Page 89 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

“Certainly, that would make sense,” Simon agreed, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, please do ask your questions. I will do my best to answer them.”

The faerie woman frowned for a long while, scrutinising him closely. Eventually, the elf with the rose cravat gestured at her impatiently. “You meant to ask something,” he reminded her.

The faerie woman narrowed her eyes. “Yes,” she said finally. “I wanted to know… what if I have three questions? Do I raise my foot, as well?”

“We are supposed to be a normal English class, Miss Catastrophe,” the elf said, sighing heavily. “Professor Everly teaches about faeries, and so your questions should be about us.”

“I never agreed to such a game!” the faerie woman shot back. “I shall ask any questions I please!”

Simon lifted a tentative hand, as though preparing to regain control of his unruly class – but Emma interjected quickly, before he could make the attempt.

“Professor Everly might be from England,” she said loudly, “but he currently teaches at the College of Wales. As such, you really ought to be Welsh students!”

“Welsh?” the elf repeated worriedly. “But I haven’t spoken any Welsh in three hundred years! All of my vocabulary would be out of date!”

“Oh, would you come off it!” Miss Catastrophe slurred back. “This is a terrible idea. The snow women don’t know any Welsh at all – they won’t be able to participate!”

Simon blinked again several times, obviously overwhelmed by the fresh argument that had started up among the faeries. Emma, meanwhile, took swift advantage of the chaos in order to grab his arm, dragging him firmly through the door to the next train car.

“I was rather in the midst of a lecture,” Simon protested faintly. “I was specifically invited for the purpose—”

He cut himself off with a sudden hacking cough, as they found themselves outside in that ugly green haze. Emma lifted his arm to cover his nose and mouth. She pointed emphatically across the gap, at the next train car.

Simon tried to turn back – but she held on to him stubbornly, pointing once again. Finally, he seemed to decide that following instructions was more likely to get them both out of the elements. He hopped the small gap, scrabbling awkwardly for purchase on the other side.

Emma followed after him, quickly lunging for the door to the next car.

The train car they soon entered was swathed in an impenetrable white fog. Compared to the light green haze outside, it was cool and soothing against Emma’s abraded skin. She closed the door behind them, leaning heavily against it.

“I am… well aware of why it is you are here,” Emma rasped at Simon. “Though admittedly, it took me far too long to piece the situation together. Professor Carew was almost no help whatsoever; he couldn’t even recall which part of Faerie you’d gone off to visit. I had to deduce it from your notes.” She drew in a deep breath, allowing the cool fog to soothe her lungs before she managed to speak again. “And your handwriting, Simon. It’s simply illegible. You should know, going forward, that your life might have hinged upon how badly you write the letter ‘u’.”

Simon rubbed at his face, obviously disoriented in more ways than one. “I haven’t—” he stammered. “That is – I don’t believe I caught your name. How do you know Professor Carew? And… you’ve seen my notes?”

Emma took his arm again gently, leading him deeper into the car. More silver benches glimmered on either side of them as they walked, barely visible within the soupy mist. The passengers sitting upon them made for dark, ominous figures, blurred into formless shadows by the environment.

“You know me very well, Simon,” she murmured, lowering her voice. “Oh… bother. I fear I haven’t any time to be gentle with the truth. How long do you believe you have been on this train?”

Heads turned as they passed, and Emma realised that they were drawing too much interest. She shoved Simon onto an empty bench and sat herself down beside him.

Simon glanced over at her sharply. With his arm still in hers, he was close enough for Emma to see the slow, dawning horror in his warm brown eyes. “I am sure that I have only been here for a few hours,” he whispered. “Four stops? Maybe five.”

Emma shook her head. “Perhaps it has only been that long for you,” she said gently. “But it has been five years for me since the day that you disappeared. Of all people, I expect you are familiar with the way that time can move in Faerie.”

Simon froze. For a long moment, in fact, he did not breathe at all. Had they all the time in the world, of course, Emma would have tried to console him; the idea of losing five years in the space of a few hours would have been enough to distress anyone. But naturally, time was the one thing that they did not have.

“Simon?” Emma prompted him softly. After another heartbeat, she took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Please do say something. Anything at all.”

Simon started and sucked in a breath. His eyes widened abruptly. “Em,” he whispered. “My God, it’s you. Little Emmeline Hawthorne.”

The word ‘little’ needled at Emma’s pride. It wasn’t the first time he had used the word to describe her – but the hint of patronisation seemed particularly rich, given the circumstances. “I was never little, Simon,” she snapped. “Not since you’ve known me, in any case. You do realise we are nearly the same age now?”

Simon blanched. He had not realised any such thing, of course. Assuming that they made it off the train, he would be forced to confront the implications of his lost years over and over again for quite some time to come.

Presently, however, a strange expression overcame Simon’s angular features. An analytical light came into his brown eyes, and he tightened his hand on hers with an odd belligerence. “Of course,” he said. “I expected some manner of trick when I first came aboard. I see your cloak – it is distinctive. Faerie-woven, unless I miss my guess. You are some thing pretending to be Emmeline, aren’t you?”

Emma blinked at him. “Oh dear,” she said. “Must you choose now to be suspicious? I borrowed this cloak from old Angharad. It’s been in her family for ages; she swore that it was faerie-made. I hoped that the faeries here would mistake me for one of them if I were wearing it. So far, it seems to have served.”

Simon pressed his lips together. His intuition had almost certainly told him by now that she was, indeed, his good friend Isaac’s overly chatty younger sister. But a certain desperation had taken advantage of his academic scepticism in order to justify his horrified denial.