26th November
I spent most of the day poring over my notes and re- reading my journal, unable to focus on either the paper or my encyclopaedia, still beset by the certainty that I was missing something. I turned eventually to my books, in particular those collections of ancient faerie stories in various iterations that dryadologists love more than anything to debate—which version should be given primacy; whether similar tales told in differing regions share a primogenitor. Bambleby had absconded again, and I was left to my fretting until past midday, when there came a knock on the door.
Expecting Lilja and the welcome distraction of another woodcutting lesson, I was surprised to instead find Aud, looking determined. “He did not like our gifts,” she said without preamble.
I sighed. I considered telling her that Bambleby required no gifts, but she wouldn’t understand that—favours granted by the Folk must always be repaid in a manner that satisfies them, which is not the same as saying that the values must be equal by human standards. I cast my gaze around the room, and it fell upon Wendell’s sewing kit.
“Have you any silver needles?” I said. I had observed that Wendell’s were made from bone.
Aud nodded slowly, looking puzzled. “Will that suffice?”
“I expect he’d like a mirror or two,” I said. “To hang on the wall. But only if they are handsome. And chocolate,” I added with some pique, because surely I deserved a gift too, for my efforts.
Aud nodded, looking pleased. She went away again, and an hour later, all that I had requested was delivered by one of Bambleby’s conquests, the
little dark-haired one, who looked both relieved and disappointed to find him absent. I understood how she felt, for I had finally worked out what had been bothering me and was beside myself with excitement to share it with him.
But evening set in, and there was still no sign of him. I decided to go down to the tavern—no doubt I would find him there, happily ensconced in awe and admiration. But when I pushed through the door, only the familiar faces of the villagers gazed back at me. To my horror, they burst into applause and began clapping me on the shoulders. Several of the women hugged me—I didn’t note which ones, as my senses were temporarily overwhelmed by this onslaught.
“Leave her be, leave her be,” Thora’s voice grumbled, and her bony hand wrapped round my wrist and pulled me to her usual cosy and out-of- the-way nook next to the fire.
“Thank you,” I murmured, collapsing into the other chair.
She gave a rumble of laughter. “The way you froze! You looked like a startled badger.”
I didn’t argue with her unflattering choice of metaphor, merely folded myself deeper into the chair. “Have you seen Wendell?”
“Why would I know where that creature’s gotten to? He’s your faerie.
What’s the matter?”
I nearly bit my tongue in consternation. My faerie! Good grief. “Nothing is the matter. Only I believe I’ve worked out the reason why your village has lost so many to the tall ones in recent years. And why it will keep happening, if nothing is done to stop it.”
I hadn’t meant to tell her, but the words just spilled out of me in my excitement. Thora’s face hardened, and she held up a hand. “Wait a moment, girl.”
Seconds later, Thora had dragged Aud over to join our tête-à-tête.
“What’s all this, Emily?” she said, grasping my hand warmly.
“The changeling,” I said. “Before his arrival in Hrafnsvik, your village lost few youths to the Hidden Ones. All your stories concur about that— once in a generation, perhaps, often less frequently. Neighbouring villages
have not been similarly affected, which means there is something about Hrafnsvik that draws them.”
“They wish to take the child back, then?” Aud said, puzzled.
“No. It is a motif that appears often in the literature, which has been called the lantern theory—” I stumbled to a stop. How did I explain this to ordinary people? How did I explain that the stories they tell to children, or for diversion on cold nights spent by the fire, held the deepest of truths— that they were in fact keys to unlocking the secrets of the Folk? “It’s as if— the Folk are drawn to places of great magic. Changelings require the greatest magic of all, to take a faerie child and embed him in the mortal realm so securely he cannot be removed. And your changeling is especially powerful. And so the courtly fae are drawn here, even if they themselves have no connection to him, perhaps without even realizing they are being drawn.”
Aud’s brows were knitted together. “A lantern. Yes. But how do we put the light out?”
“There’s only one way.” Thora’s voice was hard, but she reached out one weathered hand and rested it on Aud’s shoulder. “It’s what I’ve been saying for years, Aud. You said no, when it was just Mord and Aslaug that creature was hurting. But it’s the whole village now. Which of our children will be taken next, if we do nothing?”
“Ari,” Aud said as she let out her breath. “I’m godmother to that child.”
“Yes.” Thora’s voice didn’t soften. “And how many other children are you godmother to?”
Aud pressed her hand to her eyes. When she took it away, she looked much older, and I saw the kinship between her and Thora there like a reflection out of time. But Aud didn’t acquiesce; instead, she fixed me with a hard look, as if to say, Well?
“If we knew his name,” I began unsteadily. “The changeling’s true name. We could use it to banish him.”
Thora leaned back in her chair with a dismissive sound. “We know that.
You don’t think we tried to trick him into telling us, when he first came here? They guard their names closely.”
Aud said nothing, merely kept her eyes on me.
“Let me think on it,” I said. “Do nothing for now. Please.”
“Don’t think too long,” Thora said, her face dark. “We heard the bells again last night. They’ve never sounded so regularly before. They will take another child, and soon.”
