Page 39 of Whisper of Nightmares

Pity sinks in Euphemia’s core again.

She hadn’t meant to offend, she just needed to be sure.

This woman has suffered enough though, so she tries a gentler approach. “And you’re still unsure what happened to him? What made him…cursed?”

Kelda’s eyes gloss over as she settles into the painful memory. “One day he simply did not join me for breakfast—not unusual for him by any means. My Dagfinn often slept like an owl, fluttering about at night, only able to rest with the sun.” A fond smile twitches the corner of her lips. It’s gone before it can leave a mark. “Unaware of his condition, I went into town that day. It wasn’t until nightfall that I returned, ready to join him for supper. But Dagfinn did not join me that evening. Nor has he joined me for any meal since.”

Euphemia sits with the weight of it all.

Kelda’s tremendous loss feels like another person in the room.

Months she’s worried over her son. Euphemia doesn’t know what would be worse: having someone torn from her life suddenly and finitely, or spending month after agonizing month wondering if today would be the day they finally died.

“Is he…alright, otherwise?”

Offense creeps into Kelda’s expression. “He is cared for every day, if that is what you are asking.”

“No, I didn’t mean to suggest—” Biting her lip, Euphemia stops herself from fumbling more than she already has. She pauses and gathers her words carefully. “I only meant to ask how is he still breathing? He’s been asleep for months, you said. How does he drink? How does he eat?”

“Ah,” Kelda says, the earlier offense waning, but suspicion still present. “It is strange, but he responds to food and water as if nothing were wrong. I bring a glass to his lips, and he drinks. I offer him soup and he swallows.”

“Very strange indeed.”

Euphemia hears the awe in her own voice a moment too late.

“Does my son’s predicament impress you?”

Euphemia’s heart jerks. “No!”

“Then what is this?” Kelda gestures up and down the length of her. “You ask about him as if he is something to be studied.”

“I’m sorry.” Shame burns her chest, and Euphemia’s head hangs. “I meant no offense. It’s just a miracle that he has survived all this time. That’s all.”

Kelda’s glare is unrelenting.

Euphemia looks to Asvald for aid, but what aid could he provide? She’s the one blundering this moment of vulnerability. It’s clear Kelda never wanted to tell her any of this and the moment she does, her blasted fascinations get the better of her.

It’s not the appropriate time for wonder.

This is a cursed man they’re discussing. Her husband.

Someone who could be fighting for his life every day, a question that surely plagues his mother constantly.

Euphemia tries fixing her expression with the respect and adoration she thinks is expected of her. After all, this woman has gone to great lengths for her son. She’s traveled across a battle-torn country, found a woman he’d been calling for, and welcomed her into their home, all with the hope that her efforts might not be in vain.

If her own mother had been in the same position, she wouldn’t have done nearly half as much. She’d tell Euphemia to pray and be done with it.

“You have endured a great hardship, Lady Kelda,” Euphemia says, steeling her voice with the reverence this woman deserves. “First losing your husband, and now this. It takes a strong heart to endure such pain.”

Although her words are meant to commend, they fall upon Kelda like striking blows.

The widow’s face reddens, features contorting.

Her jaw unhinges, ready to eviscerate Euphemia once and for all.

But Asvald stands at the ready, his head tilting as if to say I wouldn’t do that if I were you.

For a moment, Kelda looks like she might defy him, a wolf already on the scent of blood.