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

by Heather Fawcett

“The path is eternal,” he said. “But you mustn’t sleep—I made that mistake. Turn left at the ghosts with ash in their hair, then left at the evergreen wood, and straight through the vale where my brother will die. If you lose your way, you will lose only yourself, but if you lose the path, you will lose everything you never knew you had.”

“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?”

“Perhaps my stepmother has finally decided to send her assassins after me,” he said in a voice that was more disdainful than anything, as if there were something unfashionable about the business of assassins.

I’m afraid I have not gotten over my resentment of him for saving me from the snow king’s court in Ljosland earlier this year, and have made a solemn vow to myself that I shall be the one to rescue him from whatever faerie trouble we next find ourselves in. Yes, I realize this is illogical, given that it requires Wendell to end up in some dire circumstance, which would ideally best be avoided, but there it is. I’m quite determined.

“Where would I be without you, Em?” he said. “Probably still flailing about in Germany, looking for your door,” I said. “Meanwhile, I would be sleeping more soundly without a marriage proposal from a faerie king dangling over my head.” “It would cease to dangle if you accepted.” He rested his hand over mine and teasingly ran his thumb over my knuckles. “Shall I write you an essay on the subject? I can provide an extensive list of reasons to acquiesce.” “I can imagine,” I said drily. A slow shiver travelled up my arm. “And what would be the first? That I shall enjoy an eternity of clean floors and dust-free bookshelves, as well as a constant refrain of nagging to pick up after myself?” “Ah, no. It would be that our marriage would stop you from charging off into the wilderness in search of other faerie kings to marry, without first checking if they are made of ice.”

It is in part, I suppose, that the thought of marrying anyone makes me wish to retreat to the nearest library and hide myself among the stacks; marriage has always struck me as a pointless business, at best a distraction from my work and at worst a very large distraction from my work coupled with a lifetime of tedious social obligations.

Watching Wendell with a sword is like watching a bird leap from a branch—there is something thoughtless about it, innate. One has the sense that he is less himself without a sword, that wielding it returns him to the element most natural to him.

“Did you enchant my pencil?” I demanded. “I enchanted all of your pencils,” he said without opening his eyes. “You always have at least one upon your person. I knew they would come in handy.” He added, as I continued to stare at him, “Well, I can’t carry a bloody sword around with me everywhere,” misunderstanding entirely. “Why didn’t you enchant your own pencils?” I groused. “I would have, but I can never remember where I put them.”

“Can’t you sense what enchantments are stored in the stones?” I demanded. “No!” I threw my hands up in frustration. “Then why do you keep on breaking them?” “Because you told me to, you lunatic!”

though he often likes to organize it into the kind of disarray that clean people employ for aesthetics.

I wrote St. Liesl on the board—not for any particular reason, but because, in truth, he was right about me: I enjoyed writing things on blackboards.

“There are no stories of them harming mortals.” “And the conclusion you draw is that they never have? There is another explanation.”

“The problem is not the packing, I admit; I simply dislike travelling. Why people wish to wander to and fro when they could simply remain at home is something I will never understand. Everything is the way I like it here.”

“One day, Emily. One day, you will see him for what he is. I only hope it doesn’t destroy you, as it did my friend.” I drew my cardigan more tightly about me—it was the chill of the air, I told myself, not Rose’s words. “I appreciate your advice, Farris. Genuinely. But I know Wendell.” “Emily.” He pointed up at the beech tree boughs, which waved to and fro, scattering more leaves about us. “Do you know the wind?” And with that gloomy koan, he left me.

But then, forbearance in the face of faerie malice is characteristic of rural folk in all countries.

“Perhaps it’s lost,” I said, intending the remark to be humourous until I realized that a lost faerie foot was neither more nor less ludicrous than one that knew what it was about.

I fear that working with one of the Folk is slowly turning my mind into an attic of half-forgotten scholarly treasures.

“In fact, plenty of Folk are gentlemen. And plenty of mortal men are not.”

“Other women snore, or talk in their sleep. I don’t recall ever being woken by the sound of vigorous pencil scratching.” “You could always ask one of those other women to marry you,” I said. “Though it may not be easy to find one who is quite so tolerant of faerie assassins and strange quests as I am.”

Em, I must confess—I am in awe of you. I believe I am also a little frightened.

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

“She’s a bully,” I said, irritated on Shadow’s behalf. “A vicious, bloodthirsty monster.” “And that is barely scratching the surface,” Wendell agreed fondly.