Fans of Heather Fawcett's books will be surprised to hear that her adult debut, due out in January, keeps within that same vein. We have the first look at the cover and the opening chapter of Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries. The summary of the book gives you some context. Cambridge professor Emily Wilde is good at many things: She is the foremost expert on the study of faeries. She is a genius scholar and a meticulous researcher who is writing the world’s first encyclopaedia of faerie lore. But Emily Wilde is not good at people. She could never make small talk at a party—much less get invited to one. And she prefers the company of her books, her dog Shadow, and the Fair Folk to other people. So when she arrives in the hardscrabble village of Hransvik, Emily has no intention of befriending the gruff townsfolk. Nor does she care to spend time with another new arrival: her dashing and insufferably handsome academic rival Wendell Bambleby, who manages to charm the townsfolk, get in the middle of her research, and utterly confound and frustrate Emily. But as Emily gets closer and closer to uncovering the secrets of the Hidden Ones—the most elusive of all faeries—lurking in the shadowy forest outside the town, she also finds herself on the trail of another mystery: Who is Wendell Bambleby, and what does he really want? To find the answer, she’ll have to unlock the greatest mystery of all—her own heart. The cover of Emily Wilde's book is designed and illustrated by Vera Drmanovski.
The first chapter is here. Shadow the dog plays a big part in the absence of Wendell Bambleby.
20th October 1909.
Ljosland, Hrafnsvik.
Shadow isn't happy with me. He lies by the fire, staring up at me from beneath that shaggy forelock of his with the sort of accusatory resignation peculiar to dogs, as if to say: Of all the stupid adventures you've dragged. I fear I have to agree, but I am eager to begin my research.
I intend to give an honest account of my day-to-day in the field as I document an enigmatic species of faerie called Hidden Ones. A scripta manent. I will assume a basic understanding of dryadology in the reader, though I will not include references that are unfamiliar to those new to the field.
I have not been to Ljosland before, and would be lying if I said my first sight this morning did not temper my enthusiasm. The only way to get to London is on a weekly freighter that carries a lot of goods and a lot of passengers. I paced the deck to keep my seasickness at bay as we ventured north. I was among the first to see the snowbound mountains rising out of the sea, the little red-roofed village of Hrafnsvik huddled below them like Red Riding Hood.
We struck the slip hard once, for the waves were fierce. The slip was lowered by means of a winch operated by an old man with a cigarette in his mouth and he kept it lit in the wind.
I realized that I was the only one who disembarked. The captain set my trunk down on the dock, as if I were a joke, as if I were a joke he only half understood. My fellow passengers were not headed for the only city in Ljosland, loabaer. I wouldn't be visiting loabaer because I don't find Folk in cities, but in the forgotten corners of the world.
I was amazed to see the cottage I rented from the slip. The farmer who owned the land, one Krystjan Egilson, had described it to me in our correspondence, a little stone thing with a roof of vivid green turf just outside the village, perched upon the slope of the mountain. I think I could have counted the ravens in their mountain burrow because it was so stark and solitary.
Shadow was given a wide berth by the sailors as he made his way up the dock. The old boarhound is blind in one eye and lacks the energy for any exercise beyond anambling walk, but his appearance belies him; he is an enormous creature, black as pitch with bearish paws and large white teeth. I could not bear to leave him in the care of my brother back in London, as he is given to fits of despondency when I am away.
Few villagers in the village were likely to be out in their fields or fishing boats, but those few stared at me as only rural villagers at the edge of the known world could. None of my admirers offered assistance. Shadow glanced at them and only then did they look away.
My career has taken me across Europe and Russia, and I have seen communities that are far more rustic than Hrafnsvik. I used to sleep in a farmer's cheese shed in Andalusia, but I have never been this far north. The wind pulled at my scarf and cloak after tasting snow. It took me some time to get my trunk up the road.
The fields surrounding the village were given over to the landscape. These hillsides were not the tidy ones I was used to, but were filled with volcanic rock and moss. The sea kept sending waves of mist over the coastland so that I could not see anything.
The mountainside was so steep that the path up to the cottage was a series of switchbacks. The cottage rested precariously on the mountainside. I was panting by the time I got to the door, because it was only ten minutes beyond the village. I found a sheep when I opened it, because it was unlocked and had no lock at all.
I politely held the door as it chewed at something and then went back to its fellows. Shadow was unmoved by the fact that he had seen a lot of sheep in the countryside around Cambridge and looked upon them with interest.
