Page 44 of Emily Wilde’s Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde #3)

My heart thudded in my ears. “We’re not far from shore. You could swim the distance easily. You might not take a boat if you didn’t want anyone to know you were out here.”

We shared a look. Then Wendell adjusted the sail, and we drifted towards the darkest patch of weeds. I saw nothing unusual in the immediate vicinity. Some of the faeries visible on the shore had settled down on the bank—to see what we were up to, I suppose.

Wendell allowed us to drift for a moment through the wide patch of lakeweed, then sent us along the perimeter before plowing into the wet leaves again at a different angle.

The weeds made a shhh, shhh sound against the hull, along with the faintest scratching.

I began to worry that the thorns would tear a hole in the skin.

Then the boat came to a stop with a gentle thunk.

“I would ask if that was a rock,” I said. My heart was thundering so excitedly now that I felt breathless. “But something tells me I don’t need to.”

Wendell scanned the water, but there was nothing to see—only weeds and darkness. He grimaced. “I don’t much fancy a swim in this muck, but I must risk it, I suppose. What do you think?”

This last was directed to Orga. She gave an unimpressed grunt and hopped up onto his shoulder.

Then he stepped off the prow of the boat.

There was no splash, for he did not fall. He merely vanished, in a similar manner to how he is always vanishing in and out of trees. Quite horribly, in other words.

He reappeared a second later, landing in the boat with a thump that made it rock a little from side to side, evidently having taken a leap out of the nothingness he had vanished into. Having not yet gotten over the first shock, I gave a heartfelt “Goddamn it, Wendell!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking a little stunned himself. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. “Em, you must see this. I was expecting—and still I cannot quite believe—”

And the bloody man yanked me over the side of the boat.

I stumbled onto solid ground, and Wendell caught me before I could fall. He was blathering on at me before I’d found my bearings.

“Queen Anne’s Isle!” he kept saying. “This must be it—we tell stories of it, but I never thought—then there truly is a lost castle! And there are no Folk here, that I can see—how then am I here? How in God’s name did she find it?

But look at that oak!” This was followed by a series of colourful exclamations in Irish.

I gazed about. We indeed stood upon an island, very small indeed, something upon which, in the mortal realm, one might expect to find a lighthouse, or perhaps a single lonely dwelling.

Only instead there was a stretch of shore and a small, roofless castle that looked more like a Norman keep than anything else, which is not the same as saying that it looked like a Norman keep.

It had large windows and tall stone walls that had been mostly overtaken by ivy.

Within the castle grew a grove of trees, including at least one attentive oak, which towered above the rest.

I looked back at Wendell, who was still exclaiming over the story. I felt a glimmer of amusement, to see a faerie so delighted by a tale come to life, but it passed quickly, and fear descended again.

“All right,” I said. “What is this about Queen Anne’s Isle?”

He gave me an apologetic look. His hair was in great disarray from how he had been rubbing at it in his excitement.

“Queen Anne’s Isle is said to have been created by the realm itself to protect a runaway mortal queen—the only other fully mortal ruler before you, Em, that this land has known—from her wicked husband, who wished to slay her so that he could marry another.

It is said she lived out her days here in peace—not that many were left to her, for she was elderly when she fled.

They say Folk cannot find it. I suppose my stepmother found a loophole, as a halfblood. ”

“And you only found it because I was with you,” I said, feeling a sense of satisfaction amidst the terror; I will never stop enjoying the solving of some faerie mystery.

I wondered briefly how I might compose a paper on the subject—disappearing islands are a motif in the folklore of many countries. It was a comforting line of thought.

“Well, it’s good to know I shall have a bolt-hole when you eventually tire of me,” I said. “And the teacups I leave scattered about. Weren’t you complaining of that the last time you were in my office?”

This was comforting, too. Perhaps if I kept making light of things, I could simply skip over the fact that we had come, at last, to Queen Arna’s refuge. Was she watching us now from one of the windows? I carefully avoided looking.

