Terms of a
As Euphemia steps into the hallway, a draft whistles by her.
The flames in the sconces flicker. The unsettling nature of her dream lingers, churning her stomach with unrealistic fear.
If she stands too long in this dark corridor, the shadows start to look less like shadows and more like something solid.
Euphemia sucks in a breath and scurries down the lit corridor, praying silently that nothing jumps out from the darkness.
But the place is cavernous. The walls empty. Even though the windows are closed, the breeze billows beside her, chasing after Euphemia and dancing between her strides, weaving through her legs, and up into her unbound hair.
It’s a soothing caress, at first.
Until she feels something like a grip around her ankle.
Cold fingers sliding along her bone.
Sharp nails digging into flesh.
Euphemia trips and leaps down an unlit corridor where the walls are bleak and glaring.
Ice slithers up her spine.
Euphemia catches her balance—but not her breath—and whips back around. She gapes at the place on the floor where she thought something had grabbed her.
Only the bunched ripple of a rug runner stares back at her.
She releases a breath and takes a moment to recollect herself, leaning against the sparse wall.
As she does, one of the sconces down this path ignites.
Euphemia jumps upright and stares. Cobwebs singe away from the flame. The shadows lurch too, ducking into crevices that seem unaccustomed to light ever reaching this part of the manor.
At the end of the hall, Euphemia spies a door. The wood seems thick, even from this distance, and the doorway is arched unlike most of the others in this place. Something strange is pressed into its center, something that looks more like a large ship’s wheel than a typical doorknob.
For a moment, curiosity draws her nearer.
Follow the light.
An instant later, Euphemia hauls herself back.
This is not the light she’s meant to follow.
This is temptation. Weakness of the mind. And she will not be caught tangled in its web again.
With a shake of her head, Euphemia staggers back toward the light, and she follows the sconces all the way back to the great hall.
As Euphemia peeks through the doors, she finds Kelda already waiting inside, just as Asvald promised. Sitting at the long table in the center, underneath antlers and candlelight, she leans over a half-eaten plate of food, her mouth full.
If she notices Euphemia entering the room, she gives no indication.
Euphemia walks through the great hall, watching Kelda and noting the severe lines in her features. Her light hair is pulled back in tightly woven but practical braids. Nothing too intricate. Just enough to keep her hair out of her face.
Euphemia realizes, she is beautiful in the way winter is—sharp, cold, and utterly unforgiving.
It’s not until Euphemia pulls the chair out across from her and sits down that Kelda finally acknowledges her presence. She grabs a pitcher from the table and pours Euphemia a drink.
“What is it?” Euphemia asks when the mug is shoved across the table. She lifts it to her nose and sniffs the familiar scent of hops and herbs.
“Mead,” Kelda replies.
Euphemia lowers her mug, smiling politely. “I think it’s a bit early for me to—”
“Drink,” Kelda says through clenched teeth. “It’ll keep you warm.”
Euphemia stares down at the pale liquid again. Gives it a swirl.
The warmth that hops could bring her belly does sound appealing…
Before she can second-guess herself, Euphemia tosses the mug back. She braces herself for that familiar balance between bitter and sweet, for the sting of nostalgia that is too fresh to have healed yet.
Instead, something bordering rancid slithers down her throat.
It’s nothing at all like the mead she’s used to.
Euphemia gags, despite her best efforts not to.
Then her mother is scolding her in her ear—Don’t be ungrateful. Smile. Say thank you. Perform. Be anything but as you are.
It takes every lesson on politeness that’s ever been yelled at her to not spit the drink out across the table.
Through a sheer act of will, Euphemia makes herself swallow and smile. “Delicious.”
Kelda snorts. “It’s shit. Nothing like your mother’s brew, that’s for sure.” The woman takes another deep gulp from her own mug before setting it down on the table. She smacks her lips and grimaces. “She’s got a true gift, that one.”
Something churns inside Euphemia. A shadow of a monster that’s only just begun to awaken. But she shoves it back down. Keeps the monster slumbering.
“Thank you. It was my father’s recipe.”
That ever-persistent ache in her chest swells at the mention of him.
Shame swiftly mars it.
This is the point in the conversation when she’ll be told to wipe the frown from her face as if it were a spill on a table.
She’ll be chastised about how unfitting it is for a young woman to dwell on such grim subjects.
Told that girls her age would do better discussing their piety.
