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

by Heather Fawcett

“You look as if you’ve come from a wrestling match with one of your books. May I ask who won?”

This grated on my patience as only an insult to libraries could,

I opened my knapsack and deposited the faerie foot onto Wendell’s desk. Ariadne screamed. Wendell yelped, “My God!” and snatched the bag of croissants away. “Good grief,” I said. “It’s only a foot.” “Only a foot!” Ariadne cried as Wendell said, “Emily,” in a scandalized tone.

“Where would I be without you, Em?” This was another joke between us. I cast about for an answer I had not given before, and said, “No doubt lounging in some sun-splashed Italian villa, bribing the villagers to plant faerie stones in unusual patterns so that you can write a paper about it.”

Your luck will run out if you aren’t careful.” “I’d wager it ran out long ago, as I’m presently traipsing round the world on an errand for an indolent monarch,”

“I hope I will be able to introduce you. You will like each other, I think.” I considered this dubiously. Not only because every time I learn something new about Wendell’s cat, it makes me less inclined to make her acquaintance, but because, in my experience, cats in general exist in a state of perpetual resentment and dissatisfaction.

I think I would receive a more sympathetic response if I asked to marry a bookcase.”

I suppose the imminent prospect of falling to one’s death has a way of sharpening the reflexes.

“Only you would put footnotes in your diary,”

Fortunately, there was a ridiculous number of pillows scattered about. I seized one and flung it at his face.

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.

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.

I hope you will not mind that I took the liberty of reading your previous entry, nor—since I am rather bored, as I generally am when I do not have you to talk to—that I will be completing it for you.

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

Assassins are a monstrous breed. Either they attack when you are at your worst, or they are having a go at you on your birthday. I have never known a more dishonourable profession.

Rose asked me why I was not more surprised by your feat. He does not understand you as I do, Em, but as you seem to consider him a friend now, I told him the truth: in order to be surprised, I could not have known already that you are capable of anything.