Page 11 of Whisper of Nightmares

A Stranger from the North

Remembering the stranger beside her, Euphemia turns toward the older woman to thank her for her aid. But the gratitude snags in her throat. Her eyes catch on the tattoos lining the edge of the woman’s finger. Ancient markings from fading northern beliefs. Runes, she thinks they’re called.

Euphemia is still gaping at them, when a familiar voice sidles up beside her. “Feeling any better?” Cybele must notice Euphemia’s confused, bewildered look, for she adds with a nod toward the crowd, “About ending things with Conwal finally.”

“Right.” Euphemia shrugs. “I suppose.”

Smile brightening, Cybele gives Euphemia’s shoulders a squeeze. “I, for one, would be relieved.”

“And why is that?” Euphemia scoffs.

Cybele’s nose scrunches. “Because he smelled of manure.”

And at that, a spark of laughter awakens in Euphemia’s chest. “Cybele!” She swats at her older sister who jumps back, looking innocent and aghast. For a moment, Euphemia is too stunned by her sister’s blatant disrespect to say anything else. It’s so unlike Cybele. It takes a moment to remember they’re in public and to collect herself. “That’s unkind. You know his father is a carter. They can’t help it if the smell of their labors sometimes…lingers.”

Cybele titters.

The older woman who Euphemia hadn’t realized was still standing next to them gives a low, rasping huff. “The truth is often unkind. Doesn’t make it any less truthful.”

Euphemia turns toward her with a wrinkle in her brow. Without the distraction of facing her formidable past, she’s able to get a better look at the woman. Ocean eyes and flaxen hair with perhaps a few wiry strands of grey at her temples. But she’s not nearly as old as Euphemia had previously mistaken. The crooked curve to her spine is misleading. The grooves in her face are minimal, much more similar to their own mother’s. And the mischievous glint in her eyes makes Euphemia think she could be younger, still.

“And you are?” Euphemia asks, not meaning to wield her words with so much venom.

“Euphemia, where are your manners?” Cybele swats her shoulder before flashing the woman a beatific smile. “This kind woman was just buying some of your cider and pies when I saw you and Conwal talking. I completely froze mid-conversation, and when she asked me what was wrong, I told her it looked like you might be in trouble. And this saint of a woman marched right over here to shoo Conwal away. Isn’t that nice?”

“Nice. Yes.” Euphemia mimics the words, but it’s more like she’s in a trance. Is it really so unusual for someone to show her kindness that she’s forgotten how to accept it? “I mean, thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure. Women like us need to look after one another, aye?”

There is a knowing sort of weight in the way she says us that makes Euphemia uneasy.

But Cybele’s laughter bubbles up around them, clearly not noticing that something might be amiss.

“Come, let us resume where we were. Shall me?” Cybele wraps an arm around the woman’s shoulders, gently guiding her back toward their cart. But there’s a slowness to her gait that almost seems performative, the movements non-rhythmic in the way Euphemia would expect with someone hindered by old age or an injury.

Euphemia watches the woman more intently and notices there’s something strange about her clothes as well. The wool skirt and linen apron are normal enough, but there isn’t a single stain or smudge in sight. No patches to indicate years of use. No signs of the usual wear and tear prevalent in most commoners’ belongings.

Peculiar, but not dangerous, she reminds herself. So, Euphemia forces her suspicions aside. As long as this woman is making a purchase at a fair price, that’s all that matters.

Euphemia joins Cybele behind the cart just as the coin is exchanged. Cybele digs through their coin purse in search of change, unaware of the woman’s bright blue eyes boring into her.

“I didn’t catch your name, dear,” the woman says, a hint of an accent hiding in her throat. It’s buried too deep for Euphemia to place it.

Cybele beams that glowing, subservient smile. “Cybele Branwen, ma’am.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

“You’re too kind.” Mid-blush, Cybele’s eyes flit to Euphemia. Expectant. And then impatient. Hastily, she answers for her, “And this is Euphemia.”

The woman’s eyes crease with a grin that seems far too calculating. Too cunning. And Euphemia is reminded again of wolves in sheep’s clothing. “Another beautiful young woman. But I am nothing if not honest, and Euphemia is a peculiar name, no?”

Euphemia is too cautious to answer. Her mind is abuzz with danger, though she cannot place why. On second thought, she can. This whole day has primed her to be on edge. First the dream and the strange figure within it. Then walking by the meadow and searching for the nightmare. Seeing Conwal. Revisiting the painful memory of her father’s passing. All of it has led to this, her feeling like the frayed end of a rope dangling over a fire. It’s difficult to discern what is the residual discomfort from each of these moments and what could be something more.

Cybele’s laughter comes with ease as she fishes out the final coins. “It might be considered strange. But our parents named her after a devout Saint, the Holy Great Martyr Euphemia, she who chose to worship God even when it was illegal.”

The strange woman’s mouth opens as if impressed, but there it is again. That performative quality that Euphemia is all too familiar with herself. It’s the same way she imagines her smiles landing when she is merely trying to appease a tavern guest and act cordial toward someone she’d rather not be speaking to.

The woman points between the two of them. “Sisters, then?”