Page 160 of Whisper of Nightmares

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Air rips from Euphemia as she catapults from the chaise, Dagfinn’s journal plopping to the dusty floor with a hollow thud.

Euphemia pats her stomach. Her chest. Her face.

“It worked. It actually worked. I can’t believe it.”

But her triumphant grin is shrouded by remnants of fear. The air whipping past her face like garden shears. The jagged boulders that kept growing larger and larger. The sea spray that tasted like blood

Euphemia’s expression twists with outrage. “He shoved me!”

She stands from the chaise and flattens out her skirts. When he returns, she plans on giving him an earful, though she suspects he’ll be smug the whole way through.

Euphemia sees the concoction still brewing over the dim flame on the desk.

She continues grumbling to herself as she approaches her abandoned work station.

She turns down the flame and inspects the brew. She grabs the towel and retrieves it, swirling the rusty liquid inside the copper vessel. She gives it a whiff, and only after she confirms the earthen scent does she allow herself to celebrate.

She’s done it.

She has created her first draught.

A curl of desire tightens in the pit of her stomach.

Soon, Dagfinn will be home.

Purplish light has begun to filter in from behind the drawn curtains. Dawn is upon them. Which means it’s already later than she wants it to be.

She grabs a vial from the desk and fills it with her creation.

In the smaller vessel, the liquid cools faster, already easier to hold.

With the vial in hand, Euphemia scurries to the door and peeks her head out into the hallway. Streaks of lavender and amber sift into the vacant corridor. But no one stirs.

Careful not to disturb the peaceful quiet, Euphemia gently closes the door shut behind her.

But just as the door fully closes, a shriek quakes the manor’s stone walls. “My keys, Asvald! She’s taken my keys!”

For a fraction of a moment, Euphemia curses herself for not taking the extra time to simply unloop the one key she needed.

And then, she’s running. Galloping down the carpeted corridors with her skirts held in one hand, and the sloshing brew in the other. Don’t spill. Don’t trip. Don’t take a wrong turn, she screams into her mind like a silent prayer. Only this time, it is not God she beseeches. It is herself.

She cannot fail Dagfinn.

Her husband.

Euphemia reaches the staircase at the base of the tower.

When she looks up into the darkness, catching her breath and preparing herself for the final push of exertion, she hears the plodding of footsteps coming from somewhere behind her.

With fear gripping her heart, Euphemia looks to find Kelda thundering down the hallway, a menacing angle cut into her brows.

“Do not go up there, Euphemia!”

They are not words Kelda bellows after Euphemia. They are spears, hurled desperately into the darkness of battle. A warrior’s weapon unleashed with the hopes that it will strike true.

It is pure desperation.