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

by Heather Fawcett

“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.”

“I suppose that’s that.” “Wait,” I said. He tilted his head in exasperation, clearly anticipating some sort of lecture. He went completely still when I strode up to him and kissed him.

HEHEHEHEHEHEHE

“You are assuming that this ribbons man—who must be trapped in some sort of faerie realm, given his palavering about paths, only one that is not fixed to any spatial plane—is connected to Bambleby’s stepmother. This is not necessarily the case.” “He appeared on the same day the assassins did,” I pointed out. “Watkins’s First.”[*2]

It struck me for the first time—or, I suppose I should say, the reality of it struck me, for I had until then been viewing the whole thing as an abstract issue of scholarship, or at least trying to—that we were searching for a door to that world. Rose was not incorrect in pointing out that it was a kingdom into which a disproportionate number of scholars had disappeared, never to be heard from again.[*3]

“No, I have simply grown fond of pointless exertions of magic,” he said. “Of course it was an accident. I recall that I was dreaming of home, as usual. I suppose part of the dream drifted out of my head.”

“Has this ever happened before? This—dream-magic?” “I’m afraid not.” He looked uneasy, as if some other faerie had waltzed into his compartment and made it go to seed.

“You can’t expire before I decide whether or not to marry you.” I had meant it as a continuation of our jests, but it came out sounding wrong, flat. I felt as if I might faint. “I won’t,” he assured me earnestly. “It’s not too bad.”

I understand now why the folklore of the Alps is so rich—the many folds and crevices in the mountainsides could hide any number of faerie doors opening onto dozens of stories.

“Here we are,” our conductor said in German, stopping outside a two-storey cottage at the end of the lane. It was built of solid, dark wood with ivy clambering up the side, reddening in the autumn air, for autumn and winter come early to high places like this.

I managed to turn the conversation to our research, which earned me an eye roll from Wendell. Well, he knows I am useless at small talk. “Oh, we’d be happy to help however we can—we’ve had scholars stay here before,” Julia said. “None for some years, though. They were mostly interested in the story of that Scottish woman, de Grey—and that man as disappeared the next year searching for her, Eichorn.

“Ribbons?” I repeated. “Yes—it’s common custom around here to stuff your pockets with them when you go a-roving. It’s very easy to get lost in these mountains, even if you know them like the back of your hand, because there are so many doors to Faerie hidden everywhere, particularly in the mists and clouds that linger here and there. You tie ribbons as you go so that you can find your way home again.”

“We know our faeries well, Dr. Bambleby. We soak the ribbons in a saltwater bath during the full moon. The Folk don’t touch them.”

“It’s not yet seven,” he said. “Won’t you stay for coffee?” “We’d love to,” the woman said apologetically, “but we don’t leave our houses after dark if we can avoid it.” I was immediately intrigued. “Do the Folk trouble you after dark?” She gave me a weary look, but there was warmth in it still. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.” “And how long has this been happening?” “How long?” she repeated. “It has never been otherwise, Professor. Now, mind you lock up tight, and don’t forget to leave a little food on the doorstep. They’ve a particular fondness for cheese and cooked vegetables.

Oh—and I’d advise you to avoid the faerie den down on the lakeshore.”

I looked at Wendell. “What do make of that?” He shrugged. “Why not take a stroll down to this den?”

IMMEDIATELY lmao

Shadow is blind in one eye and not in what could be called peak condition;

“There,” he said, pointing. “Where that spring emerges from the rock. It’s a shallow thing—a cosy little cottage for one of the common fae, I suppose. Don’t step in the mist, or it’ll sweep you into Faerie.” I hastened over to the spring, squeezing the coin I carry in my pocket to ward off enchantment. But I saw no movement around the spring—which was clearly a faerie door, now that I had a good look at it.[*]

“The theory of erogation,”[*2]

“Do you know what I miss the most?” he said. “Being waited on hand and foot?” “My cat.” “Ah,” I said neutrally. I suppose I should have guessed—Wendell speaks of his dear Orga a great deal, though I am never able to get a sense of what the creature actually looks like. “She has many talents. Several I’m not allowed to reveal.” “A cat has power over a king?” I said drily, adding a note to the map. “Faerie cats do not like their powers to be known, and prevent their masters from revealing them, often upon pain of death. Suffice it to say that I would trust her with my life.” He gazed wistfully into the distance, clearly lost in memories of his cat. “I hope I will be able to introduce you. You will like each other, I think.”

We located a total of fourteen faerie doors—an impressive number for such a small area. Most, according to Wendell, led to simple households and farms hidden away in the mountain folds, likely belonging to brownies associated with nearby springs and meadows and the like. Two others were abandoned. Four were of particular interest.

chagrined.

He informed us casually that no pub could stay in business in St. Liesl, given the necessity of closing each day before dark to protect its patrons from being torn apart by the Folk.

“It’s the fauns he means,” Wendell said. “Without a doubt. They’ve a predilection for that sort of violence. They don’t even eat their victims. In my kingdom, they’re known for feeding pieces to their dogs while the poor mortal watches.”

“An offering, I guess.” Wendell flicked his hand at the seeds in the grass, and they burst into bloom—a mix of primroses and forget-me-nots. “Wildflowers.”

“You think I’m making the same mistake. That I have come to trust Wendell too much, and that one day he will leave me dangling from a tree somewhere.” Rose didn’t answer immediately, but placed a surprisingly gentle hand upon my knee. “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.”

