Terms of a #2
Both her mother’s and Kelda’s voices slam against her skull like bats trying to flee a cave. It’s dizzying and dreadful, and Euphemia knows no matter which she chooses, she’ll upset one of them.
But Euphemia has chosen this life. Chosen Kelda and her family. So there is really only one choice.
Calmly, Euphemia sets her fork beside her plate. “My father didn’t desert the war.”
Feigned shock stretches Kelda’s eyebrows toward her hairline. “No?”
“No. He—” Euphemia swallows, blinking in time with her frantic heartbeats. She has to force the words out before doubt has the chance to snatch them away from her. “The truth is, he died.”
Something like satisfaction whispers across Kelda’s face as she settles back into her chair and folds her arms. “In the war?”
“No.”
Kelda lets the silence settle. Lets Euphemia sit in the discomfort of it. Lets her chest ache with something akin to fear as she awaits the question she knows will come next:
“How?”
Tears pool in her eyes. Like the truth is trying to flood out of her. And the more she holds it in, the more it burns.
But no matter how badly she wants to tell her—tell someone—Euphemia isn’t sure she can share that part of his story yet. Isn’t sure she can betray her mother’s trust.
In the end, all she does is shake her head.
Kelda watches her for a moment longer before her gaze finally settles back to the food in front of her. As the tension settles, Euphemia resumes nibbling at the display as well. Though her belly churns with every morsel, she forces herself to take a few bites of meat, before moving onto the oats.
Her stomach is finally settling, when Kelda asks, “And your sisters, they do not know, do they?”
Euphemia slowly shakes her head, brunette ringlets swaying.
“And your mother?” This time, Euphemia nods, and Kelda’s brows inch toward her flaxen hairline. “Interesting.”
She takes another drink, seeming to move on.
But now Euphemia is intrigued as well. She finds herself marveling at this woman’s mind. At how easily she gleans information that those around her work so diligently to protect.
If Kelda intends to scrutinize her, perhaps Euphemia could scrutinize her in return.
“You already knew that though…” she says with more confidence than she’s ever shown in anything but her brewing. When Kelda doesn’t deny it, a sigh of awe spills from her lips. “How is it you know things without any means of knowing them?”
“It is a gift—” Kelda says over her draft “—or perhaps a curse.”
Euphemia’s shoulder tense at the word. A cursed daughter. A cursed husband. Now a cursed mother-in-law? Somehow she keeps finding herself associated with that word.
Raising a brow, Kelda watches her. “I think you have it too.”
The statement jars Euphemia from her thoughts, her heart skipping into her throat.
She can’t breathe. Can’t speak.
Kelda knows.
About the nightmare.
About her curse.
About the secrets she intended to take to her grave.
And the longer Euphemia gawks, attempting to collect herself, the harder Kelda watches. Scrutinizing. Assessing. Uncovering more truths.
“H-have what?”
“The knowing. The ability to see things others can’t,” answers Kelda, and the tension in Euphemia’s chest eases a little. “In the tavern, the night I arrived, you knew that ruddy man was about to fall into a fit of hysterics before he tossed the coins on the table. Did you not?”
“Thurstan?” Euphemia releases the breath she’d been holding too tightly. “Of course I knew. But that’s just how he is. I’d hardly call it the knowing when whenever he comes in, it means there will be trouble.”
“Not always. From what I saw, the man could be quite the charmer when he wants to be.”
Euphemia has to resist the urge to retch.
“I only mean that he seemed adored by many. I watched him the way I watch everyone. Some moments, he was calm, like a quiet sea. Others, he was a treacherous storm.” She looks pointedly to Euphemia and adds, “And somehow you could sense the shifting of his tides before most.”
Euphemia shifts uncomfortably. “I’ve known his family a long time.”
“Ah, yes. That boy of his? The one you used to love?”
Euphemia has to stop her jaw from tumbling open. Mostly to deny Kelda the satisfaction of unmooring her—because she thinks that’s part of this game too. Seeing just how much she’ll react.
Or perhaps she’s trying to scare her away. But why?
Euphemia won’t give Kelda the satisfaction.
She grabs her spoon and scoops another bite of oats. “How long had you been spying on us before the market then?”
“A few days, little cloud.”
Euphemia hadn’t expected her to answer her so quickly. So uninhibited.
It throws off her line of questioning.
“Stop calling me that.”
“What’s the matter? I think the name suits you.”
Euphemia points her nose in the air. “Well, I disagree.”
The grin on Kelda’s face grows vicious, a bramble of sharp thorns.
