Page 109 of Whisper of Nightmares

“Just about everything at this point. We started with the things that made the most sense: prayers to Odin for wisdom and guidance. Prayers to Frigg for protection. Prayers to Eir for healing and strength.” Kelda’s mouth twists. “All were unanswered.”

Euphemia bristles at the subject of prayer.

After what her God took from her last night, she’s not sure she’ll ever pray again. Not after begging and begging for another chance, only to have it presented before her and stripped away again.

As she listens, Euphemia grabs the fresh linens they brought upstairs and remakes the bed underneath him, Kelda turning him from one side to another as she works.

Kelda’s laugh comes humorless and harsh. “I know what you’re thinking. That I should’ve prayed to your god instead.”

Euphemia stiffens. It only serves to further implicate her, even though she couldn’t be farther from the truth. “I never said⁠—”

“You didn’t have to. It was written all over your face.”

Euphemia worries at her lip. She wants to argue and set Kelda straight, but at the same time, she’s starting to realize it didn’t even bother her that the woman mentioned different gods. After everything Euphemia has seen—in her dreams, in Helheim, even here in the waking world—she is no longer certain she knows what is true and what is purely belief.

Her eyes drift to the wall above Dagfinn’s bed and the items hung there.

Bones etched with runes carved.

Bundles of sticks bound together in strange shapes and formations.

Bulbs of garlic.

Red thread knotted in intricate patterns.

And perhaps most surprising of all, a wooden cross in the center of the wall.

Euphemia’s brow crinkles in confusion. But the longer she thinks on it, it’s not so confusing at all.

Her eyebrows bob to the wall of memorabilia. Of hope. Of desperation. “Clearly, you tried praying to my God, as well.”

A sad smile tilts Kelda’s face. “Indeed I did.”

Kelda’s grip around Dagfinn is starting to shake. Euphemia finishes flattening the sheets just in time for the widow to gently set him down. As she settles him into position, Euphemia cannot help but notice his jaw is clean-shaven, despite months of unconsciousness. All this time, Kelda has been maintaining the appearance expected of him. Just in case.

When she’s finished, Kelda stands back and wipes a bead of sweat from her brow. Euphemia doesn’t want to pry, but she is eager to hear more. Eager to see if there is anything they may have missed.

“And when prayer didn’t work?” she asks, earning a long sigh from Kelda.

“We tried everything else. Cold water. A slap to the face. Anything I could think that would rouse him. Then we got more deliberate. Started trying different smoke rituals—burning mugwort, vervain, wormwood, anything people told us would clear evil out of the manor. We wafted that same smoke under Dagfinn’s shirt to cleanse his body. Set bowls of water beneath his bed. Applied different poultices and fed him tinctures. Nothing.”

Together, they entomb him in warm furs and woven blankets.

“As we became more desperate, so did our attempts.”

The pause that follows is heavy.

It takes Euphemia a moment to realize Kelda is waiting for encouragement, trying to grant Euphemia one final chance to stay in the dark before the curtains are thrown back forever.

If Kelda knows her at all, then she would know how foolish of a question it is.

“I want to know,” Euphemia says firmly. “All of it. I want to help, if I am able.”

Kelda eyes her suspiciously. But ultimately seems to shake herself of it. “I’ve tried leeches. And bloodletting.” Kelda hesitates. “The marriage to you.”

That makes Euphemia’s stomach drop.

Kelda smooths back the stray hairs at her temples and sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m not proud of the choices I’ve made. Of the things I’ve had done to him. But I’d be less proud if I just sat here and did nothing.”