Emily Wilde’s Map of the Otherlands is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidentseither are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance toactual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.Copyright © 2024 by Heather FawcettAll rights reserved.Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of PenguinRandom House LLC, New York.DEL REY and the CIRCLE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATANames: Fawcett, Heather (Heather M.), author.Title: Emily Wilde’s map of the Otherlands: a novel / Heather Fawcett.Description: New York: Del Rey, 2024. | Series: Emily Wilde; 2Identifiers: LCCN 2023036750 (print) | LCCN 2023036751 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593500194(hardcover; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780593500200 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593724682(international edition)Subjects: LCGFT: Magic realist fiction. | Novels.Classification: LCC PR9199.4.F39 E46 2024 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.F39 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20230816LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023036750LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023036751Ebook ISBN 9780593500200randomhousebooks.comBook design by Virginia Norey, adapted for ebookFloral art by Alexandr Sidorov/stock.adobe.comOrnamental frame by 100ker/stock.adobe.comCover design: Vera Drmanovskiep_prh_6.2_145871955_c0_r0OceanofPDF.com ContentsCoverTitle PageCopyright14th September 191014th September, Evening15th September17th September20th September21st September22nd September24th September27th September2nd October4th October5th October6th October6th October—Late7th October8th October9th October10th October11th October11th October—Evening 13th October??—October9/10/1012th October29th DecemberBy Heather FawcettAbout the AuthorOceanofPDF.com not fit in my briefcase, so I wrapped it incloth and wrestled it into an old knapsack I sometimes carry with me onexpeditions. Surprisingly—or perhaps unsurprisingly, as it is a faerie foot—it is neither dirty nor foul-smelling. It is, of course, long mummified andwould probably be mistaken for a goat’s foot by a casual observer, perhapsan unlikely offering excavated from the tomb of some ancient pharaoh.While it does not smell bad, since bringing the foot into my office I have atodd moments caught the scent of wildflowers and crushed grass carried ona little breeze whose source I cannot trace.I gazed at my now-bulging knapsack, feeling entirely ridiculous. Trustme when I say that I would rather not cart a foot around campus with me.But faerie remains, mummified or not, have been known to slip away as thefancy takes them, and I can only assume that feet are particularly inclined tosuch wanderlust. I shall have to keep it with me until its usefulness has beenexhausted. Good grief.The soft chiming of the grandfather clock alerted me that I was late forbreakfast with Wendell. I know from experience that if I miss our breakfastappointments he will bring the meal to me himself, in such a quantity thatthe entire department will smell of eggs, and then for the rest of the day I shall have to suffer Professor Thornthwaite sniping at me about his delicatestomach.I paused to pin my hair back up—it’s grown far too long, as I’ve spentthe past several weeks descending into one of my obsessive periods, when Ican think of little else beyond the subject of my research. And the questionof Wendell’s door has consumed me more than any other academic mysteryI can remember. My hair is not the only area of my appearance I haveneglected of late—my brown dress is rumpled, and I am not altogethercertain it is clean; I found it in a heap of other questionably laundered itemson the floor of my closet.“Come, dear,” I said to Shadow. The dog roused himself from his bed bythe oil heater with a yawn, stretching his massive paws. I stopped for amoment to glance around my office with satisfaction—when I was recentlygranted tenure, I also inherited a much more spacious office, now threedoors away from Wendell’s (naturally he has found a way to complainabout this additional twenty feet of distance). The grandfather clock camewith the room, as did the enormous damasked curtains lining the sashwindow that overlooks Knight College’s pond—presently dotted withswans—and the magnificent oak desk with its drawers lined with blackvelvet. I added bookshelves, of course, and a ladder to reach the uppermostvolumes, whilst Wendell insisted on cluttering the place up with twophotographs from Hrafnsvik that I did not even know he took, one of mestanding in the snowy garden with Lilja and Margret, the other of a villagescene; a vase of dried flowers that somehow never lose their scent; and thenewly reframed painting of Shadow he commissioned for my twenty-eighthbirthday—all right, I cannot complain about that. My beast looks veryfetching.I passed several students