Page 14 of Whisper of Nightmares

“No matter,” Kelda says, cutting her short with a flick of her hand as she leans onto the table. “What do you have here? It’s been a long day, and I could use a warm meal.”

Euphemia is momentarily disoriented, the conversation jostling her like an autumn leaf. But she has served far too many patrons for this line of questioning not to come as naturally to her as breathing. “Stews on the fire. Pies in the oven. Breads a bit stale, but edible if you’ve got teeth strong enough to bite bricks.”

Kelda’s mouth quirks. “Bricks it is, then. Though I wouldn’t mind some stew to go along with it and soften it up.”

Euphemia nods and leaves to retrieve the food. When she returns, she places the bowl on the table. Kelda’s eyes snag on her scarred hand.

Kelda’s head bobs at it. “What happened? Lose a fight with the hearth?”

Jerking her arm away, Euphemia tucks it close to her chest. “I-is there anything else I can get you?”

Kelda’s gaze lingers a bit longer. Her eyes lift from Euphemia’s guarded hand to her even more guarded face. She won’t find nothing there. Euphemia will make sure of it. She buries the painful memory in the deepest, darkest hole in her mind. Somewhere this woman cannot find it, no matter how much she stares.

Eventually, Kelda’s attention falls back to her food. She dunks the slice of bread into her stew and blows at the steam. “This should do for now. You have my gratitude, Euphemia.”

Hearing her name on this woman’s lips is enough to churn her stomach. Already, she’s too intimate with them, and yet they know nothing of her.

Kelda reaches into her pocket, and slides coin across the table.

Euphemia is uneasy on her feet as she reaches for it. But then she blinks, disbelief overcoming her sense of unsteadiness. There are five pence here.

“That’s—this is far too much for bread and stew,” Euphemia says. But deep down, her suspicions are vindicated. This is precisely the proof she was searching for. This woman is not who she is pretending to be. She might wear the clothes of a commoner, but only the wealthy would overpay and flaunt their coin so blatantly.

Kelda’s brows wrinkle. “You do have a room available still, don’t you?”

Conviction whooshes out of her like a strong wind. Euphemia squeezes her eyes shut. “Right. A room. Yes. We prepared one for you earlier actually.” Grabbing the coins, Euphemia shoves them into her apron. “When you’ve finished eating, just wave one of us down and we can show you to your room.”

Kelda smiles, something unsettling about it. “Thank you. That should be all for now then.”

Euphemia turns to leave but stops. Something keeps itching the back of her skull. No matter how much she tries to let it go, how much she tells herself her suspicions are not warranted, she cannot let them go. Because the truth is, she might be the only one apprehensive about this woman’s arrival—on a day like today, it’s normal for strangers of all kinds to come to town. No one will look at her twice.

But Euphemia can’t take any chances.

Something is wrong with this woman. Her presence. Her lingering gazes. Her questions.

If she is here with nefarious intentions, then it is Euphemia’s duty to find out why. It’s the only way to keep her remaining family safe. But how?

Euphemia only has a few skills at her disposal. And although she doesn’t think brewing will come in handy here, she knows how to tend to patrons. The conversations expected of her to help them feel welcomed. The questions she must ask to feign interest in their lives.

And one of those questions could serve her now.

Euphemia spins back around. “Where is it you said you came from by the way?”

“Never mentioned it,” Kelda says around a mouthful of bread.

Euphemia feels her teeth trying to grind together, but she will not let this woman win. She forces that practiced smile. “I’d love to hear about it. We don’t get to leave town much and I’m always curious to hear about where everyone is coming from.”

Kelda drops the last of her bread into the bowl. She leans back in her chair, staring up at Euphemia as if she can see right through the lie. And for a moment, Euphemia starts to repent, screaming into her mind, begging for God’s forgiveness. I’m sorry for lying. I’m sorry for being distrusting of a guest. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m⁠—

“I am from up north.” Each word is spoken like a challenge as Kelda crosses her arms, and leans farther back. “Thorfell Crag, to be exact.”

“Thorfell Crag…” Euphemia breathes the words tasting like rugged terrain and rain-filled clouds. But the place only distantly rings any bells. Which Euphemia takes to mean that Kelda likely traveled quite the distance to reach them.

During a civil war.

Across country.

Alone.