Page 99 of Whisper of Nightmares

But Cybele does not yet know about Dagfinn.

And since his cursed condition is not only Euphemia’s secret to share, she cannot afford the truth.

“Yes,” she says firmly, hoping Cybele will understand.

The conversation drifts from there, slowly at first. They cover topics like the weather and travel. Slowly, they fall into a familiar rhythm, the sort of idle conversation two sisters are always able to slip into, no matter how much time has passed.

There’s a weightlessness to it.

Something that calms and soothes Euphemia’s nerves.

She finds herself sinking deeper into the pillows and wrapping blankets around herself.

Euphemia is so enraptured by the familiar company, she almost doesn’t notice her eyelids growing heavy.

She’s on the brink of sleep when the conversation veers abruptly.

“There’s been talk of the nightmare,” Cybele says.

Euphemia almost can’t rouse herself.

Sleep presses upon her so heavily.

Eyes refusing to open.

The chamomile dragging her down.

She manages a groggy, “What nightmare?”

Cybele sounds as though she’s leaning closer, her voice nowhere near as tired. “The one back home. The townsfolk saw it’s hoofprints for only a day or two. Then it was gone.”

“That’s—that’s wonderful news.” Relief pulses through Euphemia.

She starts to sink into her exhaustion. The waking world blends, the crackling fire reminding her of burning eyes. A brimstone voice.

She’ll see him again soon.

Only a moment away.

“They say the nightmare has been spotted in Thorfell,” Cybele says, but her voice is all wrong. Warbled. Distant. Unreal.

“That’s awful,” Euphemia thinks she says. But she is no longer aware of whether her mouth is moving. If her body is in the manor or in the dream. If she is real or a ghost.

The last thing she’s aware of on the side of waking is Cybele stroking her head. She pulls the blanket up over her shoulders and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well, sister. I will keep you safe. I will uncover the truth.”

Then the manor is gone.

An abyss envelops her.

Swallows everything.

Until all Euphemia can see is black.

Everywhere.

Then texture breathes into the world. Shades of grey appear. Tall spires of trees in the near distance. A quaint meadow. Wildflowers. The sky above her is midnight blue and full of stars. The grass beneath her feet is crisp. The scent of late autumn is cold in the air.

And there’s a familiar but nearly forgotten thrill dancing against her heart as she waits for a boy.