It is quite possible—if not likely, given de Grey’s skill as an investigator—that she succeeded in her search for the nexus and became lost inside the thing, or was killed in the vicinity by its guardians. Thus, following de Grey’s path may also lead us to Wendell’s door.

excavate a ribbon from one of his pockets and tie it to a small rock or root. “Does the colour signify anything?” I enquired. “Indeed,” Roland said, and informed me that a red ribbon is used to indicate that the rambler’s path continued straight on along a mostly level plane; white indicates an ascent; blue, a descent. There are also ribbons that represent a change of course in one of the compass directions, as follows: green, west; yellow, north; orange, east; red, south. These signifiers are primarily of use to search parties, should they be needed, but the rambler who became hopelessly lost could also use the ribbons to gain some form of orientation while retracing their steps. There are also textural signifiers: a lace ribbon tied alongside a blue ribbon indicates that the rambler decided to descend to a lower altitude and had met with one of the Folk—again, information that could be of use to rescuers should the rambler fail to return. A coarse muslin ribbon indicates an injury, and so on—I

It's Details like these that make this series so immersive and fun!

I was startled out of my abstraction by the awareness that, at some point, a man had appeared out of nothingness in the chair opposite mine.

It was, of course, my enigmatic stalker, pockets full of ribbons as always.

you are Professor Bran Eichorn of Cambridge, who disappeared in this very region in 1862 while searching the mountains for Danielle de Grey.

Eichorn neither confirmed nor denied any of this. But I saw him returning to himself, piece by piece, as I spoke, and I knew my supposition had been correct. By the end of my speech, he appeared almost sane, and had stopped clutching at his ribbons. “Did she get out?” he said quietly. “Did Dani get out?”

You see, Professor Wilde, I have been chasing after Dani in one way or another for most of my adult life.”

“What is the nature of the faerie realm you are imprisoned in?” “As I said—it is a borderland. I stumbled into a fog one day—it was a door, and after wandering for a time I found a little house in which several brownies were sitting down to tea. They laughed at me, and declined to show me a way out, and while I attempted to retrace my steps, I was never able to free myself. I have been wandering the edges of different, overlapping realms ever since—time lost all meaning long ago.

He seemed to shake himself. “What year is it?” I told him, and he nodded grimly. “How do you know my name?” I said. “Sometimes I am with you without you seeing. I’ve overheard your conversations.”

“Where is the nexus?” He let out a sharp breath. “Damned if I know. Dani did, though.” “She found it,” I murmured, and he gave a grim nod.

“You want the nexus. For the same reasons she did, perhaps. Find Dani, Professor Wilde. She will lead you to it.”

Happily, we saw no sign of the vulpine fae, which Julia Haas informed us are known locally as fuchszwerge.

you’d be astonished how mortal blood muddies faerie power; even halfbloods can barely invoke the most basic glamours.

To my delight, the locals have been eager to share their folklore with us, seeming to regard it as a source of pride. Two revelations were of particular interest: 1. Sightings of both Eichorn and de Grey are commonplace within St. Liesl and its environs.

Scholars have documented numerous sightings of Bran Eichorn in this part of the Alps. He appears as a shadowy figure in most cases, demanding whether the traveller has seen de Grey, or simply as a voice in the distance, calling her name. But what astonished me was that several of the villagers have also seen de Grey. Over forty years ago, Eberhard was searching for a lost hound in the Adlerwald, a forest that fills one of the nearby valleys. Just off the path he came across a strange Scottish woman with vividly green hair,[*1] dressed for the snowy heights, not a forest walk. She was carrying several ribbons—a strange thing in the valleys, where locals are generally less cautious about the Folk—as well as some sort of animal horn.

2. Locating the tree fauns may be more dangerous—and more essential—than we supposed. Happily, most sightings of the creatures so fundamental to our search have occurred in the vicinity of the fox faeries’ valley, a region the locals informally call the Grünesauge, which is also the name of the lake.

Nevertheless, he will spend the rest of his life explaining to scholars and layfolk alike how his left ear came to be fastened to his head backwards with a curious silver scar. Dryadologists, of course, are known for our strange injuries—my missing finger; Lightoller’s stone elbows—yet I can think of nothing that compares to this.

Eventually, I had to rouse Wendell myself—he is sleeping a great deal these days, which is concerning, as I can only assume this is another symptom of poisoning.

“I don’t—what on—would you stop?” Wendell cried, shielding himself with his arm. “Yes, all right, I should have knocked, but is this really necessary?” The faerie kept on shrieking, and then it launched the frying pan at Wendell’s head—he ducked—and slammed its door.

I love the humorous scenes like this riddled throughout the book. They make me actually laugh out loud.

“It’s pointless to flee,” I said. “It seems we will soon be paid a visit by the elder huntsmen.”[*]

Uh oh...

These creatures had come to kill Wendell.

You leave my precious bby Wendell ALONE >:(

I realized what was happening: somehow, the poison had curdled the magic inside him, and any use of enchantment pained him.

“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.” “Only you, Em, would refer to heartbreak as a distraction. I think I would receive a more sympathetic response if I asked to marry a bookcase.”

Increasing my dread was the fact that, when I opened his shirt, I found the same flickering bird shadows I had observed before, only darker. I pressed a hand to his chest. At first I felt nothing, but then, when one of the birds seemed to dart closer, I felt a faint thrumming beneath his skin, as of wings beating against the bars of a cage. I drew back, and the memory tugged at me again—the disturbing sight recalled a story I had read before. But it slipped from my grasp.

I have found the story.