Page 66 of Emily Wilde’s Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde #3)
We had told them of our new Council, which now contains an equal number of courtly and common fae—chief among them the little housekeeper who saved Wendell—as well as several mortals.
Never before in Wendell’s realm—nor any other, to his knowledge—have the common fae been invited into the upper echelons of Faerie’s political structure.
The results, in my opinion, have been rather mixed, but still it is a nice thing from a symbolic perspective.
“As much as any faerie has,” I said. Approximately half of the Council remains entirely useless—particularly the mortal poet and one Lady Thorns and Thistles—and yet I can’t help suspecting, given comments made by Wendell and others, that this is an improvement on the general average.
Faerie councils, like faerie monarchs themselves, seem not to have much practical utility, other than, perhaps, as a tiller guiding the wayward impulses of the king or queen, yet I have seen no evidence that the councils themselves are any less wayward.
Once we had finished our meal and established ourselves in armchairs by the fire with mugs of chocolate or tea, Wendell leaned forward abruptly, rubbing his hands together. “Now then! I fear I can wait no longer. The anticipation is too great!”
“Oh God,” I said. “This is that surprise you mentioned, isn’t it?”
“Surprise?” Margret echoed, looking both pleased and nervous; Lilja seemed more of the latter. Ariadne covered her mouth with her hands, nearly vibrating with excitement, and I realized that she had learned of this “gift” from Wendell, and been anticipating it—when, I knew not.
“You needn’t worry,” Wendell said to Lilja. “It is merely a wedding gift for my Emily. One I have planned for a very long time, but which has unfortunately been much delayed due to unforeseen circumstances.”
“Your death?” I said.
“Among other things. The Deer took a great deal of time to root out.”
“The Deer?” I frowned. “Not the hag-headed deer in the rhododendron meadow?”
“The very same. I had to request Lord Taran’s help to remove them—he has an odd sort of accord with them, or as much as any person can have with such magniloquent brutes, and he was only too happy to help.”
This did not do much to inspire anticipation. “Was he.”
Wendell stood, as if he were about to give a presentation. Instead, to my surprise, he knelt by the fire next to Shadow, who gave a thump of his tail in acknowledgement.
“You see, Em,” he said, rubbing behind Shadow’s ears, “that particular meadow is one of the oldest parts of my realm, and home to a number of strange and venerable Folk. Including perhaps the only other personage of mixed courtly and common fae blood in the land, besides myself, of course, a woman of bogle and courtly fae ancestry. An unpleasant sort, as you might imagine! Yet I have long known she is the keeper of several of the ancient Words—you know two of them yourself, which places you already in rare company, for most Folk do not know even one.”
“Yes,” I said, a question in my voice. “Though most Words, in my understanding, are of low value, like the Word for button-summoning.”
“Ah,” Wendell said, “and has that one truly served no purpose? Most of the Words are of that nature—silly knickknack things on the surface, but useful in unexpected ways. Now, some time ago, I took Shadow to see several brownies expert in animal husbandry—”
“What!” I said. “When was this?”
“Last summer,” he said. “A month or two before we departed for Austria. You were at that conference in Edinburgh—”
“On faerie markets,” I cried, absurdly outraged. “I asked you to mind Shadow while I was away. And you took him to a—a doctor?”
“Of a sort,” Wendell went on, looking only more self-satisfied in the face of my outbursts.
“We have Folk of that nature back home,” Margret said, half to Lilja. “Do we not? Hilde and Sam say they live in their stables. They’ve never had a sick sheep or lamb in all their years of farming.”
“Such Folk exist in almost every region,” Farris said. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “They are a type of household brownie—though they are not always popular with farmers, for some are known to endow their beasts with peculiar gifts.” [*]
“These brownies dwelt at a livery stable in Hertfordshire,” Wendell said. “They also tend to their masters’ hunting dogs, who are reputed to live curiously long lives.”
My heart began to thrum in my ears. “I’ve not heard that story.”
“It’s a small part of the local lore,” Wendell said. “More of a footnote, really. I have been searching for such brownies for the past year or two, and never enter a village without making enquiries of the inhabitants—a visit or two to the local pub, usually.”
“Wait a moment,” I said. “You were planning my wedding gifts before I accepted your proposal? Before you had even asked ?”
Niamh snorted, while Lilja and Margret seemed to be smothering laughter. Only Ariadne took my side, patting my hand while continuing to smile in anticipation. I felt as if I were back in Faerie, with every private moment turned into a spectacle for public entertainment.
