Page 4 of Whisper of Nightmares

Andriana gives a curt nod before leaving her daughter alone.

For a moment, Euphemia simply stands there.

The kitchen feels strangely quiet without her mother’s sharp voice filling it, though the tavern beyond is already beginning to stir. She draws a slow breath, wipes her palms against her apron, and turns back toward the ale.

There is work to be done.

A moment later, Ismene comes barreling into the kitchen. She grabs a small basket from the table and tucks it against her hip without so much as a glance in Euphemia’s direction. Before Euphemia can blink, the girl is gone again, headed for the back door, swinging it wide, and disappearing into the garden.

The door swings shut behind her with a. hollow click. The old latch rattles in its bracket before catching.

Euphemia sighs.

She’ll have to remember to unlatch it before she leaves.

Turning back to her work, Euphemia scoops the thick layer of foam that rests atop the ale and sets it aside for the next batch. Then she begins the tedious work of transferring the house ale to smaller casks and firkins—arguably the most laborious part of the process. Just scooping, pouring, and sealing away.

However, once the first brew has been distributed, she turns her attention to the second tun.

This is the ale that will impress. The one she took creative liberties on and boiled with honey and heather for a brighter, more floral flavor.

However, as Euphemia draws back the cover, she’s disheartened to find the aroma isn’t as strong as she thought it would be. She grabs a stir stick from nearby, dips it into the amber liquid, and tastes.

It’s not entirely unpleasant.

Perfectly drinkable by anyone else’s standards.

But this is a market ale. The one that customers are meant to remember them by. The ale that travelers will tell their friends and neighbors about, and the reason Euphemia and her family will continue to see new patrons every week, people seeking out the Saint’s Hearth so they can have another pint of the finest ale in all of England. They don’t come for the boring, bitter house ale her mother has her make every week. They come for Euphemia’s special brew. Her father’s brew.

If it’s too bland, no one will remember them.

No one will remember him.

Determination floods her as the early morning light filters in across the floor.

Staring into the amber ale, Euphemia asks herself the same question her father would every time a brew didn’t turn out the way he wanted it to:

How will the first sip make them feel?

For this particular ale, Euphemia had been thinking about how much the people of England have suffered. Nearly her entire life, the country had known war—Euphemia had been born at the end of one era of bloodshed and famine, only for the country to succumb to another a few years later. Their people were tired. They were miserable. They wanted stability. Prosperity. For their leaders to keep the peace while the country repaired its deep wounds.

The only thing Euphemia had been trying to pour into this ale was a spark of light. She wanted the people in Nottinghamshire to remember joy. To help them forget for one moment that they were living in squalor, on the edge of a knife, waiting for the noble houses to bring battle to yet another town.

Euphemia tastes the ale on the spoon again.

Swirls it around in her mouth.

Lets the flavor speak to her.

This is the part of brewing she loves. The part she loses herself to. When her thoughts are alive, buzzing around the problem posed and she searches for the perfect solution. Euphemia smacks her lips. The sweetness is there, but it’s missing that brightness. And if heather alone won’t achieve it, she knows the ingredient that will.

Euphemia whips toward the shelves. She shoves past burlap sacks of grain, sealed jars, and herbs.

Finally, she finds what she’s been searching for.

The last of the dried roses.

Euphemia plucks a handful of petals, careful to avoid the thorns, and grinds them into a mortar and pestle. When all that’s left is blood-colored dust, she sifts the remains into the brew and gives it a hearty stir.