Page 7 of Whisper of Nightmares

And with that, Cybele tugs the donkey’s rope and continues down the dirt path.

Euphemia is left frozen.

Frozen in memories.

In heartache.

In shame.

“Come along now. We mustn’t dally,” Cybele calls over her shoulder. “And please, for the love of God, do something with that scowl before we reach town. You’ll scare away the customers, and mother will not be pleased if we return home with anything less than an empty cart.”

Mention of their mother is enough to pull Euphemia out of her fugue, albeit minutely.

She marches forward like a stagnant wind, barely present at all, her mind stuck in the past.

Though the farther away from the meadow they walk, the easier it becomes to leave those memories behind. Soon Euphemia turns her attention toward the person she must become to endure a day in the market. Someone capable of smiling for hours. Someone who exudes unwavering warmth and is capable of enduring hours of pleasantries. Someone more like her sister.

It’s not a persona that comes naturally to her. But it’s one she’s stepped into before. Like a pair of decades-old shoes that have been handed down over the years—Euphemia knows the imprints. Knows where to place her feet so the foreign shape is most comfortable. But the awkward shape always leaves her feeling a bit off-kilter and strange. Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Or perhaps the other way around. The helpless prey shambling among fanged beasts ready to devour her at the slightest indication that she does not belong.

But as they approach town, Euphemia throws on the wolf’s pelt and the smile expected of her.

Merchants have already begun filtering into the town. Most of the ones who have finished setting up for the day appear to be the folks who live nearby, while those who traveled from out of town are still arriving and setting out their wares. Euphemia keeps her eyeroll to herself. It seems they had been worried about getting a late start for nothing.

Cybele unties the donkey from the cart and resecures him to a hitching post. She gives him his feed bag, making sure he’s settled before helping Euphemia get the cart setup for the marketgoers. They reorganize everything—ensuring the baskets of herbs and root vegetables are displayed adequately, that the vegetable pies and honey cakes are still wrapped in linens to help keep them warm while they wait, and of course that the ale is tapped and ready for pouring.

They are just finishing up as the first buyers begin to amble through the market.

“Pleasant day, Goody” Cybele uses the informal but pleasant title to each person who passes by. “Nice to see you again.”

Her greetings seem far too cheerful in Euphemia’s opinion. They’re in stark contrast to the gloom that shrouds the town, and the dreary dispositions of nearly everyone passing through. These are war times, after all. And although there are no active battles nearby that Euphemia is aware of, the soldiers are ever present, a constant reminder of the feud still lingering. Taxes remain high. Families still grieve their lost sons and fathers.

The people are on edge, never knowing if their township will switch allegiances, and what hostility that might bring to their doorsteps.

Though Euphemia supposes there are those who appreciate a distraction.

“Chilling morning, isn’t it?” comes Cybele’s singsong voice as a middle-aged woman approaches.

She clutches a wool shawl around her shoulders, warmth creasing the edges of her eyes. “Saw the first signs of frost today, we did.”

Cybele sighs and shakes her head, never losing that hint of a bright smile. “It’s happening faster than we hoped. I trust your family is adequately prepared?”

Euphemia has to stifle a groan. It’s the same repetitive conversation with every person they ever encounter. How are you? Notice the change in weather? Can you survive the next season? Over and over again.

Euphemia prefers deeper conversations. Like the ones she used to have with her father. When he wasn’t pulled away to battle, they’d spend their days laboring in the tavern, discussing all manner of philosophical ponderings. Like if she had wings, what might she find beyond the clouds and stars? Or if she dug a hole in their garden as deep as the earth would allow, what she might she find beneath them?

Granted, those were the bright-eyed musings of a child. But to this day, Euphemia still prefers conversations about the unknown over those rooted in truths and banality.

She used to be able to feign interest in the mundane aspects of people’s lives. Ever since her father’s passing, it’s been challenging to pretend.

Fortunately, Cybele relishes these interactions. So she indulges conversation while Euphemia handles the exchanging of coin.

Within a few hours, they sell half of the parsnips, onions, and most of the bushels of parsley and thyme. A few soldiers wander through and even buy a vegetable pie or two.

But it is the ale that draws the largest crowd, just as Euphemia hoped it would.

“I’ve tasted no finer ale in all of England,” more than one buyer beams at them.

And every time they do, Euphemia feels her chest swell with something warm and pleasant, something that feels like dancing in firelight with that same ale in her belly. Uninhibited. Freeing.