Their altruistic deeds. Their commitment to home and family.
Euphemia lowers her head so Kelda cannot see the splotches of heat rising to her cheeks and neck. “My apologies, Lady Kelda. Let us discuss topics more suitable to a pleasant meal.”
Kelda slams a fist on the table, jostling the display and making Euphemia jump.
“We discuss whatever topics we see fit. I have no interest in stilted rules of decorum within my own home.” Her chest is heaving as she meets Euphemia’s gaze across the table.
But the momentary rage gives way to weariness.
Dragging a hand over her face, Kelda exhales.
“Forgive me. These past months…well, you are already aware. Over these hard months, having this place, this refuge from falsehoods and judgments, it’s all I have.
Somewhere they cannot tell us who to be.
How to speak. What to say. Who should say it.
It is a refuge. A privilege. And nothing is more important to me than making sure it stays that way. ”
When Euphemia doesn’t move or speak, Kelda adds, “Honesty, little cloud. That is what I’m talking about. There is no greater virtue, don’t you agree?”
Stiffly, Euphemia attempts to nod, but fear still clamors through her.
Kelda sighs, her gaze sticking to the rafters like daggers. Euphemia picks up her fork with a trembling hand and starts poking at her food. Eventually, Kelda resumes eating as well.
The tense silence doesn’t last long though.
Only a few bites in and Kelda flourishes her fork in the air. “I’ve eaten enough meals in silence for one lifetime. Do not make me endure another.”
Euphemia bites her lip. “What would you have me say?”
“Anything. I don’t know. How about—” But the way she says it makes it seem like she does know, especially when her next question is so pointed, and her eyes are staring so sharply. “I’d like to know more about your father.”
The muscles in Euphemia’s body petrify. “What would you like to know about him?”
Kelda shrugs. “Anything. Something.”
Euphemia dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Well, he was a brewer—”
“Was?”
“Yes.” Euphemia frowns, certain Kelda already knows this part of his story. “He…deserted the war. We haven’t seen him since last winter.”
Kelda’s jaw stills mid-bite, half-eaten mutton packed inside her cheek.
For a moment, she simply stares at her plate, unmoving.
The moment passes.
“Deserted, you say?” Kelda speaks languidly, something deadly in her tone. “Which battle did you say that was?”
Euphemia bites her lip.
Her mother and her had practiced this lie a hundred times. After her father’s death, they knew the constable would come around asking about her father’s whereabouts, and they needed an ironclad story to ensure the family was cleared of all suspicions.
But to regurgitate that lie now? To her recently establish mother-in-law, and a woman who seems on the brink of snapping at any given moment?
It feels like a trap.
Like Kelda is testing her.
“I can’t recall,” Euphemia says, drinking deeply from her mug again. “So many battles these past years.”
“Indeed.” Kelda smirks. “And your neighbors, did they loathe him before he deserted?”
“Of course not! My father was one of the most beloved men in town and the people turned on him like they toss out food that’s gone rotten.” The caustic sound of her own voice startles her. Euphemia clamps a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean—”
But Kelda waves away her embarrassment with her knife. “You did. And I rather liked seeing that side of you.”
“You did?”
“Aye. It’s not like you’re saying anything false?
All across England that’s all anyone can live for these days, spreading rumors and lies and watching them catch like wildfire.
It makes me sick.” The way she speaks, it sounds personal, like she’s been on the receiving end of one or two of those rumors herself.
Kelda clasps her hands behind her head. “The truth will never condemn you in my home, little cloud.”
Euphemia swallows the lump in her throat and takes a bite of meat—not mutton, she realizes. Something gamier. Boar, perhaps? Badger?
“With that in mind,” Kelda continues, those bright blue eyes of her piercing through the blonde wisps of hair that have fallen in front of her face, giving her a wild and deranged look. “Tell me, where is your father now?”
Euphemia chokes, this time losing the battle with propriety and spitting the food back out.
No one has ever second-guessed their story. Not even the constable who spent all of one afternoon asking each of the daughters and their mother when they last heard from their father before declaring him a deserter and moving onto to the next problem that needed addressing.
And Euphemia can feel it in the air. This moment and everything that hinges on it. It will change everything.
But what is Kelda searching for? Does she want to see if Euphemia will uphold loyalty to her mother and take this lie to the grave? Or is she testing her capability to be honest?