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Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries: Book One of the Emily Wilde Series (Emily Wilde, 1)
A curmudgeonly professor journeys to a small town in the far north to study faerie folklore and discovers dark fae magic, friendship, and love in the start of a heartwarming and enchanting new fantasy series.
"So endlessly enchanting, so rich and complete and wise that you'll walk away half ensorcelled."-Melissa Albert, author of The Hazel Wood
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-or even 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 Hrafnsvik, 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, muddle Emily's research, and utterly confound and frustrate her.
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.
"So endlessly enchanting, so rich and complete and wise that you'll walk away half ensorcelled."-Melissa Albert, author of The Hazel Wood
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-or even 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 Hrafnsvik, 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, muddle Emily's research, and utterly confound and frustrate her.
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.
Editorial Reviews
"A darkly gorgeous fantasy that sparkles with snow and magic, this book wholly enchanted me."-Sangu Mandanna, author of The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches
"A book so vividly, endlessly enchanting . . . It pushed the real world aside in the way of all truly great fantasy novels, and I'm jealous of everyone who gets to read it for the first time."-Melissa Albert, The New York Times bestselling author of the Hazel Wood series
"Forget dark academia: Give me instead this kind of winter-sunshined, sharp-tongued, and footnoted academia, full of field trips and grumpy romance and malevolent faeries. Emily Wilde is a narrator I won't forget in a hurry, and this book was an invigorating balm for my heart and mind."-Freya Marske, author of A Marvellous Light
"A whimsical and enchanting romp that had me quite literally laughing out loud on every page. I enjoyed every word of this gorgeously written fairy tale featuring a grumpy heroine and an utterly charming love interest who constantly surprised me. A new favorite!"-Isabel Ibañez, author of Woven in Moonlight
"Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries charmed me more than any faerie king ever could. Take an imaginative world that perfectly balances the mundane with the fantastical, add the pitch-perfect voice of an intelligent and endearingly unsociable heroine, throw in an indolent yet adorable academic rival with a hidden agenda, and you have the ideal book to curl up with on a chilly winter's evening. This book is an absolute delight."-Megan Bannen, author of The Undertaking of Hart and Mercy
"Enchanting in every sense of the word, Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries is a delight of snow-laden forests and changelings, folklore and faerie kings, meticulous footnotes and academic rivalry and adventure. This book is real magic."-H. G. Parry, author of The Unlikely Escape of Uriah Heep
"Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries is a charmingly whimsical delight, saturated with faerie magic and the equally wonderful magic of humanity. This is going to be one o...
"A book so vividly, endlessly enchanting . . . It pushed the real world aside in the way of all truly great fantasy novels, and I'm jealous of everyone who gets to read it for the first time."-Melissa Albert, The New York Times bestselling author of the Hazel Wood series
"Forget dark academia: Give me instead this kind of winter-sunshined, sharp-tongued, and footnoted academia, full of field trips and grumpy romance and malevolent faeries. Emily Wilde is a narrator I won't forget in a hurry, and this book was an invigorating balm for my heart and mind."-Freya Marske, author of A Marvellous Light
"A whimsical and enchanting romp that had me quite literally laughing out loud on every page. I enjoyed every word of this gorgeously written fairy tale featuring a grumpy heroine and an utterly charming love interest who constantly surprised me. A new favorite!"-Isabel Ibañez, author of Woven in Moonlight
"Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries charmed me more than any faerie king ever could. Take an imaginative world that perfectly balances the mundane with the fantastical, add the pitch-perfect voice of an intelligent and endearingly unsociable heroine, throw in an indolent yet adorable academic rival with a hidden agenda, and you have the ideal book to curl up with on a chilly winter's evening. This book is an absolute delight."-Megan Bannen, author of The Undertaking of Hart and Mercy
"Enchanting in every sense of the word, Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries is a delight of snow-laden forests and changelings, folklore and faerie kings, meticulous footnotes and academic rivalry and adventure. This book is real magic."-H. G. Parry, author of The Unlikely Escape of Uriah Heep
"Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries is a charmingly whimsical delight, saturated with faerie magic and the equally wonderful magic of humanity. This is going to be one o...
Short Excerpt Teaser
20th October, 1909
Hrafnsvik, Ljosland
Shadow is not at all happy with me. He lies by the fire while the chill wind rattles the door, tail inert, staring out 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 me on, this will surely be the death of us. I fear I have to agree, though this makes me no less eager to begin my research.
Herein I intend to provide an honest account of my day-to-day activities in the field as I document an enigmatic species of faerie called "Hidden Ones." This journal serves two purposes: to aid my recollection when it comes time to formally compile my field notes, and to provide a record for those scholars who come after me should I be captured by the Folk. Verba volant, scripta manent. As with previous journals, I will presume a basic understanding of dryadology in the reader, though I will gloss certain references that may be unfamiliar to those new to the field.
I have not had reason to visit Ljosland before, and would be lying if I said my first sighting this morning didn't temper my enthusiasm. The journey takes five days from London, and the only vessel to get you there is a weekly freighter carrying a great variety of goods and a much smaller variety of passengers. We ventured steadily north, dodging icebergs, whilst I paced the deck to keep my seasickness at bay. I was among the first to sight the snowbound mountains rising out of the sea, the little red-roofed village of Hrafnsvik huddled below them like Red Riding Hood as the wolf loomed behind her.
We inched carefully up to the dock, striking it hard once, for the grey waves were fierce. The gangway was lowered by means of a winch operated by an old man with a cigarette clamped nonchalantly between his teeth-how he kept it lit in that wind was a feat so impressive that hours later I found myself thinking back to the glowing ember darting through the sea spray.
