from the desk of Wendell Bambleby

currently incredibly charmed by dr emily wilde <3

Or perhaps very clever, come to think of it. Ruby always seemed to underestimate the difficulty people have with finding ways around her rules, fair folk and mortals alike.

She shook her head, keeping a running tally of each question he asked. Truly, he was only making things worse for himself. "No, good Sir, you misunderstand. Every question's answer comes with a price, not a bartered trade."

"Little as you like it, you are now much in my debt. A veritable shopping list. Shall I recite it to you?" The moonstones, of course, but now a polished silver coin, two stolen rings, a clever riddle, and so on and so forth. Some far more easily gotten than others, but then again, some of his questions were far simpler to answer. It was frustrating, perhaps, but not unfair. Ruby never demanded too much of those seeking knowledge -- even those as clearly irritated as the man before her.

Every question's answer comes with a price, not a bartered trade.

The professor inhales a long breath, holds it at the top, and then exhales it through his nose. It is always best to not lose one's temper in a library. "Then, madam, it's a solace that you haven't answered a single one of them. I would ask if I am allowed to make general conversation with you in the form of questions, but I will not. You must be awfully fun at parties, through I do suspect it rare that you are invited to one."

Dr. Bambleby stands, opting instead to lean with his hands braced against the chair back. "I am a very busy man with very little time for tomfoolery. I am not in your debt. You are in mine. I will allow you to keep your book and I will enact my debt in the near future as discussed or I can put your tome back on the shelf and add an enchantment prohibiting you from accessing it. I would ask you if you'd be keen on testing my enchantments, but I will not because the only correct answer would be, of course, that you'd be a damn fool to."

"just... been in search of a new hobby for myself. my life has had far too many things going on lately. i needed a distraction." and though jude understands that might open up the door further for him to ask questions, she thinks she does a good enough job of sounding resigned that he'd be polite enough not to ask. ( if he was as polite as he presented himself, that is ). "i'm still working on it. the most i've been doing is reading up on foraging, to be honest."

her grip on the dagger tightens once he begins to inspect the grassy area she'd just risen from, fighting back the urge to do something that would make the entire situation even more difficult for her. jude was in no mood to bury a body.

As much as he would like to pry, he resigns himself to simply nodding at the sentiment. He could understand the need for a distraction, to keep one's time and mind occupied while all else goes to shite. Been there, done that. Got tenure while he was at it. "Then I wish you all the best in your foraging. I hope you become the most skilled of foragers."

Just as her grip tightens on her dagger, a black feline slinks out from the bushes and moves to sit in front of him, just within reach for a scratch behind her ears. He obliges and she walks in a figure eight, headbutting his hand in an attempt to prolong his petting, until she finally opts to curl up at his feet and stare unblinkingly at the trespassing forager with unnaturally golden eyes. "Orga, meet our new friend --. Well, I haven't caught her name, but I suppose that will come in time."

He could almost hear Emily snorting at the sentiment. He doesn't argue the point, instead giving a half shrug. God forbid a woman has interests.

Absolutely beautiful work by @imjenndove on Instagram. We have so few danger/action moments drawn so far for the Emily Wilde series and this was probably my #1 wish to see someday. Wow.

he was talkative. great. just what jude did not need from a stranger at the moment. so long as he didn't notice what exactly she surreptitiously placed into her pouch, perhaps she would be able to get out of the conversation easily. unless... "i just grabbed the first suitable thing i saw. i'm not used to foraging for anything at all, really." jude makes her tone lighter, less rigid, in an effort to make herself sound more like taryn. she hates to make her sister a scapegoat, but taryn did owe her for a lot of things. if she got into trouble on her behalf, they could just call it even.

"What changed?" he asks, clearly not intending to let her get out of this conversation so easily. "To make you decide to take up foraging, that is. And in such a hurry that you opted for a knife over a trowel! Though I will admit that if I were in a position where I required immediate use of a trowel, I too would be completely inept at finding one."

Perhaps he shouldn't be stalling her with his questions, now that he thinks of it. He can tell she doesn't want to chat with him, no matter how curious he is about this development on this otherwise dull diplomatic foray of his.

"That's the one!" Niamh had told her about Shakespeare, and described his Queen Titania as the fairest of Faerie queens with a meddlesome husband Oberon. Áine would of course never put up with such disrespect from a consort but that was besides the point.

"Perhaps he has, perhaps Titania and Oberon were inspired by one of our ancestors." She reached for her brother's hands and squeezed them gently.

"And what about this dress of yours will conjure the spirit of Queen Titania?" he asks, giving her hands a squeeze. "Well, I'd much rather be related to her than Puck!"

Liath has always been fascinated by Niamh's stories of the mortal realm, with its strange customs and cultures. The fact that they have an entire field of study dedicated to them? That their home was considered to be one of the most dangerous places a mortal could travel to? He'd laughed when she'd said it and laughed harder when she said no mortal had ever returned from Where the Trees Have Eyes. Why, of course! Why would she ever want to leave?

