Page 177 of Whisper of Nightmares

Euphemia inhales deeply, her moment finally arriving.

Dagfinn gestures toward her.

She rises before he can say her name. The movement draws another ripple of whispers from the crowd. Euphemia keeps her chin high as she crosses to his side. Her heart pounds, but she refuses to let it show.

She is the key ingredient to this recipe now.

And she is ready.

“Th-this is rather unorthodox, Lord Varinsson,” Percival huffs. “I must protest. Women are not permitted to⁠—”

“I am aware of the customs, Percival,” Dagfinn says as he takes Euphemia’s hand, helping her onto the platform. “But it is I who outranks you, and I will hear my wife’s words before this assembly.”

“Thank you.” Euphemia bows her head to her husband.

His thumb brushes once across the back of her hand before he releases it.

A tiny gesture. But it steadies her.

He hands her the deed.

Euphemia turns toward the crowd. “I am no healer, but my mother is an alewife. I grew up helping her with the tavern, tending the garden, making people’s stays with us as comfortable as they could be. As such, I’ve grown quite acquainted with herbs and a few remedies. While Lord Varinsson was ill, I searched the garden at Thorfell Manor for some herbs that might soothe him.”

She pauses.

Her fingers tighten around the parchment.

“In my search, I found this.”

She holds it up.

“Read it aloud for him, Euphemia. Tell the people who Thorfell really belongs to.”

Euphemia’s stomach twists.

She cannot read the words on the parchment. But she does not need to.

After hours rehearsing them last night, they are ingrained upon her lips.

Euphemia holds out the parchment and recites the passage that will fix everything.

“Under the laws governing the transfer of these lands, Thorfell Manor and its holdings are hereby granted to the legal possession of Lord Varinsson and his lawful heirs, subject to the obligations herein.”

Euphemia lifts her gaze.

Dagfinn strides beside her. The next part, they all agreed, needed to come from him.

“The surviving heirs of the Walsham family, George Walsham IV and Maryam Walsham, shall be provided a modest stewardship from the estate, sufficient to ensure their continued livelihood and security.”

A murmur sweeps through the crowd.

This time, it is not curiosity. It is doubt.

Euphemia feels it immediately.

Percival feels it too. His confidence falters.

“Give me that,” Percival growls, yanking the deed from Dagfinn’s grip.