Page 173 of Whisper of Nightmares

The magnitude of what the day may bring hangs over them like a storm waiting to break.

They will either lose everything or save it all.

As the carriage pulls up to the assembly hall, Dagfinn finally breaks the silence. “Remember, after today, Percival will be a problem no longer.”

Asvald opens the carriage doors. He helps Kelda and Euphemia out first, Dagfinn waiting behind for his grand entrance later.

Kelda and Euphemia enter the assembly hall first.

The room is already packed. Villagers crowd the benches that have been dragged together. Theys stand shoulder to should along the walls—townsfolk, tradesmen, farmers, elders, children—their cloaks still damp from the morning mist. All of them talking over each other.

Until they see Kelda.

Conversations suffocate as Kelda and Euphemia push through the room. They pick back up again as they walk by, hushed whispers that sound like Euphemia’s name.

Uncertainty hangs over the room. The tension so thick it could be cut with a knife.

Euphemia keeps her chin high as they make their way forward. She can feel eyes following her from every corner of the room. Some curious. Others suspicious. A few seem almost eager to find fault with the woman who has suddenly appeared at Lord Varinsson’s side.

She refuses to shrink beneath their gazes.

This is part of the plan. She has a role to play, and she will play it.

At least, that is what she tells herself.

Percival’s smug gaze watches them with premature victory.

Until the doors burst open again.

Dagfinn enters the assembly hall.

The murmurs roll like thunder.

And, oh, is it deliciously sweet to watch Percival’s arrogant grin drop.

A few startled voices rise from the benches. Someone near the back whispers a prayer. Another person actually laughs. For almost twelve months, Dagfinn has been absent from this town, and his sudden appearance seems to hit the townsfolk like a figment of their imagination. A specter. Something unholy.

But Euphemia sees something else in their faces, too.

Relief.

They are looking at their lord as though he has returned from the dead.

A path clears before him and Dagfinn strides to the front of the room.

From the front of the hall, Percival’s grip tightens around the papers he’s holding.

“My Lord,” Percival says through gritted teeth. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“Why wouldn’t you be expecting me?” Dagfinn’s voice carries across the hall, cutting through the restless whispers. He gestures toward Kelda and Euphemia in the front. “I’m told it is my family home that is being called into question. Should I not be here to answer for it?”

Stiffly, Percival bows his head, as if an invisible hand is forcing him to do so. “Of course, My Lord. Forgive me. I only meant that we believed you to be quite ill and feared that you had met the same fate as the late Lord Otho.”

A murmur ripples through the benches at the mention of Otho. Euphemia feels it move through the room like a draft beneath the door.

Dagfinn does not so much as blink. “I assure you, I am very much alive. I have been well tended by my family.”

Heads spin toward Kelda and Euphemia, though it’s mostly Euphemia whom their gazes consume. Not everyone has met the new countess, but everyone seems eager to lay eyes on her. To size her up. To decide whether the strange woman from Nottinghamshire is worthy of Thorfell Manor.