Page 147 of Whisper of Nightmares

In this version of the story, Euphemia tells Kelda and Asvald that it was the name that unlocked his memories, not Otho. She hopes it’s a small lie they can forgive her for later.

“Once he remembered who he was,” Euphemia concludes. “He told me what happened to him. How he had been working on a tincture that would allow him to…cross into the afterlife and save his father.” She pauses, glancing between the two of them who are still listening with rapt attention. “After I told him about the state of him here, he suggested I brew his wakefulness draught. He thinks it will counteract the deep sleep he’s put himself in.”

For a moment, Euphemia almost crosses the room to retrieve her satchel to show them the roseroot she retrieved outside.

But their silence is unsettling.

The kind of heady quiet only known to graveyards and haunted castles on treacherous cliffsides.

Worry begins to grip Euphemia again.

“I was out by the cliff because I was looking for roseroot so I could brew the draught tonight. I thought if I could wake him, it might erase the pain of today. But…its was too dark to see much of anything out there. I’ll have to look in the morning.”

“You will do no such thing.” Kelda’s voice is barely more than a whisper, her lips scarcely moving.

Euphemia’s brow furrows. “Why not?”

But Kelda does not answer her directly. Her gaze has thrown itself at the fire, reflections of embers burning through her once blue eyes.

Euphemia shifts from her weight on her feet, dread rapidly growing.

Kelda shakes her head after a moment. “I knew I should’ve stopped him. I watched him delving into those dark magicks, losing his mind to them. And I just let it happen.”

“Let it happen? You couldn’t have known. Not even Dagfinn knew.” Euphemia softens her voice, trying to reassure her.

But Kelda is hearing none of it.

“I should have intervened. I should have made him see that this is just part of life to lose a father. That is the way of things. We honor them by moving forward. By living. Not by—” Her hand flexes and her eyes close as if the words pain her to even think. Kelda pinches the bridge of her nose and after a few stabilizing breaths, she continues, “I should have locked him out of that damned study before something like this happened.”

Defensiveness awakens in Euphemia.

Fierce.

Unwavering.

“Lock him out of it? Dagfinn loves that study. It isn’t even magick he does in there. It’s brilliant what he does. You should see his work. He’s done countless of experiments, made untold discoveries. He could⁠—”

“He could get himself killed,” Kelda’s voice cleaves Euphemia’s words like a butcher knife. “He could get you killed. Or were you even thinking about that when you went outside in the pitch black and crawled over a cliff?”

“I was being as safe as I could be.”

“You were being reckless. Just as he’s been.” Kelda’s booming voice falters, taking on a tremulous quality. “Reckless, just as I have been.”

Slowly, Kelda hangs her head. She covers her face with her free hand and Euphemia takes this opportunity to glances at Asvald, searching for any indication of how he’s feeling about all of this. But he remains rigid where he stands, impossible to read as ever.

“The damn fool,” Kelda says, lifting her face. “We all are. Refusing to accept the fate the gods have given us. Fighting for power in our lives like it might make a difference. Like it might change anything. As if the fates haven’t already decided.”

Her eyes meet Euphemia’s. For one terrible moment, Euphemia understands that Kelda isn’t speaking only of Dagfinn. She’s speaking of herself.

A sigh shudders through Kelda’s shoulders.

The room feels cold, despite the fire.

The words leave Kelda’s lips like a whisper. A prayer. “Forgive me Odin.”

Then she buries her face in her hands again. Her fingers work at her temples, rubbing more and more furiously with every passing moment. She’s shaking her head the way Euphemia does when she is thinking she wishes she could go back and make a different choice.

Euphemia’s bones become ice.