Wendell did not reply, merely continued to stroke Orga, still draped about his shoulders and looking wary. With his other hand, he laced his fingers through mine and led me up the bank. Because the island was so small, it did not take long to realize that there was a problem.

“Hm!” Wendell said after several minutes had passed, during which time the castle grew no closer. I looked back, and there was the boat rocking gently against the shore only a yard or two away.

“Interesting,” I murmured.

“The island dislikes my being here,” he said, glaring at the castle. “I am like a splinter it wishes to expel from itself. What to do? I have a feeling that simply waving my hand and tearing the castle to pieces will not go over well.”

“It is obvious what we must do,” I said, already examining the ferns and grasses. “Think of the story.”

“Which?”

“Macan, of course. Of our three clues, there is one we have not yet found a use for.”

“Ah,” he said, and we began to scour the greenery, pushing ivy aside and looking beneath ferns, as if we were foraging for mushrooms. The enchantment that prevented us from reaching the castle was an intriguing one: it seemed bound to the trees scattered a few yards above the waterline.

They formed an uneven sort of perimeter we could not pass.

“There,” Wendell said at last.

The snail was half hidden by a fallen branch and glowed lightly in the shadows descending over the isle. At the sight of us, it seemed to start, and withdrew into its shell, then poked its head back out cautiously.

“Now what?” I said. “Might the shell possess some magic, that we might break this enchantment and find our way to the castle?”

“Perhaps,” Wendell said musingly. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the shell the butter faerie had given us, one of those snails the old queen had cooked for her supper.

He knelt beside the snail, which may or may not have been watching us—I am no expert in snail anatomy, but its antennae had swivelled in our direction.

“I suspect you have little affection for the one who shelters in the castle,” Wendell said. “Many of your brethren have vanished into her pockets, haven’t they? And thence to her supper plate. Show me the way, for I am her enemy, and I shall deliver to her the fate she deserves.”

The snail’s antennae began to twitch. It glided off, and Wendell and I—well, I would say we fell into step behind it, but as you might imagine, it was a moment or two before we were even certain the creature was moving towards the castle.

More snails glided out of the shadows to join the first. And more. And more. Until there were hundreds surrounding us on all sides. Together we left the shoreline and passed under the boughs of the first trees, moving steadily over the castle lawn, which was overgrown with ferns and ivy.

“They are making a path for us,” I murmured. “That must be it. They can pass through the enchantment, and as long as we are within their company, it cannot hinder us. And yet how did they organize themselves so quickly?”

“Oh, I imagine they have been waiting to betray my stepmother,” Wendell said.

“And long would they have waited, for they are patient creatures above all else. I would not be surprised if they have kept a watch on her since she came to this place, and upon the shore, hoping that her enemies might find a way here. That creature did not need much convincing, did it?”

I said nothing. I told myself it was ludicrous to be intimidated by snails, but I could not quite believe it.

Yes, I could have outrun them if need be—outwalked them, really—or even crushed them beneath my boots, but there was something about the air of intractable menace that surrounded them, and the sense that should one or more fall, others would only rise from hidden folds in the lawn to take their place, which left me frightened of each step I took, lest I tread upon a single antenna.

It took us perhaps half an hour to reach the castle, moving in a series of slow half steps that at first felt ridiculous, then irksome, then sinister, surrounded by our tiny, faintly luminescent bodyguards.

During that time, Wendell was uncharacteristically quiet, only murmuring occasional reassurances to Orga, and I found myself catching his mood.

I glanced about at the deepening darkness, the glittering lake beyond.

We stood in the shadow of the castle, and the air was cold.

The distant shore of the lake seemed to lie behind a thin mist. I could see the lanterns still, but there was something melancholy about them now, the promise of company one could never reach.

I thought of an old woman living out her last days here, the memories of what had once been all around her.

“It’s a lonely place,” I said as I lifted a boot to take another slow step. “When was Anne’s reign?”

“Long ago,” Wendell replied. “Even before my father’s line—one of his ancestors, an age or more ago, stole the throne from a cousin, who was descended from Anne’s unworthy husband another age before. I expect her bones still lie here, somewhere. I hope there was someone to bury her.”