Disgraced
The rest of the afternoon, Euphemia spends readying the tavern for guests.
She brings the linens in from drying, and remakes the unoccupied beds so they’ll be ready for the influx of merchants who will arrive later.
As she works her way through each room upstairs, it isn’t long before the Saint’s Hearth livens with robust conversations and jovial laughter.
The ale loosens their tongues, and soon, Euphemia can hear their offensively off-tune melodies ricocheting off the rafters just as she’s finishing with the final bed.
Just as she’s exiting, she also hears a clamber of drunken bodies clashing into one another, their frothing mugs sent clattering to the ground.
Euphemia throws on a brittle smile, and heads downstairs.
The scent of baked bread, boiled onions, and stale beer fills the air.
She spots Cybele and her mother immediately, the two of them already helping the drunken men back to their feet and cleaning up the mess on the floor.
The patrons are always a little rowdier on a market day, when they celebrate extra earnings if they were lucky, or drown their sorrows if they weren’t.
But these particular patrons, Euphemia’s familiar with. They visit the Saint’s Hearth nearly every night. And nearly every night they come, Euphemia feels as if she’s walking on eggshells, dodging the daggers glared at her by Thurstan Wardeby, Conwal’s father.
He spies her instantly, and it might be her imagination, but his glare tonight feels fiercer than ever.
Thurstan is righting himself as Andriana helps one of his compatriots back to his feet.
The other man is already so inebriated that he can hardly keep his eyes open.
Andriana points him toward the exit, and from the top of the stairs, Euphemia can see the whole crew erupt with counterarguments, but she’ll hear none of them.
She merely points, waiting. Only after Thurstan shoos the man out does he begrudgingly stagger toward the door.
And then Thurstan is watching Euphemia once more. She feels like a doe frozen before a knocked arrow. Uncertain whether she should remain still or bolt.
The tavern door swings open, and the drunken man who’d been on his way out crashes to the ground again, muttering and cussing the whole way down. Euphemia has never been more relieved for a commotion, for it draws Thurstan’s attention and relieves her from the weight of his glare.
However, as she watches Thurstan cross the room to hoist his man back to his feet, she notices the reason for his tumbling. Someone enters the tavern, uttering an apology that Thurstan waves off. And as the person lowers their hood, Euphemia recognizes her.
The strange woman from the market.
The drunken man mumbles something unkindly toward her and Thurstan aids him out into the darkening night. He’ll be back, of course. But for now, his exit siphons an ocean of tension from the air.
But one wolf has left only for another to enter.
From the stairs, Euphemia watches as the strange woman shuffles toward an empty table. She takes a seat and looks around the room, searching for service, when their eyes meet.
Euphemia curses under her breath. She doesn’t want to speak to this woman any more than she already has. There is something off about her, and Euphemia already has enough off things in her life to contend with.
Then again…
Perhaps having the opportunity to speak with this woman privately might grant Euphemia more insight into her intentions. Maybe then she could find out what’s brought her to Nottinghamshire, what she’s searching for, and why she seems so interested in their family.
Adjusting the apron fastened around her hips, Euphemia marches toward the woman, the whole while digging through her mind to find the name she had provided earlier—it started with a K. Kathryn? Kenza? Kadisa? Euphemia grumbles to herself, wishing she had better aptitude for such things.
Until she finally recalls it.
A northern name.
Kelda Varinsson.
But by the time she reaches Kelda’s table, Euphemia decides to hold onto the name for a moment longer, testing a theory.
“Evening, Goody,” Euphemia uses the informal title with a polite nod, watching the woman for a reaction.
But if Kelda is accustomed to being called Mistress or Madame, she gives no indication of surprise or offense.
In fact, her keen eyes burrow into Euphemia as if she’s the one who is doing the prodding.
It gives Euphemia pause, and although she’d prefer to get straight to the bottom of why Kelda is in town, she opts for a more hospitable approach instead.
“Welcome to the Saint’s Hearth. Glad to see you were able to find us alright. ”
Kelda huffs a laugh. “Are you now? I was given the distinct impression that you’d rather I not turn up here at all.”
Euphemia’s cheeks flame. It’s such a blunt confrontation, she struggles for a response. All she knows is that if her mother were to overhear them, the punishment would be severe. Under no circumstances are they ever to make someone feel unwanted.
