Thora did not look at me. “Your dinner is growing cold,” she said, and there was something beneath the pleasantness in her voice that I did not dare challenge.
When Shadow and I returned to the cottage, we found the embers still hot in the woodstove, a fact that filled me with an ill-fated pride. I decided I would read for a time at the fireside, if only to put Au?ur from my mind, for she had unsettled me more than I cared to admit. Reaching into the wood box brought me swiftly down to earth, though, for I found only two logs remaining.
I chewed my lip, shivering lightly. I recalled Krystjan’s reference to the woodshed, and wished, abruptly, that I had taken Finn’s advice and “settled in” instead of spending the day charging hither and thither about the countryside. There are times when my scholarly enthusiasm gets the better of me, but I have never had cause to regret this so deeply before.
Well, there was nothing for it. I lit the lantern and thrust myself back out into the snow. Fortunately, the woodshed was easily located, tucked beneath the eaves. My heart sank, however, when I looked within. The wood had not been cut into logs, but piled up in huge chunks that would never fit into my humble stove.
I was shivering in earnest now. Shadow, perfectly comfortable in his bearish coat, grew anxious at my distress. Correctly intuiting the woodshed as its source, he proceeded to attack the door.
“Stop that, my love,” I admonished. I hefted what appeared to be a whole segment of trunk and grimly set to work. I took up the axe set atop the woodpile and placed the trunk upon a stump. Then I swung.
The first time, I missed. The second too. The third, I buried the axe in the wood, where it stuck fast and would not be dislodged.
I wrenched on it. I stuck a foot against the stump and wrenched again. And though I am not usually the sort for cursing, I’ve no doubt I withered a few weeds with the stream of filth that fell from my lips.
Eventually, weary and cold and aching in my shoulder from the reverberation of the axe, I gave up. The axe I left in the shed stuck deep into the wood, projecting what I imagined was a kind of sadistic triumph. I went into the cold cottage, added the remaining logs to the fire, and draped all the blankets I could find over the bed. I did not wish to finish the day’s entry, but habit lent me the necessary fortitude. Now to sleep.
22nd October
I awoke warm enough this morning, but only because I was thoroughly swaddled in my blankets, Shadow snoring against me. But the moment I poked my foot free, I yanked it back. The cold had claws.
I could not ignore the knocking, though, which commenced predictably at half seven. I forced myself from bed but wrapped the blankets around me, dignity be damned, and admitted Finn to the cottage.
He cast a glance at the stove, winced, but made no comment. He set my breakfast upon the table.
“What is this?” I said in disbelief.
The loaf of bread was a blackened husk. There was no goose egg, nor egg of any sort, and no butter, but there was a little bowl of something gelatinous and greyish-green.
“?angssaus,” Finn said. “My father thought you might enjoy it. It’s a kind of—” He searched for words. “Relish? Made from seaweed. It’s for toast.”
“This certainly qualifies.”
His face fell. “I’m sorry, Professor. My father arranged the breakfast this morning. And somehow, without my noticing, the bread was knocked into the fire.”
I sat down heavily. “Well, at least the tea is hot.”
He smiled. “I made sure of it.”
I set my head in my hand, which was pounding from the wine. “Might I enquire what I did to displease your father so?”
“It’s not so much my father who is displeased. It’s Aud.” He added quickly, “My father is old-fashioned. He does not respond well to an insult to his go?i.”
“What? I said nothing to offend her.” I reviewed the events of the previous evening. “Clearly there has been a misunderstanding.”
Finn looked into the wood box. “Let me assist you with this, at least.”
“That’s quite all right.” A hard, cold anger was forming in my stomach. “I was just about to get to it myself.”
He raised his eyebrows and made no comment. Seconds after his departure, I heard the sound of an axe splitting wood in the yard.
I admit that I am disheartened by this news. My research requires the villagers’ assistance—I rely as much on local lore as the evidence gathered with my own eyes and instruments in forming an accurate picture of the Folk. That I have already managed to offend the headwoman of Hrafnsvik does not bode well.
I think I can guess the source of Aud’s anger—clearly, she is protective of her niece, and worried that I would publicize her affliction and make a spectacle out of her. I am determined to meet with her at the tavern today to plead my case.
Or perhaps tomorrow.
23rd October
I can hardly hold pen to paper, my hand shakes so. The cottage is cold as a grave, naturally, but that is not the reason.
I have met one.
I did not expect success upon setting out today—I had little yesterday, and returned home after a long exploratory ramble too wearied to do anything other than eat a bit of cheese and tumble into bed. In the morning, I obtained from Finn a detailed map of the Karr?arskogur and nearby mountains and divided it into grid sections of one square mile, extending ten miles in each direction (twenty miles being the upper limit of what I estimated I could walk in a day). Before commencing my systematic search, though, I wished to further familiarize myself with the terrain and develop an intuition for the place. Thus intentioned, I set off towards the sulphuric spring I had explored previously.
I located it without much trouble, puffing away in its forest bower, a useful landmark. I was delighted to see that my offerings were gone. As I turned to casually scan the forest, I caught a wink of light. There, in a knob of volcanic rock jutting from the ground, was the diamond, pressed into the stone like a tiny doorknob.
I settled myself by the spring, removing my boots once again. I anticipated a long wait before my friend noticed my presence.
I had spent barely a moment there, however, when I felt the smallest of tugs on my coat.
A faerie crouched beside me. It was very small, its frame skeletal with a face full of teeth and two sharp black stones for eyes tucked beneath a ravenskin that it seemed to wear as a sort of cloak, but the skin had been poorly cleaned and the eyes were absent. It had all the substance of cobwebs and was both there and not there; viewed from certain angles, it was merely the shadow of a stone, and from others, a live raven. It was digging around in my pockets with fingernails the length again of its spindly arms and sharp enough to slit my throat without my noticing the injury immediately.
I was not surprised by the creature’s appearance, despite its unsightliness, but I had not been expecting it. I did not shriek or start away, of course, but I stiffened ever so slightly.
Immediately, the faerie was gone. I followed its progress by the birds, which fell silent in the tree to my left.
“It’s all right,” I said coaxingly in Faie, for it was clear that the faerie was young. Only the juveniles startle easily, in my experience, while adults have more confidence, particularly the ones who look like that. “I’ve come to bargain.”
“For what?” came a small voice out of the forest, nearer than I had guessed.
“For whatever you like,” I responded, “if it’s in my power to give it.”
It was a neat answer that has gotten me out of many close calls, for whatever you promise a faerie you must provide, or you will lose everything.
“I like skins,” the faerie said. “Will you give me a bearskin?”
“And how do you know what bears are?” For there are none in Ljosland.
“How do you think?” it replied. “From stories. I like those too.”
I thought it over. “I will give you a beaver skin.” Oh, I was going to miss that hat. “We will see about the bear. Now will you hear what I want in return?”
“I already know that.” The faerie was sitting on the edge of the spring—I would not have known if it hadn’t spoken, for it was like a fold in the ground. “You’re a noser. Poke, poke, poking your nose in. You want to know about me, but I shan’t tell you anything.”
“Why not?”
He—it was a he, I think—seemed not to expect the question. “I don’t like talking about myself.”
I tried not to let my delight show. The faeries of Ljosland should have known nothing about scholars—nosers are what the common fae call us on the continent. Not unless the faerie realms overlap, as I have argued on numerous occasions. The Folk can slip through locked doors and disappear into trees. Why would an ocean or mountain range keep them separate from one another?