I came to the realization that I was the only one disembarking. The captain set my trunk down upon the frosty dock with a thunk, giving me his usual bemused smile, as if I were a joke he only half understood. My fellow passengers, it seemed, few that there were, were headed for the only city in Ljosland-Loabær, the ship's next port of call. I would not be visiting Loabær, for one does not find the Folk in cities, but in the remote, forgotten corners of the world.
I could see the cottage I had rented from the harbour, which astonished me. 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 near the edge of the forest of Karrðarskogur. It was such stark country-every detail, from the jumble of brightly painted cottages to the vivid greenery of the coast to the glaciers lurking on the peaks, was so sharp and solitary, like embroidered threads, that I suspect I could have counted the ravens in their mountain burrows.
The sailors gave Shadow a wide berth as we made our way up the dock. The old boarhound is blind in one eye and lacks the energy for any exercise beyond an ambling walk, let alone tearing out the throats of ill-mannered sailors, but his appearance belies him; he is an enormous creature, black as pitch with bearish paws and very white teeth. Perhaps I should have left him in the care of my brother back in London, but I could not bear to, particularly as he is given to fits of despondency when I am away.
I managed to drag my trunk up the dock and through the village-few were about, being most likely in their fields or fishing boats, but those few stared at me as only rural villagers at the edge of the known world can stare at a stranger. None of my admirers offered help. Shadow, padding along at my side, glanced at them with mild interest, and only then did they look away.
I have seen communities far more rustic than Hrafnsvik, for my career has taken me across Europe and Russia, to villages large and small and wilderness fair and foul. I am used to humble accommodations and humble folk-I once slept in a farmer's cheese shed in Andalusia-but I have never been this far north. The wind had tasted snow, and recently; it pulled at my scarf and cloak. It took some time to haul my trunk up the road, but I am nothing if not persevering.
The landscape surrounding the village was given over to fields. These were not the tidy hillsides I was used to, but riddled with lumps, volcanic rock in haphazard garments of moss. And if that wasn't enough to disorient the eye, the sea kept sending waves of mist over the coastlan...
Hrafnsvik, Ljosland
Shadow is not at all happy with me. He lies by the fire while the chill wind rattles the door, tail inert, staring out 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 me on, this will surely be the death of us. I fear I have to agree, though this makes me no less eager to begin my research.
Herein I intend to provide an honest account of my day-to-day activities in the field as I document an enigmatic species of faerie called "Hidden Ones." This journal serves two purposes: to aid my recollection when it comes time to formally compile my field notes, and to provide a record for those scholars who come after me should I be captured by the Folk. Verba volant, scripta manent. As with previous journals, I will presume a basic understanding of dryadology in the reader, though I will gloss certain references that may be unfamiliar to those new to the field.
I have not had reason to visit Ljosland before, and would be lying if I said my first sighting this morning didn't temper my enthusiasm. The journey takes five days from London, and the only vessel to get you there is a weekly freighter carrying a great variety of goods and a much smaller variety of passengers. We ventured steadily north, dodging icebergs, whilst I paced the deck to keep my seasickness at bay. I was among the first to sight the snowbound mountains rising out of the sea, the little red-roofed village of Hrafnsvik huddled below them like Red Riding Hood as the wolf loomed behind her.
We inched carefully up to the dock, striking it hard once, for the grey waves were fierce. The gangway was lowered by means of a winch operated by an old man with a cigarette clamped nonchalantly between his teeth-how he kept it lit in that wind was a feat so impressive that hours later I found myself thinking back to the glowing ember darting through the sea spray.
I came to the realization that I was the only one disembarking. The captain set my trunk down upon the frosty dock with a thunk, giving me his usual bemused smile, as if I were a joke he only half understood. My fellow passengers, it seemed, few that there were, were headed for the only city in Ljosland-Loabær, the ship's next port of call. I would not be visiting Loabær, for one does not find the Folk in cities, but in the remote, forgotten corners of the world.
I could see the cottage I had rented from the harbour, which astonished me. 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 near the edge of the forest of Karrðarskogur. It was such stark country-every detail, from the jumble of brightly painted cottages to the vivid greenery of the coast to the glaciers lurking on the peaks, was so sharp and solitary, like embroidered threads, that I suspect I could have counted the ravens in their mountain burrows.
The sailors gave Shadow a wide berth as we made our way up the dock. The old boarhound is blind in one eye and lacks the energy for any exercise beyond an ambling walk, let alone tearing out the throats of ill-mannered sailors, but his appearance belies him; he is an enormous creature, black as pitch with bearish paws and very white teeth. Perhaps I should have left him in the care of my brother back in London, but I could not bear to, particularly as he is given to fits of despondency when I am away.
I managed to drag my trunk up the dock and through the village-few were about, being most likely in their fields or fishing boats, but those few stared at me as only rural villagers at the edge of the known world can stare at a stranger. None of my admirers offered help. Shadow, padding along at my side, glanced at them with mild interest, and only then did they look away.
I have seen communities far more rustic than Hrafnsvik, for my career has taken me across Europe and Russia, to villages large and small and wilderness fair and foul. I am used to humble accommodations and humble folk-I once slept in a farmer's cheese shed in Andalusia-but I have never been this far north. The wind had tasted snow, and recently; it pulled at my scarf and cloak. It took some time to haul my trunk up the road, but I am nothing if not persevering.
The landscape surrounding the village was given over to fields. These were not the tidy hillsides I was used to, but riddled with lumps, volcanic rock in haphazard garments of moss. And if that wasn't enough to disorient the eye, the sea kept sending waves of mist over the coastlan...
