Page 13 of Whisper of Nightmares

And that they might have accidentally invited a wolf into their home.

Chapter 5

Disgraced

The rest of the afternoon, Euphemia spends readying the tavern for guests. She brings the linens in from drying, and remakes the unoccupied beds so they’ll be ready for the influx of merchants who will arrive later. As she works her way through each room upstairs, it isn’t long before the Saint’s Hearth livens with robust conversations and jovial laughter. The ale loosens their tongues, and soon, Euphemia can hear their offensively off-tune melodies ricocheting off the rafters just as she’s finishing with the final bed.

Just as she’s exiting, she also hears a clamber of drunken bodies clashing into one another, their frothing mugs sent clattering to the ground.

Euphemia throws on a brittle smile, and heads downstairs.

The scent of baked bread, boiled onions, and stale beer fills the air.

She spots Cybele and her mother immediately, the two of them already helping the drunken men back to their feet and cleaning up the mess on the floor. The patrons are always a little rowdier on a market day, when they celebrate extra earnings if they were lucky, or drown their sorrows if they weren’t.

But these particular patrons, Euphemia’s familiar with. They visit the Saint’s Hearth nearly every night. And nearly every night they come, Euphemia feels as if she’s walking on eggshells, dodging the daggers glared at her by Thurstan Wardeby, Conwal’s father.

He spies her instantly, and it might be her imagination, but his glare tonight feels fiercer than ever.

Thurstan is righting himself as Andriana helps one of his compatriots back to his feet. The other man is already so inebriated that he can hardly keep his eyes open. Andriana points him toward the exit, and from the top of the stairs, Euphemia can see the whole crew erupt with counterarguments, but she’ll hear none of them. She merely points, waiting. Only after Thurstan shoos the man out does he begrudgingly stagger toward the door.

And then Thurstan is watching Euphemia once more. She feels like a doe frozen before a knocked arrow. Uncertain whether she should remain still or bolt.

The tavern door swings open, and the drunken man who’d been on his way out crashes to the ground again, muttering and cussing the whole way down. Euphemia has never been more relieved for a commotion, for it draws Thurstan’s attention and relieves her from the weight of his glare.

However, as she watches Thurstan cross the room to hoist his man back to his feet, she notices the reason for his tumbling. Someone enters the tavern, uttering an apology that Thurstan waves off. And as the person lowers their hood, Euphemia recognizes her.

The strange woman from the market.

The drunken man mumbles something unkindly toward her and Thurstan aids him out into the darkening night. He’ll be back, of course. But for now, his exit siphons an ocean of tension from the air.

But one wolf has left only for another to enter.

From the stairs, Euphemia watches as the strange woman shuffles toward an empty table. She takes a seat and looks around the room, searching for service, when their eyes meet.

Euphemia curses under her breath. She doesn’t want to speak to this woman any more than she already has. There is something off about her, and Euphemia already has enough off things in her life to contend with.

Then again…

Perhaps having the opportunity to speak with this woman privately might grant Euphemia more insight into her intentions. Maybe then she could find out what’s brought her to Nottinghamshire, what she’s searching for, and why she seems so interested in their family.

Adjusting the apron fastened around her hips, Euphemia marches toward the woman, the whole while digging through her mind to find the name she had provided earlier—it started with a K. Kathryn? Kenza? Kadisa? Euphemia grumbles to herself, wishing she had better aptitude for such things.

Until she finally recalls it.

A northern name.

Kelda Varinsson.

But by the time she reaches Kelda’s table, Euphemia decides to hold onto the name for a moment longer, testing a theory.

“Evening, Goody,” Euphemia uses the informal title with a polite nod, watching the woman for a reaction. But if Kelda is accustomed to being called Mistress or Madame, she gives no indication of surprise or offense. In fact, her keen eyes burrow into Euphemia as if she’s the one who is doing the prodding. It gives Euphemia pause, and although she’d prefer to get straight to the bottom of why Kelda is in town, she opts for a more hospitable approach instead. “Welcome to the Saint’s Hearth. Glad to see you were able to find us alright.”

Kelda huffs a laugh. “Are you now? I was given the distinct impression that you’d rather I not turn up here at all.”

Euphemia’s cheeks flame. It’s such a blunt confrontation, she struggles for a response. All she knows is that if her mother were to overhear them, the punishment would be severe. Under no circumstances are they ever to make someone feel unwanted.

Euphemia forgets her own intentions completely and focuses solely on the role she must play. Dutiful daughter. Helpful barmaid. “I assure you, you have me mistaken. I would never⁠—”