The place felt even colder than the outdoors. It was as simple as I had thought, with walls of solid stone and a smell that could have been sheep. A table and chairs, a small kitchen at the back with pots hanging from the wall, is very dusty. By the wood stove was an old armchair that smelled of must.
I was so cold I didn't know how to light a fire, and I had never done so before, so I was worried that I wouldn't know how to warm that place. It had begun to snow when I looked out the window.
I began to wonder if I would die here as I stared at the empty fireplace.
Let me assure you that I am not a newcomer to foreign fieldwork. I spent a period of months in a part of Provence so rural that the villagers had never seen a camera, studying a river-dwelling species of Folk. A student assistant to a professor spent half a year in the Croatian wilderness as a deer-faced fate after a long sojourn in the forests of the Apennines. I knew what I was getting into, and had a graduate student or two take care of the logistics.
There had been no snow.
Ljosland is an island located in the wild seas off the Norwegian mainland and is the most isolated of the countries. I had accounted for the awkwardness of reaching such a place, yet I was realizing that I had given little thought to the difficulties I might face in leaving it if something went wrong.
I was launched to my feet by a knock on the door. The visitor was already in my house, without my permission, and he was wearing his boots with the air of a man entering his own home.
He held out a hand. He was a large man, both in height and around the shoulders and midsection. His face was square with a broken nose and his hair was black. A fine beast.
I shook Mr. Egilson's hand.
My host asked, "Who else would I be?" I was not sure if this was meant to be unfriendly or if the baseline of his demeanor was mild hostility. I am terrible at reading people, a failing that has landed me in a lot of hassle. Bambleby would have known what to make of this bear of a man and he would have already laughed at it.
I thought it was bloody Bambleby.
Egilson stared at me disconcertingly as he said, "All the way from London." Get sick?
Cambridge, actually. The ship was very large.
Villagers stared as you came up the road. Looks like she wouldn't survive the journey.
I wondered how to turn the conversation to more pressing matters when I didn't know what they were thinking about me.
He said that they told him.
I see.
Old Sammy and his wife Hilde were going up. We are very curious about your research. How will you catch the Folk? A butterfly net.
I replied coolly that I have no intention of catching one of your faerie-folk. My goal is to study them. This is the first investigation of its kind in Ljosland. I am afraid that the rest of the world saw your Hidden Ones as little more than myth, unlike the various species of Folk that live in the British Isles and the continent.
It's probably best that it stays that way.
It's not an encouraging statement that you have several species of faerie in Ljosland. I have Folk stories that range from brownie-type to courtly fay.
He said in a flat voice that he didn't know what any of that meant. No good will come of your provoking the others.
I was immediately intrigued by this, though I heard of the fearsome nature of the courtly fay of Ljosland. The wind blew open the door and blew the snow into the cottage. Egilson closed it again.
I said it was snowing and it was uncharacteristic inanity. The sight of snow drifting into the fireplace made me think of morbid despair.
Egilson replied with a touch of black humour that I found preferable to false friendliness, which is not the same as saying I appreciated it. Winter is just clearing its throat. The clouds will open up.
When will winter arrive? I asked grimly.
He said that he would know when it did, and that Krystjan was a sideways sort of man.
I was hoping to discourage this line of questioning with vagueness. I am thirty years old and not young enough to be a professor, but I was the youngest Cambridge professor ever hired.
He gave an amused grunt. Can I help you with something?
He looked to be on the verge of slipping away sideways through the door as I replied, "Tea would be lovely." Where would firewood be kept?
He said, "Next to the fireplace."
I took the box for a rudimentary armoire after I saw it.
He said there was more in the woodshed out back.
I breathed with relief. My hopes of freezing to death had been premature.
He remarked, "You're more the indoors type, are you?", for he noticed the way I said it, which had a distinct cadence of a word never spoken before. I am afraid that such people are thin on the ground here. Finn will bring the tea. That is my son. The matches are in the matchbox.
I said as if I had already seen the matchbox. I couldn't bring myself to inquire as to its location after the wood box crumbled.
He gave me a slow-blinking look, then drew a small box from his pocket and put it on the table. He was gone in the cold air.
Excerpt from Emily Wilde's Encyclopedia of Faeries. Random House Group, a division of Penguin Random House, used the name Del Rey. All rights belong to the person. No part of this excerpt can be reproduced or re-posted without the permission of the publisher.
You can pre-order a copy of Emily Wilde's book here.
Wondering where our feed went? The new one can be picked up here.
All Rights Reserved © 2024
