Page 153 of Whisper of Nightmares

“That’s the one.” Euphemia holds her head higher. “He said you saved his sister. Between that and my own glimpse of your study, I think it’s safe to say that you’re not doing the work of the Devil or practicing dark magick as Kelda fears.”

Gratitude seeps into his features. Then he winces. “What did my mother say exactly?”

“Say?” Euphemia’s laughter comes out incredulous. “It’s not what she said; it’s what she did.”

“Gods…” Dagfinn cradles his forehead, preparing for the worst like he can’t bear to watch. “What has she done now?”

Euphemia pauses for dramatic effect. Then she leans in, emphasizing every word. “She had Asvald lock me in my bedchamber. Then she forbade me from going back to your study at all.”

Euphemia readies herself for the laughter that will follow. After all, it is rather extreme, and there is something mildly tickling about it, now that she’s not actually locked in there.

But Dagfinn does not join her in laughter.

In fact, the carefree grin falls clean off his face. His expression darkens with something she cannot quite place, but it breaks her heart to see it on him.

“Does she not want me to awaken?”

Euphemia’s heart plummets.

“Of course she does. She’s just…she’s been through so much, Dagfinn. She’s worried about the consequences. I think she…” Euphemia hesitates to say it, not wanting to make him carry her guilt. But without knowing it, she’s not sure how else to make him understand. She inhales deeply. “I think she blames herself that you’re like this. Stuck here. Tonight she said she wishes she had stopped you sooner, that she had tried keeping you away from your studies.”

His frown deepens. “Doesn’t she remember? She tried. Very hard. Every night, she warned me not to meddle with my dark magicks. And every night I told her there was nothing magical about it. It was just simple herbalism. Medicine. Alchemy. She still wouldn’t listen. Neither would I though. Every time she tried to stop me from locking myself in that room, I told her nothing would keep me from trying to save him.”

Hearing him talk, she sees so much of his mother in him. The relentless devotion. The unwavering belief that they could do something to make things right again, until both of them had lost hope.

Dagfinn was able to find his again. Kelda will too once Euphemia brings him back home.

“I guess you’ll just have to remind her of your stubborn rebellion when you wake up. For now—” Euphemia glances toward the manor as if she can see herself inside “—we need to figure out how we’re going to get me to wake up so I can finish your brew. Or at least get back to my body before Kelda rises and finds my bedchamber empty. Who knows what she’ll do to me next.”

Dagfinn snorts, though there is no smile on his lips. Only the fear of a son who has seen the lengths a mother will go to in order to ensure her word is law in the home.

But rather than helping Euphemia think of a plan, Dagfinn cocks his head at her, amusement in his eyes. “I like that you keep calling it a brew.”

She flushes. “What else am I meant to call it?”

“I call them elixirs. Tinctures. Draughts. It all depends on what I’m making.” A smirk tilts the corner of his delectable lips. “But I am growing fond of brews the more I hear you say it.”

Euphemia’s face heats.

Dagfinn watches her with something akin to wonder. “And you handled the alembic without problem?”

Euphemia tucks her hair behind her ear. “I believe so. Once I got the fire started like you told me, everything else just felt like brewing.”

His grin hitches higher. “Then thank the great sisters of fate for sending you here to find me.”

The flames in her cheeks burn her until she is bright red.

Surely, he’s not impressed by her. All she did was mix herbs together in water. It’s nothing at all like the masterful studies he does. All the books he’s read. All the experiments he’s tried and learned from. The way he sent himself into a permanent slumber while his body still functioned—albeit, a terrifying conundrum for everyone else, but honestly quite amazing that he was able to do anything like it. Especially since she’s seen his journals. All the torn-out pages and scribbled entries. For every one thing he gets right, there are dozens of errors that come before.

“How do you do it?” she asks.

“Do what?”

“How do you keep trying even after you fail?”

He gives a self-mocking laugh and the two of them start to stroll. “I guess because I am such a fool that I don’t see it as failing. Each mistake—every spoiled draught, every fire started—they all teach me something. They get me one step closer to what it is I’m searching for. If anything, I am more afraid of not trying at all than failing. Aren’t you?”

“Mistakes were never really allowed where I grew up.” Euphemia’s gaze settles to the violet grass beneath her feet. “You have to understand, mistakes meant losing coin, and losing coin meant someone was going hungry that night. Usually me.”