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Wendell was not feeling well – he hadn’t been for the past two days, when Emily reminded him she’d be gone until next spring to some snowbound village in Norway – Hrafvsnik, if he remembered correctly. It sounded dreadful, really, if she’d asked him. But she hadn't, of course she hadn’t. Emily had only barreled about the ice-crusted faeries that lived there, and the many gaps that existed in the literature about the Hidden Ones, during one of those rare occasions Wendell convinced her to have breakfast with him.
And as much as he enjoyed breakfast and lunching and dining, he suspected that perhaps the reason for his ailments were that it was already two o’clock and he’d only had a coffee. He’d been picking at a piece of pie he’d brought with him from his apartment since the morning, though, but eating alone felt rather unappetizing. It really wasn’t a wonder why he wasn’t feeling well. Wendell sighed, for what seemed like the fifth time in the last quarter of an hour.
He knew he had to prepare for a graduate seminar, something about water-born brownies in Sweden, he wasn’t sure, but he knew Emily had written a paper about them some years back. Wendell chuckled, remembering her tale of woe about the sinking boat she had recounted to him when she got back from that field study.
Oh, what he’d give to hear the clack-clacking of the typewriter from across the hall.
His office door was wide open, if only to stare at Emily’s closed one, only mildly annoyed by the faculty and students walking down the hall, inconveniently disturbing his gazing at her door.
“Staring at her office door won’t bring Wilde back any sooner, Bambleby.” Professor Byers taunted, as he walked down the hall, waking Wendell from his daydreaming. The professor laughed, “Bless that woman, though. She’s the only one of the younger faculty with a head straight enough on her shoulders so as to not be enamoured by you.”
Wendell frowned, “That’s hardly fair, Byers, I’ve heard stories of you in your youth.” It really wasn’t fair, though. Sure, Wendell enjoyed a night of revelry every now and then, and he’d become intimately acquainted with some of the female faculty in the literature and arts departments, but he was only a man. It didn’t take a genius to know that Emily had never responded to any of his affections, but he suspected that Emily may not even be aware of his affections.
Byers, now leaning on the door, only laughed at Wendell’s retort, “As you said, Bambleby, stories of my youth. Listen, you have as much of a chance with Wilde as she has of not getting that tenure position that’s opening up. So maybe don’t waste your time being lovesick at a door, buddy.” Wendell groaned, burying his head in his hands, which earned him another laugh from Byers, “I’ll see you later, Bambleby. Get a pint at the pub for me tonight, will ya?”
Get a pint, Wendell thought, almost scoffing at his now-gone colleague. The last time they’d been out drinking together, he made the fatal mistake of confessing his affections for Emily to his colleague. His friend, really, as Byers and him had grown amicable throughout the years.
Wendell sighed, resting his chin on his hand as he ignored his colleague’s advice and continued to stare at her door. This time, he picked up a pencil, absent-mindedly sketching the sight he longed to see.
He still remembered the first time Emily had introduced him as her friend, not her colleague some time ago when they were journeying towards a conference together. His heart fluttered, only a little, as he continued sketching. It had taken him nearly ten years to go from colleague to friend, and he desperately wondered how long it might take to go from friend to husband.
If Wendell had no hopes for finding a door to his realm, his only consolation was perhaps a quiet life in the mortal world with Emily by his side, growing old together. Perhaps it was ridiculous – no, it definitely was ridiculous, but strolling around Cambridge with Emily reminded him of his realm, only in that the trees seemed brighter, the flowers blooming and the grass greener. It was the closest he’d felt to being back home, to livening the fields with wildlife with a simple gesture from his hand.
If only she’d let him come closer to her.
Wendell sighed again and wondered if Byers was right. Emily would never have him if she learned of his identity, it would be out of the question entirely. He could almost hear her saying something about academic rigour and objectivity in the field. But, he also knew that if there was any scholar out there who might be able to help him find his door, it was none other than Emily Wilde, studious hard worker extraordinaire.
He wondered if Emily had arrived at that horrid, freezing place already, and whether she had been engulfed by mountains of snow already. However had she decided to venture on to the field, this particular field, on her own? Scrunching his nose, Wendell thought, rather, how anybody would willingly go to a place so unwelcomingly frigid. There were folk everywhere, so why Norway, of all places?
Wendell sighed, again, and he started to think that perhaps this was a little too pathetic for him. Emily had been gone before, and so had he. In fact, Wendell left more often than she did, for conferences and whatnots. So really, it was nonsensical that he was missing her so much when she’d been gone for less than two full days. She’d never left for this long, however, and that was what troubled him. How was he to get through the remainder of the fall, winter and spring without her? Wendell put his pen down, glancing more pointedly at the sketch, his eyes finally unhinging from her door.
And finally, instead of sighing for the millionth time like a desolate, lovelorn teenager, Wendell smiled at his rendering of Emily. Beautifully dishevelled hair that never stayed put, which Wendell adored, not only because it helped him imagine what waking up next to Emily might be like, but because of how vividly it moved in person; her large, deep-set and intelligent eyes, always focused on her research at hand but no doubt her mind already thinking of her next endeavours. He had never met anybody whose intelligence made them even more strikingly beautiful.
But no, something was not right, and perhaps Wendell felt a bit mischievous when he grabbed his eraser to exaggerate the fiendish expression he was all too familiar with. There, that was his Emily.
A whole hour had gone by in lovesickness, which meant that Wendell grabbed his materials to head to the seminar room. It was then that Wendell realized that perhaps Byers was wrong and he simply could not stop falling in love with Emily any more than he already was. If there was any woman worth having his heart break over and over, it was her.
So, as he approached the classroom, the decision had already been made in his head. But golly, he’d never venture on such an expedition on his own. He’d need to write to Farris, of course, ask Byers or Thornthwaite to take over the seminar, and write to Emily, obviously. He could only imagine the joy she’d feel when she realized she need not be alone when she was inevitably snowed in during her stay in that cold and treacherous place.
Wendell cleared his throat, drawing the attention of his graduate students, “Good afternoon class, I hope you’ve been learning something from our lectures so far, I know it’s only been a month, but something has come up very recently,” He paused, letting the anticipation build across the three rows of students, “It seems I must embark to Norway for a field study, and I require the assistance of two students. You will, of course, be credited as co-authors in the publication that follows the study.”
He could see his students almost twitching with anticipation – being credited as an author in an academic journal was a sure-fire way to launch a successful dryadology career, and Wendell knew it was the only way he’d convince students to go so far north with the winter approaching, “If you’re interested, please raise your hand and I’ll make a note of it. You can come see me in my office after class.”
Almost immediately, all fifteen hands shot up, and Wendell considered the hardest part of his journey complete.