Page 6 of Whisper of Nightmares

The meadow where their father was slain.

The meadow she should’ve never found herself in that dreadful, fateful night.

Chapter 3

One Cannot Outrun the Past

As they approach a sun-kissed stretch of tall grass and withering wildflowers, Euphemia’s breath pinches tight. She knows better than most how deceiving this meadow can be. How it can appear serene one moment, and horrific the next.

Where most might behold only lush greenery, she remembers piles of ash.

Singe marks where the nightmare’s flames scorched the open pasture.

The final moments of a man’s life.

Since that night, any time she has walked by the meadow, it demands everything from her. She cannot tear her gaze away. Today is no different. But it’s not only the nightmare she searches for now…

“Hello?” Cybele’s draws out the last syllable and waves at Euphemia, stopping them both in the middle of the path. “What’s gotten into you? You’ve been as spooked as a horse all morning.”

Euphemia wishes her sister had picked any other animal to compare her to. Wishes she could tell Cybele the truth. That Euphemia fears her own impending damnation. Fears, too, whatever else might be stalking her from the shadows.

“What is it?” Cybele follows Euphemia’s gaze to the tree line beyond the meadow. Her dark eyes squint. But finding nothing, Cybele returns her attention to Euphemia, skeptical, but quiet.

“It’s nothing,” Euphemia says, but not a moment later, she swears she hears a horse whinny in the distance.

Her heart stops beating.

Wide eyes scan the meadow.

Only the grass moves, swaying from the gentle caress of the wind.

Probably just a traveler passing through some town. Nothing to fear.

Watching Euphemia’s frightened state, Cybele’s hands slam on her hips. “Alright, something has been bothering you all morning. Tell me. What is it?”

Euphemia runs a hand through the wavy length of her hair. She pulls a chunk of it from behind her ear, trying to put something between her and the meadow. It’s the only way she can bring herself to look away.

“I already told you, it’s nothing.” Euphemia keeps walking, hopeful her sister will simply drop it. “Come. We should keep going. Mother said⁠—”

Cybele snatches her arm, halting her in place. “Not until you tell me what’s been troubling you.” A moment of stubborn silence slams between them, the air thick with tension. But this is one battle Euphemia cannot afford her sister to win. Eventually, Cybele huffs. “Is this about that Conwal boy?”

Surprise and then disgust twists Euphemia’s stomach. “Conwal?”

Of all the things Cybele could’ve mentioned, Euphemia never would’ve guessed it would be the boy Euphemia once thought she’d marry. They haven’t talked about Conwal Wardeby in months. It’s been longer, still, since he’s come around the Saint’s Hearth asking about her. And Euphemia is about to confess that Conwal is no nearer her mind than that farthest star in the night sky, when a thought occurs to her.

Conwal might be the most believable explanation she has for her distractedness today. It’s not like she can tell Cybele about the nightmare, nor the figure she saw in her dream. She especially can’t tell her about their father, not without severely upsetting their mother.

With no other excuse to think of, Euphemia decides to lean into the one Cybele’s provided. “Yes, Conwal. That’s exactly it.” She wrings her hands together, hoping to sell the performance, even if it is a little overwrought. “Things didn’t end well between us and⁠—”

Cybele scoffs. “Yes, perhaps a year ago?” Her sister folds her arms, eyes narrowing. “You can’t expect me to believe this is about you pining though? I watched you ignore that pitiful boy for months.”

“I-I know.” Euphemia bites her lip, mind whirring. If Cybele is going to be all clever about it, fine. Euphemia will simply have to blend truth into the story the same way she blends herbs into her brews. Concocting the perfect rationale. “But I had a dream about him last night. It opened up old wounds, and now…”

Her mother’s voice rings in her skull. Criticisms and chastisements that were flogged against her every time Conwal came around and Euphemia ran to hide in the other room, refusing to see him. “He’s a fine boy,” her mother had said. “The best you may ever know. Surely, whatever came between you two, is not worth avoiding him like this.”

When Euphemia lowers her gaze, her stomach churns at the shame she’s forced to exhibit, for he deserves none of it. “I can’t stop thinking about how I treated him.”

“Ah.” Cybele’s voice softens. For a moment, Euphemia thinks she might actually offer words of comfort. Pat her on the shoulder. Tell her everything will be alright. But much like their mother, the softness is always temporary. Cybele takes a sharp inhale. “Well, it was only a dream, Euphemia. No use in letting it derail your entire day.”