Page 189 of Whisper of Nightmares

He’s wearing a worn cotton vest the color of earth and a pair of muddied trousers with even muddier knees that tell Euphemia he’s been working in his fields all morning.

He’s a few years older than them, though there is an innocence about him that sometimes makes her forget.

Heathcliffe glances between the two of them, a bit frantic but trying to conceal it. “If you need someone to go to Nottinghamshire, I’d be happy to do it. Me mum’s got another load of casks for them anyways.”

Dagfinn raises his eyebrows at Euphemia in a look that says, see? I told you so.

When Maryam and Andriana first forged this new partnership, Heathcliffe all but refused to be the one to make the journeys. He insisted he was content in Thorfell tending to his lands rather than gallivanting across the country. However, Maryam was too ill to travel a couple months back, and so Heathcliffe had gone in her stead. According to the update Euphemia received from her mother shortly after, Heathcliffe couldn’t take his eyes from Cybele the entire stay.

The poor, lovestruck fool has insisted on journeying down there for every shipment since.

Euphemia rolls her eyes at Dagfinn.

He takes a teasing, reproachful tone with the man. “One of these days, you’ll need to start acting like the noble you are and hire one of the town carters to deliver your wares.”

“Oh, I have no interest in lordly things, my Lord.” Heathcliffe blushes. “Besides, it would be no trouble at all.”

Dagfinn and Euphemia hold back their chuckles.

“Very well,” Euphemia says, half-laughing to herself. “Let’s all go then. It has been awhile since I’ve seen my family. Will you be ready to leave in a few days?”

There is usually a permanent slouch in the way the impoverished carry themselves—Euphemia knows firsthand how the cold winters, aching bellies, and hard labor can bend the body in on itself.

But in this moment, Heathcliffe straightens like a flower reaching for the sun.

“That would be more than doable. Thank you. I look forward to it.”

Heathcliffe disappears down the path, muttering excitedly to himself as he heads back toward his cottage and land.

“That will be entertaining to watch,” Dagfinn says.

Euphemia leans her head onto his shoulder and sighs. “He’s not going to survive her. You might not survive her.”

Dagfinn’s expression becomes haughty. “I survived Helheim. I think I can handle Cybele Branwen.”

Euphemia shrugs. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

With their arms wrapped around each other, the two head back inside Thorfell Manor. Inside the haunted halls she has come to call home. They lounge in the sitting room, Dagfinn reading, while Euphemia sorts her flowers.

At the sound of distant voices, she glances out the window to find Asvald and Kelda making their way back to the manor. Asvald says something and Kelda throws her head back in laughter. Their hands brush.

Euphemia smiles.

It is such a small thing. A brief caress. A laugh carried from a heart that has been broken. A woman allowing herself to find happiness again.

Euphemia has learned not to underestimate those small things.

Because that is what life has become: a collection of small things, each one a little act of healing just as important as the last.

There are whispers about them now, of course. Tales that ripple through Thorfell and grow more fantastical with every telling. Some swear the cursed lord and his haunted bride ride a flaming horse through the countryside every night. Others insist Dagfinn can brew a tincture strong enough to cheat death itself, while Euphemia can lay a hand upon the dying and convince death to loosen its grip.

Most of the townsfolk know better than to believe such nonsense.

Some still make the sign of the cross when Euphemia passes.

Others lower their voices when they speak of Thorfell Manor or anyone who dwells there.

And yet, when sickness comes, or a child falls ill, or an old man draws his final breath, the people come to the manor all the same. They seek the couple’s tinctures and blessing.