Page 32 of Whisper of Nightmares

It’s less ritualistic than Euphemia had prepared herself for. No animal sacrifices and carnal dancing—nothing wild and hedonistic like the rumors she’s heard about the northern folk. Instead, it is quiet. Almost disappointingly so. Asvald speaks, invoking the hearth and the family Euphemia is about to join. He asks for the witnesses to hear and acknowledge the union, then turns his attention to Euphemia. He instructs her on what words to say, and when it is time for Dagfinn’s part, Kelda recites them for him.

Euphemia listens carefully, waiting for some grand declaration that will make the whole thing feel real.

There is none.

Only vows. Names. The binding of her wrist.

And a husband who may as well have been a phantom wind.

The leather is wrapped around her hand and pulled tight.

And with the final binding wrapped, Asvald declares, “Euphemia Branwen of Nottinghamshire, before this hearth and those who came before us, we welcome thee into the family Varinsson. May thy blood join with ours, thy heart find warmth beneath this roof, and thy union with Baron Dagfinn Varinsson bring an end to that which binds him. May both your family houses prosper beneath the same sun.”

Euphemia’s brow scrunches at the phrase that which binds him.

But it’s hardly the only thing on her mind.

Euphemia is wed.

She is a missus.

A bride to a mysterious man—whom Euphemia hopes she will soon meet.

Regardless, no nightmarish horse can come trampling upon her sinful heart now.

Asvald begins unbinding Euphemia’s hand when Kelda looks up at him, her eyes bright.

“It is done then?”

He gives a single nod, his gaze briefly lingering on Euphemia. “As done as it can be.”

Before Euphemia can ask what that means, Kelda is storming back through the great hall like a gust of wind.

Rooted in place by the leather, Euphemia can only watch as she goes. “Where is she headed?”

Asvald’s sigh is weary with despair. “To Dagfinn’s quarters. To see if it worked.”

Her brows pinch with worry. “If what worked?”

Another sigh. This one, somehow decades older. “Your marriage, of course.”

The final wrapping comes undone and Asvald busies himself with cleaning the rest of the ceremony. She could stay and try pressing him further, but his stony exterior gives Euphemia the distinct impression he is not so easily broken. Besides, there is already another way to find the answers she seeks.

Before he can stop her, Euphemia lifts her skirts into her hands and runs.

She half-expects him to come barreling after her, and she knows she’ll not be able to outrun him. Yet, one glance over her shoulder tells her she is free. He is not her captor. The lies are. And Euphemia is determined to uncover them.

Euphemia bursts through the double doors. Without a candle to light her way, darkness descends. Panic swells in her chest. She does not yet know these twisting turns. She could become lost.

But then she sees it. A flicker of candlelight blinking down the hallway to her left.

Certain it belongs to Kelda, she runs after it.

Heedless, at first.

But as she draws nearer, the swishing of her skirts echoing against the sparse corridor around her, Euphemia slows. Follows quietly, peering around the corners like a curious mouse.

She watches Kelda disappear up a stone, spiral staircase.