Page 16 of Whisper of Nightmares

To avoid him now would only incur her mother’s wrath.

With a sigh, Euphemia approaches Thurstan Wardeby.

Leaning back in his creaking chair, he folds his hands over the roundness of his belly. “Well, well, if it isn’t the wench who thinks she’s better than my Conwal.”

Titters ripple across the table.

Euphemia does her best to ignore them. “What’ll it be, Thurstan?”

After serving this slovenly rat for years, she’s grown accustomed to his drunken tirades, but they have worsened over the past few months. Although his ire for her tonight seems especially palpable.

He slams an open hand on the table. Conversations in the tavern fall silent.

“That is exactly right. You know your place is to serve.” His words slur, his resentment unwavering. Thurstan licks his lips and those glossy eyes wobble, drifting down as if he becomes lost in his own world. “You are no better than us. You serve me. Not the other way around.”

Euphemia has half a mind to remind him that he is just a carter—Carter Thurstan, they call him—and that his profession is perhaps even less respectable than hers. At least she doesn’t have to plod up and down the streets, hauling goods, manure, and even corpses when it’s required. But she knows better than to utter those thoughts, especially when in the company of disgruntled drunkards like himself.

Biting her tongue, she forces sweetness into her tone. “Yes, Thurstan. I’m here to serve. What do you need?”

Abruptly, he stands. Thick thighs slam into the table, sending tankards wobbling.

Euphemia jumps back. But Thurstan snatches her wrist and strides closer.

“Let go,” she stammers, but her cries fall on deaf ears.

He towers over her, more mountain than man, and leans down so close, she can feel his fetid breath on her face. “Listen here, girl. I will not stand to be talked down to like some peasant.” Thurstan pounds a fist against his chest. “My family owned land once.” And then his menace shifts. No longer reserved for Euphemia alone, Thurstan releases her arm and addressed the room with renewed fervor as he launches into a story she’s heard too many times to count. “My grandfather was once a baron. A respectable man. But he was swindled. Lost our fortune. Our estate.”

Euphemia isn’t the only one in the room to roll her eyes. Everyone knows this story. Of course, he’s leaving out the part where his grandfather gambled all of their assets away.

Most in the tavern turns a shoulder to him. Euphemia looks amongst them, wondering who she might call upon to help her shoo him out of the tavern if he becomes more belligerent. He often does when he brings up his late grandfather.

Fortunately, by the time Thurstan finishes his story, he’s mostly forgotten about her.

He drops down into his chair and reaches for one of the tankards. He throws the mug back, belatedly realizing its empty, before slamming it back atop the table.

“Ale!” he bellows, somehow giving the word two syllables instead of one.

Barely restraining her own irritation, Euphemia grabs the mug. “And do you have the coin for another?”

Thurstan scoffs, eyelids drooping as he shoves his hand deep into his pocket. He fishes around before finally tossing a few pence onto the table. They tumble in different directions, ultimately rolling onto the floor.

Laughter booms from Thurstan and his tablemates.

The irritation that had been simmering in Euphemia starts to boil. Still, like the obedient daughter she’s expected to be, she plasters on a taut smile and bends down to retrieve her family’s pay. If only her mother would ban him for good, then she’d never have to deal with him or his remarks again. Alas, they need every penny that comes into the Saint’s Hearth, and unfortunately, Thurstan and his doltish friends contribute a fair share of them.

For her family’s sake, Euphemia will endure him.

“Might as well get used to it down there,” Thurstan sneers from above. “You’ll be a beggar now without my Conwal to marry you.”

Euphemia squeezes her eyes shut and ignores the ache in her knees as she crawls on the floor. She shoves down the discomfort of her hand pressing into something sticky as she plucks a penny from the ground.

Tankards clank overhead. A momentary reprieve as the table drinks the foam remaining.

All except Thurstan.

He leans under the table. Puts his face right above hers. “I told him you were no good for him. Told him to forget about you and find someone nice.”

Still, Euphemia bites her tongue, a feat that surely would impress even her mother.