Page 24 of Whisper of Nightmares

Her tongue is as swollen as a slug in her mouth.

Kelda stops pacing. Those sparks of eyes jolting Euphemia as if to try to charge her back to life. “But I also see your darkness, little cloud. I do not know what it is you did, but I know you harbor guilt for something.”

Shame burns Euphemia’s eyes. An ocean of grief presses against them, and after months of barely holding herself together, she can contain it no longer. The levee breaks, warbling her voice until she is drowning in emotion.

“What am I guilty for then? What crime have I committed?”

Slowly, tenderly, Kelda’s head shakes. “It is not my place to pry, and I do not need to know what happened. That is between you and your God.” She watches Euphemia for a moment longer, something calculating behind her gaze. She sighs, seeming to move beyond it. “But what I know of guilt—it changes people. Teaches them something valuable. Makes them smarter. Stronger. I see that same strength in you, and I think you would suit the people of Thorfell quite well, if you were interested.”

The suggestion comes so suddenly, Euphemia almost doesn’t understand it. “Interested? In what?”

A chuckle ripples from Kelda. “You truly do not know, do you?” Seeing Euphemia’s annoyance return, Kelda frowns an apology. “Right. Well, you asked for plain speech, so allow me to say it more plainly. My name, as you know, is Kelda Varinsson. That name might not mean anything to you in these parts, but in the north, I am known as the widow to the late Baron Otho Varinsson. I am the presiding countess of Thorfell Crag.”

Suddenly, Euphemia’s mind begins to bubble like a cauldron over the fire. Sparks of memory. News humming through town—months ago, maybe a year—about a northern baron’s death. Seeing as Euphemia does not much care for idle conversations about people she knows nothing about, she hadn’t paid the news much mind back then. But hearing the name now, the late Lord Otho, it has a familiar sound to it.

“You’re a countess,” Euphemia says, less of a question, and more like she’s testing a theory she’s already certain is true.

“The presiding one, yes.”

And just like that, Euphemia recalls another piece of the story that blew through town when Lord Otho died. Not just that he’d left behind a widow, but also an adult son meant to inherit it all.

Suddenly, Kelda’s true intentions become clear.

Sensing the importance of this moment and how it might impact the rest of Euphemia’s life, she forces herself to stand taller. To appear stronger. Worthy. “You’ve come here in search of a bride for your son then.”

A solemn nod from the northern widow. “Indeed I have.”

“And—” Euphemia swallows the quiver in her voice— “You intend to make me that bride?”

Frowning, Kelda gives an indifferent shrug. “Why not?”

The laugh that escapes Euphemia is caustic. It echoes all the way down the road, between the homes, and into the forest where it rustles the trees. Euphemia balks. “Because he’s a baron, and I’m just⁠—”

“An alewife’s daughter,” Kelda interjects simply, as if the two are one and the same. “I am aware of your family’s standing. It is of no problem to us.”

Another scoff bursts from Euphemia’s lips.

She stares down the road, gazing into the darkness.

It’s not as if she has another choice.

However, she can’t in good conscience accept. Not when the proposition seems so one-sided.

“Surely, your son has other suitors. Noble ladies who are far worthier of the title than I ever could be.”

“He does not,” Kelda says matter-of-fact. Now it’s her turn to look away. She gazes up at the stars as if each one is a long-lost friend. “The truth…the noble houses do not care much for us. My husband’s father was not English-born. Did you know this?”

Euphemia shakes her head.

Kelda sighs as if she’s told this story too many times to count and never likes the ending. “A despicable man, my husband’s father, and I refuse to speak his name. This country suffered him long enough. He and his men conquered Thorfell Crag many years ago. Long before Otho or I were born. I assume you know what it means to conquer lands that belong to other people? The brutality. The bloodshed. The⁠—”

Before Kelda can say anything truly stomach-churning, Euphemia stops her. “Yes. I can imagine.”

Perhaps more than most young woman. Because Euphemia had seen firsthand what combat could do to even the best of men. When her father would return home from the battlefield, he’d try with all his might to leave those memories behind. But every now and then, they’d resurface, and a black fog descending upon him. And although he would never dare share the details of what transpired—what he’d had to do—Euphemia could sense it nonetheless. Once, when she’d asked, all he’d said was that men at war were capable of doing unspeakable things they’d never known themselves capable of doing.

Nodding to herself, Kelda continues.

“I met Otho when he was just a boy. My father proposed a marriage then, but his father said Otho needed to marry an English woman to strengthen their allegiances. I didn’t see Otho again until after his father passed and he inherited Thorfell. I was surprised to hear that over all that time, he’d refused to marry anyone because his heart had belonged to me from the moment we met.”