sunk deep into the armchairs of the dryadologydepartment common room, an open space beyond the faculty offices thatboasts a cosy fireplace—unlit on this warm September day—as well as animpressive row of windows taller than several men, with little half-moonsof stained glass at the top, which face the Gothic grandeur of the Library ofMedicine, its proximity the subject of innumerable wry remarks concerning a dryadologist’s susceptibility to strange injuries. In one corner is a bronzeurn filled with salt—campus legend has it this began as a joke, but many awhey-faced undergraduate has visited this vessel to stuff their pockets aftersitting through their first lecture on wights. Not that there is much to worryabout, as we do not ordinarily have Folk wandering into the department tohear what we mortals are saying about them (Wendell excepted). The thickrugs scattered on the floor must be trodden on with care, for they are lumpyfrom the coins stuffed beneath them. Like the salt, this tradition most likelyoriginated as a humourous diversion rather than any serious design to wardthe Folk away from our halls, and has now largely devolved into a sort ofgood-luck ritual, with students pressing a ha’penny into the floor before anexam or dissertation. (Less superstitious young scholars have also beenknown to raid this lowly hoard for pub money.)Shadow gave a happy grunt when we stepped outside—he is ordinarily aquiet dog—and plunged into the sunlit grass, snuffling about for snails andother edibles.I followed at a more sedate walk, enjoying the sun on my face, as wellas the cool edge to the wind that heralded the coming autumn. Just past themain dryadology building was the ivy-clad magnificence of the Library ofDryadology, which overlooks a lawn dotted with trees known in this part ofBritain as faerie favourites, yew and willow. Several students were nappingbeneath the largest of these, a great hoary willow believed (erroneously, I’mafraid) to be the home of a sleeping leprechaun, who will one day awakenand stuff the pockets of the nearest slumberer he encounters with gold.I felt a pleasant sense of kinship as I passed into the shadow of thatlibrary. I can hear Wendell mocking me for having familial feelings for alibrary, but I don’t care; it’s not as if he reads my personal journals, thoughhe is not above teasing me for continuing the journalling habit after we leftLjosland. I seem unable to quit it; I find it greatly helps me organize mythoughts.I continued to gaze at the library as the path rounded a corner—unwisely, as it happened, for I collided with a man walking in the oppositedirection, so forcefully I nearly lost my footing. “I’m so sorry,” I began, but the man only rudely waved my apologyaway. He was holding a great quantity of ribbons in his hands, which heseemed to be in the process of tying together.“Have you any more?” he demanded. “These won’t be enough.”“I’m afraid not,” I replied cautiously. The man was dressed oddly for theweather, in a long, fur-lined cloak and tremendous boots extending to hisknees. In addition to the ribbons in his hands, he had a long chain of themlooped multiple times round his neck, and more spilling from his pockets.They were a highly eclectic assemblage, varied in both colour and size.Between the ribbons and his considerable height, the man had the look of amaypole given human form. He was perhaps in the latter stages of middleage, with mostly brown hair a shade or two lighter than his skin, as ifbleached by the elements, and a scraggly white beard.“They won’t be enough for what?” I enquired.The man gave me the most inexplicable glare. There was somethingfamiliar about that look that I could not put my finger on, though I wascertain I had never met this strange person before. I felt a shiver glide alongmy neck like the brush of a cold fingertip.“The path is eternal,” he said. “But you mustn’t sleep—I made thatmistake. Turn left at the ghosts with ash in their hair, then left at theevergreen wood, and straight through the vale where my brother will die. Ifyou lose your way, you will lose only yourself, but if you lose the path, youwill lose everything you never knew you had.”I stared at him. The man only looked down at his ribbons with an air ofdismissing me and continued on his way. Of course I turned to see whichdirection he went, and was only mildly surprised to find that he haddisappeared.“Hm!” I grunted. “What do you think of that, my love?”Shadow, though, had taken little interest in the man; he was presentlyeyeing a magpie that had descended to the lawn to yank at a worm. I filedthe encounter away and continued across the leafy campus grounds.