Page 47 of Whisper of Nightmares

The warmth that hops could bring her belly does sound appealing…

Before she can second-guess herself, Euphemia tosses the mug back. She braces herself for that familiar balance between bitter and sweet, for the sting of nostalgia that is too fresh to have healed yet.

Instead, something bordering rancid slithers down her throat.

It’s nothing at all like the mead she’s used to.

Euphemia gags, despite her best efforts not to.

Then her mother is scolding her in her ear—Don’t be ungrateful. Smile. Say thank you. Perform. Be anything but as you are.

It takes every lesson on politeness that’s ever been yelled at her to not spit the drink out across the table.

Through a sheer act of will, Euphemia makes herself swallow and smile. “Delicious.”

Kelda snorts. “It’s shit. Nothing like your mother’s brew, that’s for sure.” The woman takes another deep gulp from her own mug before setting it down on the table. She smacks her lips and grimaces. “She’s got a true gift, that one.”

Something churns inside Euphemia. A shadow of a monster that’s only just begun to awaken. But she shoves it back down. Keeps the monster slumbering.

“Thank you. It was my father’s recipe.”

That ever-persistent ache in her chest swells at the mention of him.

Shame swiftly mars it.

This is the point in the conversation when she’ll be told to wipe the frown from her face as if it were a spill on a table. She’ll be chastised about how unfitting it is for a young woman to dwell on such grim subjects. Told that girls her age would do better discussing their piety. Their altruistic deeds. Their commitment to home and family.

Euphemia lowers her head so Kelda cannot see the splotches of heat rising to her cheeks and neck. “My apologies, Lady Kelda. Let us discuss topics more suitable to a pleasant meal.”

Kelda slams a fist on the table, jostling the display and making Euphemia jump.

“We discuss whatever topics we see fit. I have no interest in stilted rules of decorum within my own home.” Her chest is heaving as she meets Euphemia’s gaze across the table. But the momentary rage gives way to weariness. Dragging a hand over her face, Kelda exhales. “Forgive me. These past months…well, you are already aware. Over these hard months, having this place, this refuge from falsehoods and judgments, it’s all I have. Somewhere they cannot tell us who to be. How to speak. What to say. Who should say it. It is a refuge. A privilege. And nothing is more important to me than making sure it stays that way.”

When Euphemia doesn’t move or speak, Kelda adds, “Honesty, little cloud. That is what I’m talking about. There is no greater virtue, don’t you agree?”

Stiffly, Euphemia attempts to nod, but fear still clamors through her.

Kelda sighs, her gaze sticking to the rafters like daggers. Euphemia picks up her fork with a trembling hand and starts poking at her food. Eventually, Kelda resumes eating as well.

The tense silence doesn’t last long though.

Only a few bites in and Kelda flourishes her fork in the air. “I’ve eaten enough meals in silence for one lifetime. Do not make me endure another.”

Euphemia bites her lip. “What would you have me say?”

“Anything. I don’t know. How about—” But the way she says it makes it seem like she does know, especially when her next question is so pointed, and her eyes are staring so sharply. “I’d like to know more about your father.”

The muscles in Euphemia’s body petrify. “What would you like to know about him?”

Kelda shrugs. “Anything. Something.”

Euphemia dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Well, he was a brewer⁠—”

“Was?”

“Yes.” Euphemia frowns, certain Kelda already knows this part of his story. “He…deserted the war. We haven’t seen him since last winter.”

Kelda’s jaw stills mid-bite, half-eaten mutton packed inside her cheek.