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

by Heather Fawcett

Poe leaned against my leg as I picked at the bread and began to tell me all about the improvements he had been making to his home, dwelling at great length on his gratitude to Wendell as well as the compliments of sundry Folk who, according to Poe, were forever coming round to gawk at his tree’s splendor. “I would not mind,” he said. “For my mother always said: ‘A guest is a gift, little one,’ but I wonder if the same is true of many guests, who arrive at all hours, and sometimes make such a noise that my lady cannot sleep through the night? But I do not wish to offend. Last night I baked bread for three kind trolls, who said they could not rest until they watched the light of the rising moon frame the beautiful boughs of my home, and so we sat together and watched the moonrise, and they told me secrets they had learned from the birds about the care of trees. They say they will honour my tree by sending me a flock of tame ravens who will eat any bothersome caterpillars. Isn’t it wonderful? I have many friends now. My mother would be so pleased. ‘You are too shy, little one,’ she always said. ‘You must try your best to make friends, for those who are small cannot easily stand alone.’

in the stories, it is such incidental little things that often prove themselves unexpectedly useful.

At one point I began to think there was a pattern to its perplexity, and spent a relatively contented hour or two mulling over titles for an academic paper.

“You cannot overlook them just because they are small.