Page 90 of Whisper of Nightmares

All day, she’s tried reassuring herself that he will be alright. He always is, after all.

But today, that reassurance feels thinner than usual.

And Euphemia has never yearned more for nightfall.

In the kitchen, Euphemia readies a tray for herself with chamomile tea.

She’s just starting to take it upstairs when a knock raps against the front door.

Her neck snaps toward the sound.

As far as she is aware, they haven’t been expecting anyone.

Euphemia freezes, listening for footsteps to signal that Asvald or Kelda are rushing to the door to greet this unexpected guest. But none carry throughout the quiet manor.

Still, if this is an important visit, she would hate to have been the reason they missed it.

Setting her tray down on the bottom stair, Euphemia answers the door.

She gasps when she comes face to face with Cybele on the perron.

“Cybele!” Euphemia can’t help the smile that eases into place. She never thought she’d see her again. Arms wide, she leans out the door. “What are you doing here⁠—”

A slap strikes her face that echoes like swords clashing.

Euphemia staggers backward. Blinking. Disoriented.

Her sister.

Here?

In Thorfell?

Impossible.

“What am I doing here?” Cybele scoffs, crossing the threshold like a storm cloud descending. “I came to find out what happened to my sister. What, by God’s teeth, are you doing here?”

Euphemia is still shrinking away, still struggling to wrap her mind around what she’s seeing.

Still nursing her smarting cheek, Euphemia splutters, “I—well, you see, I’ve⁠—”

“Married,” Cybele supplies for her, no small amount of poison dripping in her voice. “So I’ve heard. And to a baron, no less. Imagine that.”

The threat in the air makes Euphemia feel as if she is back in Náströnd. Snakes dangling above her. Venom bubbling at her feet.

It’s enough to finally snap out of her shocked stupor.

“I hadn’t expected you,” she says feebly.

Cybele scoffs again. “Of course you hadn’t. You didn’t even bother saying goodbye. Nor did you tell us where you were running off to. I had to hear it from the town crier who heard it from his brother’s wife who heard it from the fishmonger at the market that you’d run off and married the Baron of Thorfell Crag.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d care.” Euphemia’s head lowers, dark hair spilling over her eyes.

Another caustic sound leaves Cybele’s lips. But she does not correct her sister.

Instead, she plants her hands on her hips and says, “Well? Where is he then, this husband of yours? I’d like to meet him.”

Euphemia’s head snaps up. “Oh! Umm. Well, you see⁠—”