 1906 book, Fireglass, attempted to decode this language of magical Aldis lamps). Contrary to popular belief, stories of errant mortals led into the wilderness by drifting lights can generally be attributed to bogles, not wisps, which are notoriously shy; if they perceive they are under mortal observation, they will usually flick their lights off and vanish into the nearest knothole.

*2 “Rumpelstiltskin” is, of course, the most famous story of a faerie foiled by his own name, but plenty of others exist, notably “Old Erenondalen” (Norway) and “Lammy Boggs” (Britain). Due to the rarity of scholarly encounters with the courtly fae, and the offence many common fae take at enquiries regarding their names, little is known about the actual power these have, and whether knowing a faerie’s full name would be tantamount to holding them in thrall. Those few common fae who have entrusted scholars with their names have given them only a piece, sometimes the first half and others the second, and sometimes, as with Lewis Hartland’s henkie, Wattle, a childhood nickname.

*3 “The Laughing Stove,” which can be found in J. P. Gillen’s Anthology of Irish Folklore from the Viking Era: A Cross-Cultural Analysis, 8th ed., 1908.

*4 After an exhaustive search, I have come to the conclusion that no academic literature exists concerning this mysterious “Veil,” a Faerie realm that only monarchs may access. I believe I am the only scholar to learn of it, or at least the only surviving scholar.

31st December

We reached the castle at dusk.

We had tarried another day in the forest—partly because Wendell needed the time to work, and partly on account of Shadow, whom Wendell and I felt the need to fuss over. Wendell located another standing stone with some helpful brownies living in it, who came racing out with a plate of dog biscuits this time. Shadow devoured the lot and collapsed upon a patch of moss, falling into a deep slumber. When he awoke in the morning, there was a spring in his step I have not seen in years.

We approached the castle from the east rather than the route I had taken in October, through the gardens. Here the path around the lake widened into a broad promenade used by lords and ladies arriving by carriage, as well as the monarchy when they wished to make a grand return from some battle or hunting expedition.

In other words, it was perfect.

When I had explained my idea to Wendell, he began to laugh. “Well?” I said as he wiped his eyes. “Is it that ridiculous?”

“No, Em,” he said, taking my hand. “It is better than anything I could have come up with. And much less work than bursting in on everyone with my sword flashing.”

“You don’t have your needles, though,” I said.

“Of course I do. You thought I would leave them behind?” He snapped his fingers, and one of the guardians alighted on his shoulder, making me start back with my heart thundering. Slung across its back was a leather satchel, and within that was the collection of silver sewing needles that Aud, the headwoman of Hrafnsvik, had gifted Wendell a year ago.

I was not idle as he worked, though my contribution was necessarily limited. Few scholars know any Words of Power, and I have acquired two, one of which—the more ridiculous of the pair, naturally—was well-suited to our circumstances.

I wandered a little way into the forest and spoke the Word. At first, nothing happened. I recalled there had been a similar pause the previous time I had invoked its magic, beside the Hidden king’s tree amidst the snow of a Ljosland winter.

Then something came sailing out of the forest gloom and smacked me in the forehead.

I staggered back a little, more out of surprise than pain. I stooped and picked up the button from where it had fallen among a clump of ivy.