— perches on the bank of the River Camadjacent to Pendleigh Bridge. It is a fifteen-minute walk from our offices,and if it were up to me, we would eat somewhere more convenientlysituated, but he is very particular about breakfast and claims that theArchimedes Café—it adjoins the mathematics department—is the onlyplace that knows the proper way to poach eggs.As usual, Wendell was easy to locate; his golden hair drew the eye like abeacon, glinting intermittently as the wind tossed the branches to and fro.He was seated at our usual table beneath the cherry tree, his elegant framefolded into a slump with his elbow on the table and his forehead pressedagainst his hand. I suppressed a smile.“Good morning,” I chirped, not bothering to keep the smugness out ofmy voice. I had timed it well, for the table had recently been filled; thebacon and eggs were steaming, as was the coffee in Wendell’s cup.“Dear Emily,” he said as I sat down, not troubling to lift his head fromhis hand but smiling at me slantwise. “You look as if you’ve come from awrestling match with one of your books. May I ask who won?”I ignored this. “Something peculiar happened on the way here,” I said,and described my encounter with the mysterious ribbons man.“Perhaps my stepmother has finally decided to send her assassins afterme,” he said in a voice that was more disdainful than anything, as if therewere something unfashionable about the business of assassins.Of course I didn’t bother pointing out that the stranger had notmentioned Wendell nor seemed in any way connected to him or hisproblems, knowing this would fall on deaf ears, and merely said, “He didn’tseem very threatening.”“Perhaps he was a poisoner. Most poisoners are strange, irritable things,with a great fondness for talking in riddles. It must be all that hunching overmeasurements, breathing in fumes.” He eyed his coffee morosely, thendumped another scoop of sugar in and tossed the whole thing back.I filled a plate for Shadow with eggs and sausages and set it under thetable, where the dog happily settled himself, then slung the knapsack casually over the back of my chair. Wendell continued to take no notice ofthe powerful faerie artefact I had brought with me to breakfast, which Ifound entertaining. “Do you notice that smell?” I said innocently as I againcaught the scent of wildflowers emanating from no particular direction.“Smell?” He was scratching Shadow’s ears. “Are you trying out aperfume? If so, I’m afraid it’s been overwhelmed by your usual aroma ofinkwells and libraries.”“I didn’t mean me,” I said a little too loudly.“What then? My senses are utterly incapacitated by this damnedheadache.”“I don’t think that’s how it works,” I said, amused. Only a little, though;he really did look like death. His ordinarily rosy skin had a greyish pallor,his dark eyes underscored with shadows. He mumbled somethingunintelligible as he rubbed his forehead, tangling the golden locks that hadfallen into his eyes. I suppressed the familiar urge to reach out and brushthem back into place.“I have to say I’ve never understood this annual ritual of poisoningoneself,” I said. “Where’s the appeal? Shouldn’t a birthday be an enjoyableaffair?”“I believe mortals wish to blot out the reminder of their inexorablyapproaching demise. I just got a bit carried away—bloody Byers and hisdrinking games. And then they brought out a cake—or was it two cakes?Anyway, never again.”I smiled. Despite Wendell’s habit of complaining of fatigue, sore feet,and a myriad of other ailments—generally when confronted by thenecessity of hard work—it’s rare to see him in any actual distress, and onsome level I found it gratifying. “I managed to mark my thirtieth—as wellas my thirty-first last month—without drinking myself into stupefaction. Itis possible.”“You also retired at nine o’clock. Reid, Thornthwaite, and the rest of uscelebrated your birthday longer than you did. Yours is only a differentcategory of excess, Em.” Something—perhaps a twitch in one of the faeriefoot’s toes—must have finally alerted him to my knapsack, for his bleary gaze snagged upon it suspiciously. “What have you got in there? And whatis all this smirking about? You’re up to something.”“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, pressing my lips together tocontain said smirk.“Have you gotten yourself enchanted again? Must I begin plottinganother rescue?”I glared. I’m afraid I have not gotten over my resentment of him forsaving me from the snow king’s court in Ljosland earlier this year, and havemade a solemn vow to myself that I shall be the one to rescue him fromwhatever faerie trouble we next find ourselves in. Yes, I realize this isillogical, given that it requires Wendell to end up in some dire circumstance,which would ideally best be avoided, but there it is. I’m quite determined.“I’ll explain everything tomorrow,” I said. “For now, let us say that Ihave had a breakthrough in my research. I am planning to make apresentation out of it.”“A presentation?” He looked amused. “To an audience of one. Can younot do anything without waving around a pointer and a stack of diagrams?”“An audience of two,” I said. “I suppose I must invite Ariadne, mustn’tI?”