Page 12 of Whisper of Nightmares

Cybele sets three pence into the woman’s palm before handing Euphemia the coin pouch. “I didn’t realize it was that obvious. We’re always told we look nothing alike.”

“Ah, yes. Perhaps not the most obvious.” The woman chuckles, putting the coins in her pocket with a distinctive clink that tells Euphemia there are plenty others in there. “You both have your distinctive features. One of you as cheerful as the sun. The other…”

“Like a dark storm cloud?” Cybele offers, bumping Euphemia with her hip.

The two women laugh. All except Euphemia. She cannot shake the feeling of unease.

“A dark cloud. Yes, I can see it.” The mysterious woman chuckles to herself, smile so wide now that it reveals a slightly whiter tooth near the back. Euphemia has to stop herself from staring, but it’s so very rare she sees someone with enough wealth to afford a false tooth, especially one carved from what looks like bone instead of wood. The woman notices her staring and drags her tongue along the sharp edge of the tooth before saying to Cybele, “I would be willing to wager you are also the eldest then?”

Cybele’s blush is amplified by her amazement. “I am. What gave me away?”

“Only the eldest would be so brazen to talk about her sister in such a way. Don’t you agree, Euphemia?” The woman pauses long enough for an answer, but Euphemia cannot give one. It’s as if brambles clog her throat. The conversation carries on without her, until distantly she hears the woman ask, “Well, where is the handsome lad then?”

Euphemia blinks.

To Cybele’s credit, her friendly disposition finally falters, the first hint of a frown etching her brow. “Pardon?”

“Your betrothed, dear. The husband behind all of this—” The woman gestures to their cart of goods. “Surely, it’s not just the two of you?”

And Euphemia can see the pain that lances through Cybele then. Knows the thoughts that rush in with it as her sister answers politely, “Oh, there is no husband. Not for me, nor our mother. It’s only us now. Well, the four of us and our mother, that is.”

This goes far beyond the simple conversations they usually encounter at the market.

This feels more like the woman is searching for something.

But what?

Pity warps the woman’s mouth into something passable as a frown. “Ah. Times are hard, they are. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Cybele says, voice cracking. A wall of tears brims her eyes, the bricks ready to crumble. And it breaks something inside Euphemia to see one of the strongest women she’s ever known be reduced to rubble with just a few pointed questions.

Euphemia steps forward, shielding her sister. “Is there anything else we can help you with, ma’am? Or will that be all?”

“Euphemia!” Cybele blurts her name with such admonition, for a moment she almost thinks it’s their mother there. Cybele pulls Euphemia’s shoulder, drawing her back, a look of disappointment warping her features. Then she turns to the woman, ready to repair the damage. “I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her today. She’s been acting like this all morning. All testy and curt.”

The stranger holds up a mollifying hand. “It’s me who owes you the apology. I only meant to make conversation, but I can see I’ve dredged up old wounds and caused offense.”

“You’ve offended no one,” Cybele insists, casting Euphemia a scathing scowl. Turning the charm back on for the woman, she adds, “If anything, you’ve been a pleasant reprieve from the gloom.”

“Thank you, dear.” The woman’s bright blue eyes lift toward the sky. She sighs. “But I suspect I’ve taken up enough of your time for one day. I should be on my way.” She gathers the pies and the tankard of cider she purchased. She tosses back the drink and they watch her throat bob once, twice, three times until the mug is cleared. With an impressed smirk, she glances at the bottom of the tankard before asking, “I’m told rooms fill rather quickly here on market days, and I still have need of lodging. You wouldn’t by chance be able to direct me to a tavern where I might stay for the night?”

Stars seem to dazzle Cybele’s eyes. “Oh! You must come to the Saint’s Hearth. It’s our mother’s tavern. Just at the edge of Nottinghamshire.”

The woman graciously accepts, and Cybele spends the next few moments excitedly giving her directions and describing what the tavern looks like. Meanwhile, Euphemia’s suspicions are itching again. It is too much of a coincidence for her to shake that this stranger just so happened to talk to the exact people who run a tavern.

But with nowhere to place those suspicions, she finds herself with no ground to stand on. No rational reason to tell Cybele to uninvite her.

The woman packs away her things, but before she can amble off, Euphemia gets an idea. She calls out⁠—

“And what is the name of the woman we’ve had the pleasure of speaking with today?” Nervously, she looks from her sister back to the woman, adding, “So we can inform our mother to ready a room for you.”

The woman’s keen eyes seem to bore into her. And for a moment, Euphemia thinks she might not answer. Or perhaps give a false name.

At last, the woman replies, “I am Kelda. Kelda Varinsson.”

As the woman disappears into the market, the sisters exchange a wordless glance. That is no Christian name, nor is it English. But Cybele’s silent glare urges Euphemia not to think too far into it. The conflict between the Saxons and the Danes has long since ended. The only war on their borders now is the one they fight from within, noble houses eager to shift power, no matter the cost it bears on those beneath them.

Still, Euphemia cannot shake the feeling that something sinister is afoot.