Disgraced #3
“A curse. It has to be,” he continues. Thurstan gestures to Cybele with a meaty hand. “Why else would that one there still be unwed? She’s of age. Easy on the eyes.”
Around the table, they mutter their agreement.
“And that little one?” He gestures toward Atia, still clutching Cybele’s hip. His lips press together with disgust and he shakes his head. “Not talkin’. Not walkin’. Something’s wrong with her, mark my words.”
The men all nod to each other as if they concur. As if this is a frequented topic of discussion. Euphemia’s family. Her sisters. It makes her sick.
Thurstan looks around the room, searching for something, or someone.
When he doesn’t find it, he gestures toward the tapped keg instead.
“And Andriana. Andriana. Andriana.” He gets lost in her name for a moment, and Euphemia doesn’t like the dark shift in his tone.
“It ain’t right. A widow running a place like this.
Letting her four girls run wild and fatherless. ”
He shakes his head, and the table not only echoes his disapproval, they amplify it. They tell him he could do it better. Tell him it’s unfair that his family lost it all while the Branwen women keep everything.
Euphemia feels the air in the room shift.
She glances around—for her sister, her mother, for help.
But the tavern is liveliest this time of night. And ever since Thurstan’s outburst earlier, the bard has started playing his music louder. The patrons talk and laugh amongst themselves as if to drown him out.
“I could run things here,” Thurstan says, as if the thought is only now occurring to him.
He nods to himself, to his friends. “A woman like that should remarry anyway. It’s not right to keep all this to herself.
For a woman?” Grabbing one of his friend’s tankards, he gazes into the thin puddle of amber ale at the bottom.
Sloshes it back. Pounds the empty mug on the table.
A wicked grin drowsily inches up one side of his face.
“And after our wedding night, Andriana wouldn’t be so glum about losing that lout of a husband anymore either. ”
Laughter erupts from the table, and tension clears under the guise of merriment.
But Euphemia cannot hold back the darkness any longer.
Not with her father’s memory haunting the room with her.
“You will not speak ill of my father!” Euphemia shrieks, and she slaps Thurstan’s ruddy face.
The crisp sound silences the jovial taproom.
All eyes turn to them.
“Why, you little—”
Thurstan’s on his feet, arm cocked back.
Euphemia cowers on instinct, but there is no regret in her heart. He deserved that and more. She’s only sorry she can’t do it again.
And just before he strikes her, a shrill voice cries out across the deafened bar—
“Thurstan Wardeby!” Andriana appears from the kitchen, a towel slung over her shoulder and strands of grey hair poking from her kerchief.
Even with flour dusted on her apron, in this moment she looks more like a rabid badger than a simple alewife.
She marches toward them, finger outstretched.
“You lay a single hand on that girl’s head, and I’ll never serve you or your friends in my tavern again. ”
With his arm still raised high, Thurstan considers.
Only Euphemia is close enough to catch his eyes flicking around the room, weighing the crowd as well.
A room full of neighbors and travelers. Men and women with coin in their purses and goods that need carrying home before winter.
He may be drunk enough to lose his temper when his friends are cheering him on, but not before an audience who might hire him.
Although Thurstan is a brute with pride as brittle as dry kindling, there is one thing he values more than proving his power over the people who question it: restoring the wealth and status his family squandered years ago.
With a scowl as dark as night, he lowers his arm. “Nay, it won’t be me to lay any harm upon your ill-fated daughter. I’ll let God judge her in the end, as He does us all.”
Thurstan jerks his head at the other men at his table, and together they scurry from the tavern like the plague of rats that they are.
Euphemia glowers after them as they go. If she could will it, her gaze would ignite the backs of their heads, burn them to ashes the way her father was burned. But despite her sincerest wishes, no flames spark. And they disappear into the night, unharmed.
It’s only then as her awareness detaches from Thurstan that she senses eyes upon her.
Euphemia glances around the room to find everyone staring. Some in awe. Some with disapproval.
But the person she notices most is Kelda. Her eyes, charged. Expression unreadable.
Before Euphemia can think more on it, her mother stomps her foot. “Alight. Carry on. Nothing more to see here.”
Andriana waves at their guests with her towel and a little more irritation than she’d usually show them.
If her lack of hospitality bothers them, they make no show of it.
Conversation slowly livens the taproom again.
In the corner, the bard begins another tune, one of his more jubilant ones that encourages some of the nearby patrons to start dancing.
Only once her mother is certain of their relative privacy does she turn to Euphemia.
“Saints preserve us. What was all that?” Before Euphemia can answer, her mother snatches her by the arm and drags her to the side of the taproom where they are away from more listening ears. “Striking one of our best patrons. Have you gone mad?”
Euphemia folds her arms over herself. “He’s one of our worst, and you know it.”
“Take this seriously.”
“I am!” Euphemia clenches her fists and realizes her palm is still smarting. She has to suppress the grin that threatens to surface. “It was only a slap, Mother. Honestly, he acted as if I struck him with a pot of boiling water.”
“You may as well have, for all the trouble you’ve caused.” Her mother pinches the bridge of her nose.
And it’s that look, that sheer exhaustion of dealing with someone so completely troubled, that finally snuffs the fire in Euphemia’s belly.
A wave of shame washes over her. Not because she regrets slapping him.
But because she’s tired of causing her family so much pain.
Tired of being the burden her mother cannot rid herself of.
Euphemia hangs her head and the tears finally begin tugging at her.
“You didn’t hear what he was saying. About Cybele.
About you. About…” She stops herself before the word Father can fumble from her lips.
It is a word Euphemia is no longer allowed to utter in their mother’s presence, not without dire consequences.
Instead, she takes a deep breath and tries to make her mother understand.
“I couldn’t let him talk down about us. He has no right. ”
Her mother sighs, and it is perhaps the most motherly display Andriana has shown her in the past eleven months.
“I’ve heard it all, Euphemia. The gossip.
The snickering. The judgment.” For a moment, her hand reaches out.
Stretches toward Euphemia’s shoulder as if she might comfort her.
It freezes in the air, fingers twitching, before ultimately dropping back down to her side.
“But their words mean nothing to me. Nor should they you. All that matters is this. Our family. Our lives here.” Andriana sniffles, steeling herself.
“Now, I think it’s best you get some fresh air and then head off to bed. ”
“Mother, I’m fine. Really—”
Andriana holds up a calloused hand. And just like that, the warmth that had previously softened her mother’s features turns cold and harsh.
“I didn’t ask if you were fine. You struck a guest tonight, Euphemia.
In front of other guests. I can’t have you out there serving them ale as if nothing happened.
” Andriana pauses long enough to smile as a patron comes up, thanks her for the evening, and leaves.
She turns back to her daughter. “Don’t argue with your mother.
Bring some kindling in for the morning, and head straight to bed. ”
Euphemia hangs her head low, though admittedly this punishment could be worse. “Yes, Mother.”
There is nothing Euphemia wouldn’t do to regain her mother’s affection. So she obeys. Euphemia leaves the warmth of the taproom behind, heads into the kitchen, and steps into the garden out back.
She does not notice the rickety latch slamming shut behind her.
Doesn’t notice how darkness has settled over the land like a veil.
Doesn’t think of the forest behind their home, nor Kelda’s warning about ashen hoofprints.
It’s not until Euphemia reaches the lean-to that she feels it. Heat that has no place at the edge of autumn. A sound that rakes down her spine like shattered glass. It’s memory in a bottle—flames and guilt and ash and death.
A single whinny.
A nightmare’s cry.
And it is right behind her.