“She would be put out if you didn’t.”I stabbed my knife into the butter and applied it to my toast inunnecessarily sharp strokes. Ariadne is my brother’s eldest daughter. Shearrived at Cambridge for the summer term with a deep-rooted love fordryadology, which my brother, unsurprisingly, has added to the extensivelist of items he holds against me. Only nineteen, she is easily the brighteststudent I have ever taught, with an impressive alacrity for getting what shewants, whether it be a research assistantship, after-hours tutoring, or accessto the faculty-only section of the Library of Dryadology, where we keep ourrarest texts, half of which are enchanted. I’m afraid that her habit ofreminding me how frequently she writes to Thomas has more to do withthis than her powers of persuasion; much as I tell myself I could hardly careless about my brother’s opinion of me—he is a full twelve years my senior,and my opposite in every way—I cannot help picturing his frowning face whenever she mentions their correspondence, and would, on the whole,prefer not to provide him with additional points for his list.“Is this about my door?” A youthful hope enlivened Wendell’s drawnface.“Of course,” I said. “I only regret it’s taken this long to develop aworkable theory. But I’ll reveal all tomorrow. I have a few more details topin down—and anyway you have two lectures this afternoon.”“Don’t remind me.” He buried his forehead in his hand again. “After Iget through them—if I get through them—I am going home and buryingmyself in pillows until this bloody pounding ceases.”I nudged the bowl of oranges in his direction. He seemed to have eatenlittle, which is unlike him. He took one, peeled it, then gazed at it a momentbefore setting it aside.“Here,” I said, handing him my buttered toast. He was able to force thisdown, at least, and it seemed to settle his stomach somewhat, enough totackle the eggs I spooned onto his plate.“Where would I be without you, Em?” he said.“Probably still flailing about in Germany, looking for your door,” I said.“Meanwhile, I would be sleeping more soundly without a marriage proposalfrom a faerie king dangling over my head.”“It would cease to dangle if you accepted.” He rested his hand over mineand teasingly ran his thumb over my knuckles. “Shall I write you an essayon the subject? I can provide an extensive list of reasons to acquiesce.”“I can imagine,” I said drily. A slow shiver travelled up my arm. “Andwhat would be the first? That I shall enjoy an eternity of clean floors anddust-free bookshelves, as well as a constant refrain of nagging to pick upafter myself?”“Ah, no. It would be that our marriage would stop you from charging offinto the wilderness in search of other faerie kings to marry, without firstchecking if they are made of ice.”I made a grab for his coffee cup—I did not actually intend to empty itinto his lap, though I could not be blamed if my hand had happened to slip —but he had already snatched it away, a motion too quick for my mortalreflexes to counter.“That is unfair,” I complained, but he only laughed at me.We have fallen into this pattern of jesting over his marriage proposal,though it is clear he is no less serious about it, as he has informed me moretimes than I care to count. For my part, I wish I could see the whole thing ina humourous light—I have indeed lost sleep over it. My stomach is in knotseven as I write these words, and in general I prefer to avoid thinking aboutthe whole business so as not to be sent into a minor panic. It is in part, Isuppose, that the thought of marrying anyone makes me wish to retreat tothe nearest library and hide myself among the stacks; marriage has alwaysstruck me as a pointless business, at best a distraction from my work and atworst a very large distraction from my work coupled with a lifetime oftedious social obligations.But I am also keenly aware that I should have refused Wendell long ago,and that allowing him to hope like this is cruel. I do not wish to be cruel toWendell; the thought gives rise to a strange and unpleasant sensation, as ifthe air is being squeezed from my body. But the reality is that one wouldhave to be an utter idiot to marry one of the Folk. There are perhaps ahandful of stories in which such a union ends well and a mountain of themin which it ends in madness or an untimely and unpleasant death.I am also, of course, constantly aware of the ridiculousness of my beingthe object of a marriage offering by a faerie monarch.“Give me a hint at least,” he said after we had spent several minutesattending to our food.“Not until you’ve made a start on that essay.”“Much as I appreciate that you cannot stop thinking of marrying me,” hesaid, “I was referring to this breakthrough of yours. Have you narroweddown the possible locations of my door?”“Ah.” I put my crêpe down. “Yes. Although, as my research points tomany possible locations, it would be more accurate to say that I have landedupon one that seems particularly promising. How familiar are you with thework of Danielle de Grey?”
