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

by Heather Fawcett

Despite Wendell’s habit of complaining of fatigue, sore feet, and a myriad of other ailments—generally when confronted by the necessity of hard work—it’s rare to see him in any actual distress,

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.

“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.”

“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.”

“You can’t expire before I decide whether or not to marry you.”

these”—he glanced about the compartment—“effects should fade soon enough.” “That’s remarkably unspecific.” “I’m sorry. I have never been poisoned before, so I find the symptoms difficult to predict.

He gave me one of his loveliest smiles as he took the tea, green eyes glinting like dewed leaves when the sun strikes them, all quarrels forgotten.

“Is there anything I can do?” “Yes,” he murmured. “Say that you’ll marry me.” “God.” So he was well enough to tease me, at least—that was some relief. “Perhaps I will refuse you here and now. Disappointment in love may provide a welcome distraction from the poison.”

A smile broke across his face as he saw me barrelling towards him. He opened his arm, the one not holding the light, but he underestimated the ferocity of my embrace, and we toppled backwards into the grasses. “Emily?” he said dazedly. “Surely not. I must have inadvertently summoned Danielle de Grey. My Emily would never be so flamboyant in her affections.”

Where on earth did you learn to bake? I always thought you were allergic to kitchens—or at least the cleaning of them.”

“I am well aware you think me pompous and unimaginative,” he said. “I doubt I will become less so with time—we settle into patterns with age, I’m afraid, that grow difficult to shake off. But I am adept at recognizing young talent, and offering guidance. You may think you have nothing to learn from me,

Apart from a few bruises, she was largely unharmed, and now that the shock had worn off she seemed to view the attack as a thrilling tale ripe for scholarly documentation, and was already making notes on the subject. An entirely unhealthy response to attempted murder, of course; I have never been more convinced that she has the makings of a dryadologist.

Yes, I wanted to remain here in Faerie, with Wendell. Yes, I knew it went against reason and common sense—ordinarily two of my strengths. My arguments with Rose had been nonsense all along, because the truth was that I agreed with him. Of course it wasn’t a sane decision to befriend a monarch of the Folk, let alone marry one, particularly if he reigned over the Silva Lupi. Nor did I think Wendell was different from other Folk, particularly—kinder, less enigmatic, or somehow more human. I simply didn’t care. I loved him, and I suspected that I would grow to love this beautiful, horrifying place if given the chance. I wanted the chance. I wanted Faerie, its every secret and its every door.

If there was danger in my decision—and I knew there was—then so be it. I would accept danger, if it meant I could have this.