Wendell held up his hands. “My intentions were honourable, I assure you. Why cannot one be prepared for every outcome? And in any case, this particular gift was for Shadow’s benefit primarily.”
“Good grief!” I said, too overcome to be more articulate.
“?‘Prepared for every outcome,’ he says,” Niamh said with a laugh.
“This one has not once been thwarted in love. You should have seen him in his youth—fawned over by all and sundry. The Folk are already possessed of healthy egos; you can imagine how much more swollen his grew for his early successes.”
Wendell gave her a wounded look. “In fact, Niamh, I was half convinced my dear Emily had never met a man whose attentions she was less inclined to humour. I was astonished when she deigned to consider my proposal.”
“Indeed?” Niamh rolled her eyes. “You should have turned him down at first, Emily. It would have done him good.”
“I’m beginning to see the wisdom of that,” I said, but I was too impatient to needle him further. My heart was thrumming in my ears. “What did these brownies tell you? I’d no idea such Folk could help a Black Hound.”
He took my hand. “Shadow is ill, Em. Some congestion in his blood—that is how the creatures described it. An illness of age, which they might have prevented before it set in, but which they could not cure.”
I sank back against my chair—I had not realized I was leaning forward, my body rigid with tension.
“However,” Wendell continued, “I did not lose hope at this, for the information was useful. I’d heard rumours that this half-bogle woman, who aptly calls herself the Wordmonger, had amassed a great collection of forgotten Words.
Including one intended to cleanse the blood—used mostly, I suspect, to rid the body of alcohol, and thus its aftereffects.
Perhaps one of the most useful Words ever invented!
And I thought to myself, why should it not be useful in this case?
The Words have more than one function, and it stands to reason that their effects should be stronger in beasts.
If ever I regained my kingdom, I told myself, I would venture to the rhododendron meadow to interview her as soon as could be. ”
“A hangover remedy!” Niamh exclaimed. “You thought to cure the dog with that ?”
“I already have,” Wendell said. “Come here, Em.”
I knelt beside him and placed my hands where he indicated. I felt Shadow’s heartbeat—with which I was acutely familiar, for the old dog liked to sleep pressed against my back at night. I didn’t notice the change at first. But then—
“It’s stronger,” I cried. “Wait—is it?” I listened again. “Yes—I’m almost certain that it is!”
“I will teach it to you,” Wendell said. He spoke the Word, slowly and softly.
I felt the magic in the air, there and gone like an errant breeze; the Word had a presence when Wendell spoke that I could never give to it.
Shadow gave a huff and licked his hand, his expression more alert than I had seen in a long time.
I repeated the Word, adding it to my little collection.
“We should speak it now and then to keep the illness at bay,” Wendell said.
“He—” I stopped. “He has seemed better, these last few days.” I could not say the word cured, for it felt like a falsehood.
Shadow was still blind in one eye; his preferred pace remained slow and lumbering.
He had sought the hearth and blankets Lilja had laid out for him with all his usual enthusiasm to be off his feet.
There was no dramatic transformation—the effect had been so subtle as to be barely noticeable.
Wendell had not snapped his fingers and turned Shadow into some strapping immortal beast.
“He is an old dog still,” Wendell said quietly. “There are no magics to restore youth in creatures doomed to age—only glamours. But I thought, if I could grant him another few years of health, which he may spend in your company, and in roaming his favourite paths, and napping by the fireside—”
“It’s enough,” I said, then buried my face in Shadow’s fur, unable to control myself any longer. In truth, it wasn’t enough—no finite span of years ever could be. And yet it was a gift beyond measure.
When at last I had my emotions in hand, I looked up to find both Ariadne and Lilja brushing away tears, while Margret rubbed Lilja’s shoulders.
Niamh nodded her approval, for once having nothing to tease Wendell about, and even Callum, who is ordinarily a little hesitant around Shadow, being, like Wendell, more given to cats, was blinking rapidly.
Only Farris seemed unmoved, and yet he spoke not a word to dampen the moment, merely regarded Wendell with a sort of repressed antagonism.
“This deserves a celebration,” Callum noted, removing his harp from its case. “What do you say?”
As none of us had any objections, he began to play, the music scarcely louder than the wind outside at first, as if they were two halves of the same melody, then swelling into a familiar song.
Shadow lay his head in my lap, and I held him so tightly one would have thought I had lost him, as I had Wendell, only to find him again.
Skip Notes
* The Belgian story of the egg-laying goat is perhaps the most famous example, but many others exist.