Page 175 of Whisper of Nightmares

“That is, until this man arrived in town a week ago.”

Percival gestures toward Thurstan, and a few heads turn.

“He claimed his family once owned the estate, and that the Varinssons stole it from them a couple generations back.”

“That’s right,” Thurstan eagerly adds.

A few more murmurs rise from the crowd.

Euphemia’s stomach tightens. There it is. The story Percival has been feeding them.

She glances at Dagfinn.

Nothing in his face betrays him.

Percival addresses the townsfolk again. “You all know the history of Thorfell Manor. It is true that Lord Rayner Varinsson came to these lands, raided this town, slaughtered its lord and lady, and claimed the manor as his own. The Varinssons have held it ever since.”

A few older villagers nod. Others shift uneasily. This is a story they have heard and lived. Perhaps from fathers and grandfathers. Perhaps whispered over ale when the fires burned low.

“And though they’ve been diligent and just lords—and ladies—” Percival adds with a saccharine smile toward Kelda, “As keeper of deeds, it is my duty to see that the old claims of this land are not forgotten. Up until Thurstan’s arrival, I believed all descendants of the original line to be deceased.”

Euphemia’s fingers curl against the fabric of her gown.

Not because she believes him.

Because she knows what comes next.

“But then this honorable man arrived at my doorstep with a story to tell.” The words drip from Percival’s tongue so dotingly that Euphemia nearly tastes the rot beneath them. Percival pats Thurstan on the shoulder. “Go on. Tell them what you told me, Mr. Carter.”

The room hushes, only the sounds of a few coughs and creaking benches to fill the hall.

Wide-eyed, Thurstan adjusts himself in his seat.

“Alright,” he begins, clearing his throat. “Well, I’m Thurstan Carter. I live in Nottinghamshire with my son. But my family didn’t always live in those parts.”

He pauses, glancing toward Percival.

Percival eyes him with impatience.

Thurstan clears his throat. “But I suppose what you really want to know is that my family was once the Walshams.”

Soft gasps whisper across the room.

“We had land in the north. A manor. Wealth. Then your family came and took it from us.”

Dagfinn, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch at the finger outstretched at him like a pitchfork.

People in the crowd turn to their neighbors. Whispers spread through the hall, catching like fire as they pass from mouth to mouth.

Euphemia can hear their murmurs of suspicion and intrigue, and it awakens a slow-simmering rage inside her.

She knows this sound.

The sound of people deciding what they believe before they have heard the truth.

It seems no matter where she goes, she will always be surrounded by people hungry for a spectacle and eager to cast blame.

Her hand finds the edge of her sleeve, twisting the fabric between her fingers. She just hopes Dagfinn can handle this as masterfully as they planned.