"Unfortunately best dressed is subjective and eyes likely won't be on me, but... Yes, I think I will be the best dressed gentleman. You're right, as always." He's certain he'll be upstaged by one of their brothers purely due to to how they're older and not lanky teenagers so far back in the order of succession that they're barely worth a second thought.

“Those are not questions so easily answered.” The item she now held was a facsimile, a magically-conjured shadow of a tome written by human hands. It existed long before the original, and will exist long after it crumbles to dust. This false book came from her library, true, but from where the book originated was another matter altogether.

None of which she could say, of course, as it was all locked up in her throat, unable to be spoken without a fair exchange. “Three moonstones burning with ice-cold fire should do it.”

"Good Lord." Bambleby plops down in the seat opposite her dramatically, leaning back and pinching the bridge of his nose. "One step forward, two steps back is it? Not everything must be an amenable bargain. I gave you your book, I gave you a name, and now you're demanding moonstones? My God, woman. Does that not seem rather excessive? I am trying to have a genuine conversation with you, but you're making it rather difficult. I don't plan on being in your debt simply because I'd like to know what it is I've so graciously gathered for you."

He's on a roll now and in a proper bad mood as evidenced by how he's folded his arms across his chest as he glares down at the book. "Forget it. I don't particularly care about your strange, off-putting volume. I've completed my end of our bargain of retrieving it for you and I don't need to know its entire story." He shouldn't have asked in the first place. He was more interested in her strangeness than the book's.

Three moonstones burning with ice-cold fire. It isn't as though he's got those just laying about Cambridge. "How quickly are you expecting me to conjure up your moonstones? If I am to agree to acquire you moonstones burning with ice-cold fire, will you start answering all my questions? If I am to go out of my way to obtain someone most would consider a feat, I expect the terms to be equal."

The chemistry department surely has dry ice and there's opals for sale at a shop at the edge of town. He'll set them on fire himself before her very eyes if she's inclined to like spectacle.

"Of course you weren't, Liath." Áine smiled sweetly, he was fishing for compliments on his work, which of course was beautiful. She'd expect nothing less from her little brother.

"Of course I'm going to outdo you all, would you expect anything less?" She was their father's eldest, she could easily be queen one day, her dress for the ball would befit her role as a possible heir to the throne.

"Right." He smooths the front of his waistcoat, fingers ghosting over the silver thread he'd used to embroider a bluebell motif.

One would think the gossip about how the youngest royal took more after his maternal grandmother than the rest of his siblings would one day grow stale. He's done his best to ignore their whispers for years, but then he goes and disappears into his pristine rooms with only an needle and thread for company...

No, not just a needle and thread. Orga's somehow sensed his melancholy and has began to circle his lets in a shadowy figure eight, headbutting his calves for good measure.

Maude reappeared in the doorway a heartbeat later. Her critical gaze swept over the room, taking in Wendell’s agitation, the stained chair, the soapy rag dripping onto the floor. Her expression grew wearier than ever. She could guess what happened.

“Every day I wish I could hurl that thing down a well more and more,” she muttered. “Don’t fret over washing anything. I’ll handle it later.” Along with the broken door. And the claw marks on the wall.

Half-hidden behind her, Bran peered around her arm, curious about the commotion despite the pallor of his face. Both hands grasped his mug of tea before his chest, appreciating it more as something warm and stable to hold than something to drink.

Maude guided Bran to a clean chair before leaning against a wall across the room, taking a sip from her own mug, too restless to sit again. Moreover, this spot gave her a better view of both Wendell and Bran.

Bran sat and set his mug on the table, shaky fingers still wrapped around it. He found it easier to stare at his tea than meet Wendell’s eye. “Are you alright?” A tentative question. His gaze flitted to the professor for confirmation. “It didn’t hurt you? The hound?”

He wonders how Feld would look stuffed. He could have him posed with a tiny teacup in his claw and with a little bonnet on his head. That would be the perfect revenge, wouldn't it?

When Maude reenters the kitchen, Wendell is obsessively scrubbing the chair and mumbling to himself angrily. For perhaps the very first time he looks disheveled, with his jaw clenched and a mop of hair in his eyes. "I can't not fret about it. I need..." Damn bird and it's damn mess and damn him and his ancestry making him so damn obsessive about cleanliness. "No, please I'll make it right or else I'll go insane because..." He finally glances up to see the boy poking his head around her and stops his scrubbing. He'll have to finish his task later.

He takes a seat in the chair he'd been cleaning, sitting on the edge of it to avoid staining his clothing with whatever remained of the bird's dirty mess. Wendell thought it best not to mention that the chair had made him less alright than the appearance of the hound, especially with Feld lingering in the walls and most certainly eavesdropping on their conversation.

"I'm quite alright and I'm very glad it didn't get to you, despite how desperately it tried. I don't think it expected to have to go through me. It's always nice to have the element of surprise." A pause. "And a sword. Can't forget about that."