Page 145 of Whisper of Nightmares

The texture crumbles like clay beneath her fork. She presses deeper into the grainy terrain, slowly chipping it away.

A roll of thunder directly overhead makes Euphemia jump.

The fork plummets into the waves below.

Euphemia curses under her breath. She cannot leave without the roseroot though.

So she slides herself over the ledge a little farther, digging her toes in the rocky terrain above.

Euphemia digs her fingers into the earth, mud clogging the underside of her nails, scraping to find purchase.

Then she feels it.

A tangled web of thick and coarse vine-like strands that must be the roots.

Euphemia digs around the entire base of one of the stalks of roseroot before gently, carefully, prying it up. The muddy thing feels more like a cluster of shriveled veins.

Before the wind can knock it out of her hand, she places it into the satchel.

She pulls a few more of the roseroot flowers up—stem, root, and all—and adds them with the rest.

When she’s finally satisfied she has what she needs, Euphemia unsticks herself from the ground like a sopping mop. She has to walk bow-legged back to the manor because her sodden skirts are so heavy. Her boots squelch with every step. She shields her eyes from the onslaught of rain, even though her attempts remain futile.

By the time Euphemia reaches the perron, she’s so slick with rainwater it’s gushing down her face like a stream. She can barely see more than shadows.

Careful to move slowly, she sloshes up the steps when a familiar voice greets her.

“There she is,” Kelda sings with mocking warmth from the threshold. “Gone for an evening stroll, have we?”

Chapter 29

Secret Pact

In silence, Kelda helps Euphemia out of her drenched garments and into a simple forest green surcoat. When she’s fully clothed again, Kelda calls Asvald into the sitting room and he drapes a wool blanket around her shoulders and Euphemia huddles by the roaring fire.

Only once Kelda seems certain Euphemia won’t catch her death does she finally say⁠—

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Euphemia’s lips are still trembling. “N-no. Of course n-not.”

“Then what in Thor’s name is this?” Kelda gestures up and down the length of her. “What were you doing out there?”

Euphemia searches her mind for a lie. Nothing comes to her quickly.

“I—I was just⁠—”

Kelda thrusts a finger at her. “Do not dare lie to me, Euphemia Varinsson. Not in this house. Not ever.”

And perhaps it’s the severity in Kelda’s tone, or perhaps it’s the way she uses her marriage surname, but something finally clicks for Euphemia.

Since discovering who the man in her dreams was, Euphemia has been trying to solve his curse on her own—unburying the lost deed, confronting the ghost, sneaking around the manor, and procuring ingredients for a draught she thinks will work. Kelda has done the same. She’s spent months chasing fanciful ideas and performing risky rituals, all on her own.

But they’re not alone. Not in their hope or their fears.

They have each other.

Perhaps it’s time Euphemia let Kelda know of her plan.