Page 21 of Whisper of Nightmares

Ismene pouts. “Why not?”

“It’s not safe.”

“Why is it not safe?”

Euphemia groans at Ismene’s constant need for questions answered. But as she thinks of an answer that might satiated the young girl, Euphemia hesitates. The innerworkings of her always-deciphering mind begin to churn. The only reason it’s unsafe is because of her. She is the one the creature wants. The one it’s stalking. That night in the meadow, it hadn’t appeared to her father. It had shown itself to her. Lured her in. And it was only once he intervened that he was punished for it.

They are only in danger because of Euphemia.

Next time it shows itself, Ismene could be with her. Or little Atia. Cybele. Her mother.

What if one of them tried intervening next?

What if they got in the way?

Tears sting Euphemia’s eyes. She would never be able to forgive herself—already she can barely go from dawn to dusk without guilt ravaging her.

For a moment, she thinks of telling her mother. Of asking for help. Advice about what she should do. But she already knows how that conversation will go.

“The best thing you can do, Euphemia, is pray. Pray that God will forgive whatever wickedness you have invited into your heart. And then pray again that He forgives you before He takes something dear from this family again.”

Only, she has been praying. Day and night and every moment in between.

And if something were to happen to anyone else in her family, her mother would blame her for it all over again, and she would be right to.

This is Euphemia’s curse.

Her burden to bear.

And she can no longer subject her family to the danger of simply existing near her.

Euphemia twists around and marches down the short hall for the chest she knows she’s not meant to open.

“Euphemia?”

Ignoring Ismene’s innocent voice, Euphemia opens the chest and rummages for the coins she knows are inside. Coins meant for Cybele’s dowry someday. And for weathering tough stretches of time when fewer patrons visit the Saint’s Hearth.

She won’t take it all, she decides. Just enough to get by for a few days. A week, at most. Just long enough to travel to a neighboring town, hopefully luring the creature away from them.

Sliding a handful of coins into her pocket, Euphemia closes the lid and stands. Whirling around, she finds Ismene blocking her path.

“W-what are you doing?” Her little hand rubs her sleepy eyes. But they’re not so sleepy that they don’t notice the extra weight in Euphemia’s pocket. “That’s not yours. Mother says we’re not to touch it unless⁠—”

“Hush, please.” Euphemia takes a knee and rubs her sister’s arms. “I know what Mother says. But I have to do this. It’s what’s best for the family.”

Ismene’s face scrunches as if she wants to understand. But how could she? She knows nothing of the nightmare, nor their father’s passing. Knows nothing of Euphemia’s curse. And Euphemia would like to keep it that way.

She plants a soft kiss on Ismene’s forehead. “Please. Say nothing.”

Euphemia stands and gently moves Ismene aside.

The girl does not fight her. But she cries out, “Where are you going?” And then a little more fragile and concerned. “Will I ever see you again?”

Euphemia freezes. The familiar ache of grief floods through her.

Over her shoulder she mutters so quietly she’s not sure her sister will even hear her, “For your own sake, I hope you don’t.”

And then, Euphemia ducks back into the taproom. Only a few moments have passed, but somehow it already feels different in here. Quieter. More grim. Or perhaps that’s just Euphemia.