Page 72 of Whisper of Nightmares

Asvald parks the carriage. As he helps them out, Euphemia and Kelda take turns ducking under their hoods and racing inside where the rain cannot reach them. The cold still does, though. In the foyer, Euphemia shakes off her mantle, handing it to Asvald to be returned to the closet, just as a breeze blows through her. As if the manor has breath as chilling as ice.

She trembles, arms wrapping over herself as she thinks only of warm tea, blankets, and a nice fire.

Kelda shrugs off her cloak as well and slips on a pair of slippers that were by the door. “Join me for some tea.”

There is no question in her tone. And though Euphemia would like nothing more than to retreat to the confines of her bedchamber, she cannot refuse.

“Some tea would be nice,” she says, and Kelda leads them from the foyer into the grand sitting room.

Towering windows stretch along the far wall, their panes blurred by the afternoon rain and the grey sea beyond. The room is sparsely furnished, much like the rest of the castle. Empty spaces mark the walls, and faint rings remain where vases and potted plants once stood.

A handful of chairs and a settee cluster around a broad hearth, where a fire crackles warmly despite the dreary weather outside.

Euphemia sinks into one of the seats, grateful for the heat, and watches as Kelda settles nearby. A few moments later, Asvald returns with a tea tray, setting it carefully upon the table between them before taking up a position near the edge of the room. Not leaving. Not granting them complete privacy. More like the illusion of one.

Euphemia realizes she does not know what Kelda has told him about what happened. But judging by the way he watches her, Euphemia thinks he knows all of it, and is staying nearby, just in case.

Kelda leans forward and pours the tea. “Care to tell me what happened today?”

She hands a steaming cup to Euphemia, and it’s not until she accepts the saucer that she notices the small biscuit on the side. Hunger coils like a snake in Euphemia’s belly. She hadn’t eaten before they left. And now she isn’t sure she can trust her stomach with food either. But perhaps a bite or two might do wonders for the pounding in her skull.

“There is nothing to tell,” she says, leaning back against the cushions. Her nose twitches from the dust, but she ignores it, nibbling on her biscuit as she waits for the tea to cool.

One of Kelda’s eyebrows crooks from over her cup. “Oh? Was that nothing to you?”

“No, but I⁠—”

Kelda doesn’t let her finish. “Is it common for you to faint mid-conversation like that?”

Euphemia feels the blood in her veins boiling. “No. Not at all. I was only⁠—”

But Kelda is relentless. She interrupts again. “Then I believe it was not simply nothing and there is plenty to tell. And I, for one, would like to hear.”

Euphemia can hold her tongue no longer. “She knew my father, alright? That is all.”

Only the crackling of the fire fills the room for a time, followed by the sound of Kelda setting her teacup back on the tray.

“That much was obvious already, little cloud,” Kelda says, staring at her intently. “Forgive me for saying it, but that was an unusual reaction for one who’s merely lost someone.”

Heat wrenches Euphemia’s chest. She can no longer breathe. Smoke is trapped in her lungs, suffocating her.

Tears fall from her eyes as torrential as the rainstorm outside. The teacup quakes in her hand. Gently, Kelda reaches over, takes it from her, and sets it down on the table.

“You know,” Kelda starts, filling the heavy silence. “When we lost my Otho, I blamed myself. I thought I didn’t find the right doctor. Didn’t try enough of the methods to soothe and heal him. Worse than the blame, I told myself I wasn’t there for him enough in those final days. We weren’t sure if he was contagious, you see, so Dagfinn and I were advised to keep our distance.” Catching Euphemia’s abrupt look, she answers the unspoken question. “St. Anthony’s Fire took him in the end.”

Euphemia swallows the lump of grief in her throat. But it barely budges. The rock-ish thing, lodged in there tightly like a rock of coal, one for each of the men lost between them.

She had heard it was illness that claimed Otho’s life, but had not known which one. And from what Euphemia’s heard in passing, St. Anthony’s Fire is as horrific as the worst of them. A scorching fever that tears through the body, their limbs blackening as delirium takes them.

Euphemia’s heart aches for the woman. To have to watch someone she loves go through such a painful end, it’s heartbreaking.

Kelda’s gaze settles on the hearth as she grabs her tea again. Quietly, she sips. “When I found Dagfinn ill, I blamed myself for him as well. I thought, why did I even go in town that day? Why hadn’t I checked on him first? Made sure he was alright?”

Euphemia knows what she’s doing.

It’s the same rationalization Euphemia herself has attempted ever since her father’s passing.

Late at night when no one else is around, Euphemia has sobbed. Told herself it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t meant to. She would never have gone there if she had known⁠—