Determined to see it falter, Euphemia veers the conversation to the one sore spot she knows Kelda has.
“I think it’s your turn to talk. How about you tell me about your son. What’s Dagfinn like?”
Kelda’s smirk doesn’t falter nearly enough. “It depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you.”
Kelda considers her words. “My son is a curious man, but a sensitive one. He enjoys the sciences this new world has to offer, things my village would have never provided him.”
“Sciences? Like what?”
Kelda opens her mouth to answer, when the doors at the end of the great hall burst open.
Euphemia startles so intensely, she drops her roll of bread. Kelda, on the other hand, doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even shift her gaze as Asvald enters.
He starts to address Kelda by name alone, then seems to remember Euphemia’s presence and bows. “Lady Kelda, sorry to interrupt.”
She rolls her eyes, more at the decorum of it all than anything, and Euphemia catches herself wondering what things might’ve been like before her arrival. There is a familiarness there that she can’t quite place.
“What is it, Asvald? Speak plainly.”
Stiffly, he stands. “You have a visitor.”
“Let me guess…” Kelda sits back in the chair that she treats more like a throne. “Has the rat returned?”
“He has.”
An offended scoff echoes in the hallway behind Asvald. Him and Kelda share a devious smirk.
Kelda waves to him. “Bring him in.”
Euphemia sits taller, tucking the stray curls behind her ears. She hadn’t known they would be entertaining company today, otherwise she might’ve made herself more presentable. Whoever this is, this will be his first impression of Euphemia. Bed-snarled hair and a haphazardly thrown on, dusty gown.
Fortunately, the man who enters is dressed simply enough. He’s donned in various shades of nature—a tree bark robe draped over a mud-colored tunic that’s cinched by a cow hide belt. Grey hair peeks from under his felt cap, the most extravagant piece of his whole outfit.
He carries himself with an air of authority that makes Euphemia wonder if he is as important as he thinks he is.
Without looking at him, Kelda holds out her hand.
The man kisses it and steps back.
“Lady Kelda, I heard of your arrival yestereve. I trust you are well rested after your long journey.” It’s at that moment his eyes seem to snag on Euphemia. “Oh. My apologies. I did not realize you were entertaining a guest. Should I come back at a better time?”
His hands wring nervously around a rolled piece of parchment.
“No need, Percival.” Kelda doesn’t bother looking at him. “This one lives here now.”
“Does she?” Percival balks, something dark simmering behind his stone eyes. He blinks and replaces it with something more proper and inviting. “Well, then, it is my honor to welcome you to Thorfell Crag, Lady…”
“Euphemia.” Kelda supplies her name before Euphemia can.
Percival nods and waits, as if he’s expecting more. Truthfully, Euphemia is surprised by the brief introduction as well. She had expected Kelda to call her Dagfinn’s bride, or to refer to her as her new daughter-in-law.
Then again, their wedding had been rushed and odd, to say the least.
Perhaps Kelda plans to announce them more formally at a more opportune time.
Since Euphemia cannot read the woman’s mind, she keeps her mouth closed and merely smiles.
Percival clears his throat, turning his attention back to Kelda. “How is Lord Dagfinn fairing? Any improvement?”
“Not yet,” Kelda says over the rim of her mug.
The flagon is empty though, and Asvald strides across the room, boots echoing, and refills it. The grateful glance she sends him after makes Euphemia’s stomach tighten as if she should not have witnessed such a glance.
Asvald seems to notice it too, and he shifts uncomfortably where he stands. “And did you discover anything more about what ails him during your travels?”
“I did not.”
Percival’s face drops with exaggerated remorse. “I am so terribly sorry to hear it.”
Only Euphemia can see Kelda’s eyebrows bob as if to suggest she doubts that, which only increases Euphemia’s fascination with this man.
Who is he? Someone clearly important enough to demand an audience with Kelda the day after she returns, but it’s obvious from Kelda’s blatant disregard of him that she’d rather him not be here at all.
The great hall quiets and only the sound of Kelda’s fork scraping her plate fills the air.
Beside her, Percival’s fidget with the documents in his hand again.
“You are as subtle as a ship on the horizon on a clear day.” Kelda hunches over her food and nods toward the parchment. “What have you brought me?”
Trepidation flashes behind Percival’s eyes. But he clears his throat like someone who’s been preparing for this moment his entire life. He hands her the scroll.
“More estate paperwork?” Kelda’s eyebrow lifts as she unwinds the parchment. “I thought we already completed this after Otho’s death.”