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Her face brightened, and I sensed that she was just as pleased as I to speak of academic matters. “We co-authored an article on the Black Hounds of Cumbria! How is he getting on? Has he grown dignified and venerable with age? When I knew Farris, he was still stammering during speaking events.”

We spent several minutes discussing Rose; I gave Niamh an account of his career since her disappearance, and she told me a story of how he had once locked himself outside his boardinghouse before a conference and had to deliver his presentation in his slippers. She was also fascinated to hear of our association with Danielle de Grey and Bran Eichorn, two other famously vanished scholars. Both have returned to academia—to fanfare I doubt I need describe, other than to say that they are, unsurprisingly, now the most talked about dryadologists in all of Europe—with Eichorn following de Grey to her old alma mater, the University of Edinburgh. I confess I am not disappointed that they decided against remaining at Cambridge; our relations at present could best be described as polite but frosty. With Eichorn, this can be explained as being in harmony with his nature, but regarding de Grey, I have at times had the impression that she resents how intertwined our names have become, given that I am the one being credited with her rescue (Wendell asked that his role in the whole business be omitted). She seems the sort who prefers being at the centre of things.

“Most of academia has given you up for dead,” I told Niamh. “This is the Silva Lupi, after all. But what are you doing here, in their court? You are not a prisoner?”

“Not at all,” she said. We had tucked in to breakfast, and Niamh paused to wash down her toast with some tea. Several of the red-faced servants had returned, unobtrusively keeping our plates and cups filled. I felt more comfortable with them now that I was not the only person being waited on.

“I was the old king’s scribe,” she said. “That means right hand, here; the head of his Council and general fixer. The queen sacked me, of course, when she had the royal family murdered and took Prince Liath’s throne—King Liath, I mean.”

I was impressed; not only by her position, but that she had survived the queen’s purge. “How did you—”

“Keep my head?” She laughed again, though there was a brittleness about it that undercut the irreverence. “The queen always liked talented mortals. She appreciated my intellect—she said so, anyhow. She continued to consult me occasionally on political matters, but by and large she let me be, which suited me well enough. I have been able to focus on my research these last few years.”

I examined her again. Niamh Proudfit had been thirty-six when she vanished, and she looked barely older now. She may not have experienced as many as thirty years in Faerie, but to see no change whatsoever—

“Yes,” she said, seeming to comprehend the nature of my pause. “As you know, the Folk have ways of extending mortal lifespans—for those they value, in any case. So long as I remain in Faerie, I shall age very slowly. Callum Thomas is the same—the man is nearly two hundred years old! I doubt I shall linger here so long, but certainly there is no greater gift to a scholar than the gift of time. I shall stay at least until I have completed the book I am working on.”

I was delighted. “What is the subject? You specialized in Faerie temporality, did you not?”

“I did—a rather tricky subdiscipline, given that human mortality and Faerie time are as compatible as oil and water. But my focus is primarily ethnographic—I wish to understand how the Folk perceive time, which I believe will prove more illuminating than the clumsy comparisons one often gets from temporalists.”

I forgot my anxieties as we discussed her work thus far. Having the old king’s favour had given her access to Folk who might not otherwise have deigned to speak with her, and he had aided her research in other ways, including by casting an enchantment that made all books in the realm transform to braille at her touch. Niamh questioned me about my current projects, and I told her of my idea for a book on faerie politics. She grew animated at that, and provided me with numerous suggestions regarding parameters and scope, which were so helpful that I pulled out a notebook to scribble them down. In the midst of our scholarly enthusiasm, Wendell made his entrance. His golden hair was sticking straight up in the back, and over his silken pyjamas he wore a night-coloured robe that gleamed with tiny green jewels at the cuffs. He stopped short at the sight of us, his mouth falling open.

“Niamh!” he exclaimed. “Good Lord! I assumed she had killed you.”

“Hello, dear,” Niamh said warmly. “You’ve grown taller, haven’t you? I can see a little,” she added to me. “Light and shapes. And you sound like a proper man now. When last we met, you were still a half-formed teenager.”

They embraced and began to chatter in Irish. Wendell broke off with an apologetic look in my direction.

“Isn’t this wonderful, Em?” he said. “It seems my stepmother has not destroyed everyone I cared about. Niamh is the only member of my father’s Council who ever paid me any notice.”

“In the Council’s defence, your talent for shirking responsibility was unparalleled,” Niamh said, shaking him gently by the shoulder. “On the rare occasions you were summoned to a meeting, you didn’t bother to show up. But you were kinder than your siblings, I noticed—not a trait much valued at this court, but we mortals appreciate it.”

Wendell gazed at her fondly. “Do you know? It was you who inspired me to embark on a career in academia when I fled to the mortal realm. She was so wise, Em, when it came to our stories and ways. I thought: perhaps dryadology will lead me to my door.”

“Then the rumours are true!” Niamh exclaimed. “I never believed the Folk who said you’d turned professor. I simply can’t imagine you putting in the effort. Emily, what was his research like?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said drily. “As he faked most of it.”

“Of course,” she said with a laugh. Wendell scowled good-naturedly at us.

“I will have you know that a great deal of effort goes into inventing a convincing field study,” he said, seating himself at the table. Instantly the servants were upon us again, appearing out of Lord knows where, bowing and filling his plate and cup. Many seemed to be trembling, whether with terror or delight at Wendell’s arrival, I could not say.

“Thank you,” Wendell said. He took a sip of his coffee and gave a groan, closing his eyes for a long moment.

“Good grief,” Niamh huffed, giving him a playful shove. The servants looked scandalized. “It’s just coffee.”

“Two words that don’t belong in the same sentence,” Wendell said. Turning to the servants, he added, “Which of you is in charge?”

More trembling and bowing. Finally a short creature, easily as wide as she was tall, stepped forward and fixed her glittering black eyes upon Wendell’s feet. She had a grease stain upon her apron that she seemed to be trying to conceal behind her clasped hands.

“Thank you for the excellent breakfast,” Wendell told her. “You could have fled, as others have done, for mayhap you loved my stepmother; instead, you have remained and offered me your services on short notice, though you hardly know me. I realize this has been a trying time for all small Folk. Your loyalty will be rewarded—your pay will be doubled, for one thing. And you must inform me when you are in need of anything. Won’t you?”

The servants stared at Wendell in blank astonishment. The leader seemed to make an effort to speak, but then she burst into tears.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she sobbed. “My apologies.”

And she dashed from the room, trailed by the others, who tossed looks at Wendell over their shoulders ranging from awe to terror.