Page 154 of Whisper of Nightmares

He frowns. “Why you?”

She becomes more wistful now. “Oh, you know. I was just the dark cloud hanging over the family, as my sister called me. I was always making mistakes. Always making things harder on them.”

Dagfinn stops walking.

He turns toward her, taking her face into his hands and holding her gaze. “You are the farthest thing from a dark cloud, Euphemia. You are the brightest star in the sky. You guided me out of the dark depths of Helheim. And somehow, even in the realm of death and ruin, you somehow find a way to make me smile. To make yourself smile. I cannot fathom anyone being in your presence and not feeling you shine.”

Dagfinn’s thumb strokes her cheek once.

Then he releases her.

The place where his hands had been feels unbearable cold without him.

They continue walking around the perimeter of the manor, circling near the stables first, then toward the abandoned cottage in the distance, until they come around to the oceanside again. Seeing the cliffs, Euphemia is reminded of her treacherous night.

“By the way,” she says, interrupting the silence. “That roseroot you sent me to retrieve nearly became the death of me.”

Something hardens his features. “Should I be worried?”

“No. I’m fine. Clearly. I even saved a few of the seeds so we can plant them somewhere less treacherous and easier to harvest the next time we need them.” She reaches for the satchel to show him, but realizes it’s not on her person.

When she glances at him again, something like fear is penetrating his gaze.

His hand barely grazes hers.

Then Dagfinn is weaving his fingers between her own.

The feeling is new, his hands uncharted territory. And yet, they are familiar enough that they already know how to fit snugly into the grooves around her knuckles, the tender places to caress, the rhythm of feather-soft touches that makes her heart soar.

“Did you say we?” That wolfish grin of his returns. “Reconsidering my proposal, are you?”

And just like that, the elation crumbles.

Guilt surges through her.

Euphemia drops his hand as if it were on fire.

She storms ahead, though even with her back to him, she can feel his confused eyes bearing into her. But this is not a conversation she’s ready to have yet. It’s not one she thought would come up until he returned home.

“We really should figure out how to get me back home so I can finish the brew—I mean the draught. Finish the draught.” She laughs through her bumbling words, but inside she is a whirlwind of hope and devastation. Of trepidation and daring.

Should she tell him now?

He’s mentioned a betrothal more than once now, perhaps he is genuine.

No. Of course he isn’t. Both times he’s said it with that playful look about him, the same way she’s seen men at the Saint’s Hearth flirt with Cybele or their mother. It never leads anywhere meaningful. Just a few words meant to flatter a lady.

Dagfinn catches up to her.

Euphemia avoids meeting his eyes, but she feels his gaze narrowing on her all the same.

“You said home just now.”

“I-I did?” Euphemia forces a surprised frown. “I don’t think I did.”

“You did. You said we should get you back home. What did you mean by that?”

Her laughter is higher pitched than she intends.