Page 152 of Whisper of Nightmares

“But it’s just simmering for who knows how many hours, while I’m sleeping soundly in your chaise.”

Not wanting to see the disappointment she’s sure she’ll find in his light blue eyes, she diverts her gaze across the open land instead. Through the deep purple hues, she realizes this isn’t just another recognizable place in Helheim. This place, she recognizes. Not from the dreams, but from Thorfell.

This is the cliffside surrounding the manor.

Dagfinn smirks at her dismay. “Try not to fret. The elixir will be fine. It won’t overcook if it was only simmering. Not before you awaken, that is.”

She flashes him a grateful smile, until a memory sours it.

“There is more to contend with than an overcooked brew,” Euphemia confesses. “I’m afraid I had to tell your mother what we were doing.”

Surprise seems to punch him where he stands. Dagfinn sighs deeply. “I don’t imagine that went well.”

“Which part?” Euphemia snorts. “The part where I told her I was seeing you in my dreams? Or when I told her you were teaching me how to brew the draught that would save you?”

“Definitely the last one,” he says, as a shudder runs through him, like he’s remembering a time when he had that argument with her as well.

Euphemia draws nearer. “Why doesn’t she like what you do in there? From what you’ve described of your work and from what I’ve seen, you’re just trying to help.”

He angles a brow at her, voice playful. “Yeah? And how does someone figure that out when they can’t read any of my notes or books?”

The comment makes her chest flame with embarrassment.

It’s not her fault she can’t read. It simply wasn’t a skill either of her parents had taught her, and so Euphemia never learned. Never had the time to.

But it’s not as if Dagfinn is trying to provoke her either. It was spoken in jest, and likely had some genuine intrigue behind it.

Regardless of his intent, Dagfiin notes her change in demeanor instantly.

“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to say—there’s nothing wrong with not being able to…” With a sigh, he eventually gives up on trying to finish that apology.

In her eyes, he’s already said enough. “It’s alright. And I’ll have you know, I can tell what you have in your study without being able to read all your books and labels. I recognized a lot of medicinal herbs on your shelves. Someone doesn’t keep a stock of sage, comfrey, and chamomile because they’re attempting dark magick, I wouldn’t think.”

He eases into the laughter, bright and robust. It is a sound she could get used to.

“I can teach you, you know.”

Euphemia blinks. “Teach me what?”

“To read.” His expression softens. “When you bring me back.”

Something warm unfurls in Euphemia’s chest.

A future. He is speaking as though there will be one. As though waking up is not a question, but a certainty.

But the thought also sends something frightening through her chest.

This future, only she has agreed to it. He still does not know about their marriage. He does not know that he is bound to her by law whether he likes it or not. And these things, they are the niceties people say but seldom get around to. Teaching someone to read is no small endeavor. It would take weeks of practice. Months. Surely, he doesn’t truly mean it. And Euphemia cannot let herself get carried away.

She reaches for the first safer thought that comes to mind, something that happened before she went into his study and started brewing.

“I almost forgot to tell you something unbelievable happened.”

He laughs, seeming intrigued. “What?”

“Asvald confided in me tonight.”

His brows jump. “Asvald? As in one of the most tight-lipped, stoic men I know?”