Page 176 of Whisper of Nightmares

Percival raises a hand, returning the crowd to silence.

“And tell me, Mr. Carter,” he continues. “When was it that you knew the Varinsson family owed you a debt?”

“It wasn’t until that woman there came to town and left with one of our own.”

Percival interjects. “And for the people, let it be known that Mr. Carter is pointing toward Ms. Kelda Varinsson.” Percival’s tone shifts to that of a parent gently trying to coax their child to do something they don’t want to do. “And what about Ms. Varinsson coming to town made you realize it was her family who was responsible for the loss of your heritage?”

“It was the name of the place she was headed. Thorfell. I remembered it from stories my family used to tell me about where we came from. The place my grandfather was slain and my father barely made it out alive.”

Beside Euphemia, she notices Kelda’s hand flex in her lap, her fingers curling into fists.

Euphemia places her hand over them, drawing her gaze. She gives it a gentle squeeze, one she hopes reminds Kelda that the truth will prevail today. Not this horrendous butchery of what really happened. Not the story Percival has stitched together from old wounds and half-truths.

Kelda’s fingers turn beneath hers and squeeze back.

“Precisely.” Percival clasps his hands together, addressing the townsfolk now. “Mr. Carter came to me looking for answers. As a trusted official and friend to the Varinssons, I located the deed simply to dismiss Mr. Carter’s unlikely claims. But to my astonishment, I found merit to them instead.”

With the bravado of someone who has rallied many crowds to suit their own gains, Percival crosses the floor. He lifts the deed high enough for those in the nearest rows to see it, then carries it toward Dagfinn.

“Would you mind reading this line aloud for the people?” he asks.

Not breaking eye contact, Dagfinn grabs the deed and reads, “Thorfell Manor, and all assets therein, are legally the property of the undersigned.”

Dagfinn looks up, but Percival taps the parchment again.

“And then, please state the name signed underneath.”

Dagfinn reads it aloud, “George Walsham, and all heirs of⁠—”

“That’s my father’s name,” Thurstan provides. “Well, we’re Carters now. We changed the name when he left the north. But we were Walshams, alright.”

A gamut of voices rise from the crowd. Everything from doubts to boredom to outrage.

Euphemia feels the room tilt toward Thurstan.

The story sounds plausible. That is what makes it dangerous.

But they planned for this too.

It’s the moment Dagfinn has been waiting for.

Percival snatches the deed. His immaculate robe shifts around his legs as he moves, the fine embroidery catching the light despite the grime of the assembly hall.

“So you see,” he says. “Although we are elated to see your health returned to you, Lord Dagfinn, I am afraid that the matter of the estate is already quite clear.”

One of Dagfinn’s eyebrows kicks up. “Oh, I fully agree.”

Euphemia’s heart thumps, the anticipation finally erupting.

Dagfinn reaches for his jacket pocket and withdraws a neatly folded piece of stained parchment and unfolds it with maddening patience.

A few people in the crowd lean forward.

Percival’s expression twists.

Euphemia nearly smiles.

“You see,” he begins, the wry twist of his lips hardly contained. “While I was ill, my mother and wife catered to my every need. Stoking the fire in the hearth so that I might stay warm. Spoon-feeding my meals. All manners of care, including medicinal.”