Page 50 of Whisper of Nightmares

Euphemia won’t give Kelda the satisfaction.

She grabs her spoon and scoops another bite of oats. “How long had you been spying on us before the market then?”

“A few days, little cloud.”

Euphemia hadn’t expected her to answer her so quickly. So uninhibited.

It throws off her line of questioning.

“Stop calling me that.”

“What’s the matter? I think the name suits you.”

Euphemia points her nose in the air. “Well, I disagree.”

The grin on Kelda’s face grows vicious, a bramble of sharp thorns.

Determined to see it falter, Euphemia veers the conversation to the one sore spot she knows Kelda has.

“I think it’s your turn to talk. How about you tell me about your son. What’s Dagfinn like?”

Kelda’s smirk doesn’t falter nearly enough. “It depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

Kelda considers her words. “My son is a curious man, but a sensitive one. He enjoys the sciences this new world has to offer, things my village would have never provided him.”

“Sciences? Like what?”

Kelda opens her mouth to answer, when the doors at the end of the great hall burst open.

Euphemia startles so intensely, she drops her roll of bread. Kelda, on the other hand, doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even shift her gaze as Asvald enters.

He starts to address Kelda by name alone, then seems to remember Euphemia’s presence and bows. “Lady Kelda, sorry to interrupt.”

She rolls her eyes, more at the decorum of it all than anything, and Euphemia catches herself wondering what things might’ve been like before her arrival. There is a familiarness there that she can’t quite place.

“What is it, Asvald? Speak plainly.”

Stiffly, he stands. “You have a visitor.”

“Let me guess…” Kelda sits back in the chair that she treats more like a throne. “Has the rat returned?”

“He has.”

An offended scoff echoes in the hallway behind Asvald. Him and Kelda share a devious smirk.

Kelda waves to him. “Bring him in.”

Euphemia sits taller, tucking the stray curls behind her ears. She hadn’t known they would be entertaining company today, otherwise she might’ve made herself more presentable. Whoever this is, this will be his first impression of Euphemia. Bed-snarled hair and a haphazardly thrown on, dusty gown.

Fortunately, the man who enters is dressed simply enough. He’s donned in various shades of nature—a tree bark robe draped over a mud-colored tunic that’s cinched by a cow hide belt. Grey hair peeks from under his felt cap, the most extravagant piece of his whole outfit.

He carries himself with an air of authority that makes Euphemia wonder if he is as important as he thinks he is.

Without looking at him, Kelda holds out her hand.

The man kisses it and steps back.