Page 150 of Whisper of Nightmares

Chapter 30

Euphemia and the Alembic

Euphemia can do little else but pace her room and wait.

Somewhere in this manor, Kelda is preparing for the biggest mistake of her life. Somewhere else, Dagfinn is waiting for his to end. And Euphemia is in here, doing nothing to help either of them.

She listens to the creaking castle and its echoing halls, searching for the telltale sound of Kelda finally retiring to her chamber. It takes longer than she expects. But eventually, a heavy door closes down the corridor. Kelda has finally gone to bed.

Euphemia waits another few minutes, forcing herself to be patient.

She tells herself the longer she waits, the more deeply Kelda will sleep and the less likely Euphemia is to be caught.

The candle by her nightstand burns down to the wick.

At long last, Euphemia feels a hush across the manor, and it’s then she finally slips from her room.

She tiptoes down the hall to Kelda’s bedchamber. Opens the door a crack. Peeks inside. Kelda sleeps on the bed, tucked to one side as if she is still unaccustomed to having the whole bed to herself.

There on the table beside her, exactly where Asvald said they would be, rest the keys.

Her heart pounds as she slinks into the room. One wrong creak. One floorboard beneath her heel. One sleepy stir from Kelda, and this entire plan is over.

Every breath she takes sounds deafening in the darkness.

Carefully, Euphemia grabs the keys and heads back into the hallway.

Then she races through the manor on the tips of her toes, blowing through the maze of corridors like a ghost on the hunt. Dagfinn’s study waits at the end of the hallway. The circular lock remains untouched since she last came. She remembers the one ring she needs to move. One turn. And the cogs whir. The lock clicks.

Euphemia pushes the doors open.

Once she’s inside, she does not pause to admire the study this time. She almost does. For one brief moment, she thinks of Dagfinn standing at the worktable, explaining some complicated process she barely understands but is eager to learn.

She sees the life they can have here.

But she does not let herself linger on it.

It is a race against the moon and Kelda’s ability to remain asleep, and Euphemia simply does not have the time.

Her gaze goes immediately to the worktable with the journal and the ingredients she left for herself.

On the back of his chair is a brown cloak. Euphemia dons it like an alchemist’s armor. Then she turns her attention to the alembic.

She strikes flint to steel until a spark catches in the tinder and a tiny flame begins to glow. It takes her a moment to figure out the vents, but eventually the fire settles into a steady burn, and now she can begin the real work.

“You’ll begin by boiling water with black tea, nettle, yarrow, and roseroot.”

Dagfinn’s instructions echo in her mind, and she follows them diligently. Measuring water. Grinding the herbs.

Soon, Euphemia loses herself to the familiar rhythm of brewing. For all the strange glass and copper surrounding her, this part is familiar. Measure. Grind. Boil. Wait. She knows how to make things that take time. She knows how to trust a process she cannot rush.

When the yarrow, nettle, and roseroot are ground to dust, she sifts them into the water, and marvels as the liquid starts to change color.

Euphemia waits for the water to boil before adding the wormwood and sugar.

The liquid darkens.

A sense of pride washes over her as Euphemia removes the vessel from the heat with a towel and stirs. The brown liquid steams and sloshes. And soon a bitter and earthy scent rises from within it, just as Dagfinn described it would.