Euphemia forgets her own intentions completely and focuses solely on the role she must play. Dutiful daughter. Helpful barmaid. “I assure you, you have me mistaken. I would never—”
“No matter,” Kelda says, cutting her short with a flick of her hand as she leans onto the table. “What do you have here? It’s been a long day, and I could use a warm meal.”
Euphemia is momentarily disoriented, the conversation jostling her like an autumn leaf.
But she has served far too many patrons for this line of questioning not to come as naturally to her as breathing.
“Stews on the fire. Pies in the oven. Breads a bit stale, but edible if you’ve got teeth strong enough to bite bricks. ”
Kelda’s mouth quirks. “Bricks it is, then. Though I wouldn’t mind some stew to go along with it and soften it up.”
Euphemia nods and leaves to retrieve the food. When she returns, she places the bowl on the table. Kelda’s eyes snag on her scarred hand.
Kelda’s head bobs at it. “What happened? Lose a fight with the hearth?”
Jerking her arm away, Euphemia tucks it close to her chest. “I-is there anything else I can get you?”
Kelda’s gaze lingers a bit longer. Her eyes lift from Euphemia’s guarded hand to her even more guarded face.
She won’t find nothing there. Euphemia will make sure of it.
She buries the painful memory in the deepest, darkest hole in her mind.
Somewhere this woman cannot find it, no matter how much she stares.
Eventually, Kelda’s attention falls back to her food. She dunks the slice of bread into her stew and blows at the steam. “This should do for now. You have my gratitude, Euphemia.”
Hearing her name on this woman’s lips is enough to churn her stomach. Already, she’s too intimate with them, and yet they know nothing of her.
Kelda reaches into her pocket, and slides coin across the table.
Euphemia is uneasy on her feet as she reaches for it. But then she blinks, disbelief overcoming her sense of unsteadiness. There are five pence here.
“That’s—this is far too much for bread and stew,” Euphemia says.
But deep down, her suspicions are vindicated.
This is precisely the proof she was searching for.
This woman is not who she is pretending to be.
She might wear the clothes of a commoner, but only the wealthy would overpay and flaunt their coin so blatantly.
Kelda’s brows wrinkle. “You do have a room available still, don’t you?”
Conviction whooshes out of her like a strong wind. Euphemia squeezes her eyes shut. “Right. A room. Yes. We prepared one for you earlier actually.” Grabbing the coins, Euphemia shoves them into her apron. “When you’ve finished eating, just wave one of us down and we can show you to your room.”
Kelda smiles, something unsettling about it. “Thank you. That should be all for now then.”
Euphemia turns to leave but stops. Something keeps itching the back of her skull.
No matter how much she tries to let it go, how much she tells herself her suspicions are not warranted, she cannot let them go.
Because the truth is, she might be the only one apprehensive about this woman’s arrival—on a day like today, it’s normal for strangers of all kinds to come to town. No one will look at her twice.
But Euphemia can’t take any chances.
Something is wrong with this woman. Her presence. Her lingering gazes. Her questions.
If she is here with nefarious intentions, then it is Euphemia’s duty to find out why. It’s the only way to keep her remaining family safe. But how?
Euphemia only has a few skills at her disposal. And although she doesn’t think brewing will come in handy here, she knows how to tend to patrons. The conversations expected of her to help them feel welcomed. The questions she must ask to feign interest in their lives.
And one of those questions could serve her now.
Euphemia spins back around. “Where is it you said you came from by the way?”
“Never mentioned it,” Kelda says around a mouthful of bread.
Euphemia feels her teeth trying to grind together, but she will not let this woman win. She forces that practiced smile. “I’d love to hear about it. We don’t get to leave town much and I’m always curious to hear about where everyone is coming from.”
Kelda drops the last of her bread into the bowl.
She leans back in her chair, staring up at Euphemia as if she can see right through the lie.
And for a moment, Euphemia starts to repent, screaming into her mind, begging for God’s forgiveness.
I’m sorry for lying. I’m sorry for being distrusting of a guest. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—
“I am from up north.” Each word is spoken like a challenge as Kelda crosses her arms, and leans farther back. “Thorfell Crag, to be exact.”