Page 9 of Whisper of Nightmares

She’s only a few stalls away from Cybele when⁠—

A cloaked figure steps in front of her.

The broader shoulders indicate a man, and Euphemia’s first thought is of the figure in her dream. Fear impales her like a spear. Dark omens blaze in her mind. Raging flames. Shadows. Danger.

But then the young man lifts the cloak from his head.

A familiar face stares down at her.

The young man Euphemia’s world once revolved around.

Conwal Wardeby.

Relief washes over her. But following promptly on its tails is a flooding of untethered rage.

Her vision pinholes. All this time, she’s managed to avoid him. Nearly a full year of ducking into the back of the tavern whenever he’s come around, or hiding behind stalls when she’s spotted him across the market, or excusing herself from sermons whenever she’s spotted him among the parishioners.

But with the flock of marketgoers behind her and Cybele and their stall just up ahead, there’s nowhere to run. Conwal has made certain of that.

His eyes are hollowed and bloodshot, but he cannot tear his gaze away from her. Like he’s just seen a ghost. “Euphemia, it’s…been a while. H-how are you fairing?”

She searches for the politeness ingrained in her. For the predetermined responses befitting a young woman in this position.

But what does one say to the man who once held her heart? The man who crushed it forever.

“I am well, Conwal,” she says quietly, her voice shaking. “Now if you’ll excuse me⁠—”

He steps in front of her, staring down at his fumbling hands. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Silence chokes the air between them.

Euphemia looks past his shoulder to where her sister had previously been talking to a new buyer. Now, Cybele watches her with unblinking eyes. Euphemia tries communicating to her without words, tries screaming through her gaze for Cybele to help. To intervene. To stop Conwal before he can utter the one phrase Euphemia has been avoiding all these months.

But she is too late.

Conwell wets his lips, his nervous gaze flitting about. “I haven’t had the chance to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your father.”

And just like that, the air is cleaved from Euphemia’s lungs.

It’s the apology she’s always wanted from him. The one she knows she deserves.

But despite months having passed, she is still not ready to hear it. Cannot bear to receive his platitudes and hollow remorse.

The market disappears.

Her hands grow hot. Chest aflame.

She has no response for him. None suitable for how she’s expected to react anyway. The demure smiles and placations meant to ease his discomfort. But what of hers?

If it weren’t for Conwal, Euphemia’s father would still be alive.

It’s his fault she was out in the meadow that night.

His fault that her heart yearned for the thrill of secrecy and seduction.

His fault that the nightmare had come for her, drawn to her like a moth to flame.

Conwal had poisoned her with lust and inhibition. And it was her father who had paid the price.