Emily Wilde’s Map of the Otherlands (Emily Wilde, #2)

by Heather Fawcett

(erroneously,

“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?”

indefatigable,

Another characteristic of Ariadne’s, I’ve noticed, is that her good humour is so complete that it often forms a kind of armour, off which the foul moods of others ricochet without leaving so much as a dent.

The faerie himself was one of the most hideous Folk I had ever laid eyes upon—and that is saying something—for

“Is there anything I can do?” “Yes,” he murmured. “Say that you’ll marry me.”

There I did what I have never done before, and which would perhaps prove the most unwise venture of my career: I put my trust wholly and entirely in Wendell.

“I like the way you talk. And everything else about you, in fact. Is that not clear by now?”

“And you have not had an innovative idea in a decade,” I snapped. “You are so frightened of the Folk, of new methods of scholarship, of anything that interrupts your safe, comfortable routine at Cambridge, that you have rendered yourself irrelevant.”

ate

“Good Lord,” Wendell muttered. “You have your aunt’s devious mind.”

If the lesson I was meant to learn was that I was too close to the Folk, that I trusted in them too much, then I would refuse to learn it where Shadow was concerned.

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