A Ghostly Hello
Outside, the rain has stopped pouring for the moment, but the air remains damp. Clouds hang heavy above, and the winds howl like a constant, pained companion walking alongside them.
Euphemia draws the cloak Kelda had provided her before they left the manor tighter around her shoulders.
“Does Percival come around often?”
“Like most vermin, he is a pest that never seems to go away.” Though Kelda continues walking, she casts a regretful glance in Euphemia’s direction. “I am sorry you had to meet him. I had hoped news of our return wouldn’t reach him for a few more days.”
Euphemia shakes her head the way one might to say it was no bother, even though the encounter has left her unsettled.
After all, everything Percival said held some truth.
Without a man to head the household, what would become of their titles?
Their sense of security? How long before none of it mattered?
More and more, Euphemia finds herself wondering what they can do to end Dagfinn’s curse.
If only her new mother-in-law would speak about him more. All she’s been able to wring from her is that tidbit about his love of science. Euphemia wants to learn more.
They round the side of the manor where the ivy grows thickest. It climbs up the stonework, strangling it into a sickly hue.
Down below, the grounds are just as untamed.
The garden bed behind the kitchen is overgrown with weeds—dandelions and nettles that Euphemia can’t help but think could make for an interesting ale.
Something bright and cheerful, like spring.
Just in time for Percival’s proposed wedding…
Shoving the unwelcome thought aside, Euphemia looks out across the rocky moor. It is habit to scan her surroundings for the nightmare, but today it is a different creature she searches for. Fortunately, his bone face and tall stature is nowhere to be found.
Though off in the distance, tucked along a jagged cliffside, Euphemia spots what appears to be a modest home on some untended farmland.
Euphemia gestures toward the home. “Who lives there?”
Kelda barely looks, her attention fixed on the stables ahead. “Just an old servant’s home. Asvald lived there until Otho died. After, it made more sense to have him close at hand.”
Unease permeates her core.
The idea of having an abandoned building so close to their home is unsettling to say the least. Though what is she going to do about it? Insist Asvald moves back in?
“You two seem close,” Euphemia says instead.
“As close as any two people who’ve spent their entire lives together can be.”
Euphemia blinks away her surprise. “You’ve known him that long?”
“Since I was but a girl.” Something forlorn creeps into Kelda’s voice. “Asvald was sent with me when I came to Thorfell to marry Otho.”
Their relationship is starting to make sense. No wonder they share so many cryptic glances and unspoken conversations. She is able to do the same with her sisters—was able.
Euphemia swallows the grief before it can turn to stone in her throat. “Was he sent as a guard then?”
“No,” Kelda laughs. “He was sent as comfort. A reminder of my home.”
“And where was your home?”
Kelda’s gait falters.
Wind catches the stray flaxen strands escaping her braids, and Euphemia could swear her eyes nearly gloss over.
“This is my home.” The widow resumes her strides. She reaches the stable doors and pushes them wide. “Come. We have arrived.”
“Arrived?”
The word has barely left Euphemia’s lips when something cold twists through her chest.
Inside, the horses nicker and shift where they stand. Euphemia recognizes Alsvin among them, along with another horse as dark as coal.
“Aye.” Kelda grabs a saddle from the wall. “I thought we might go for a ride before the rain starts again.”
But Euphemia can no longer hear her words.
She’s trapped in the doorway by a memory: rearing hooves, blazing fire, the nightmare bearing down upon her.
Horses didn’t always terrify her. Before the nightmare, she had found them to be as enchanting as sunsets.
But now…
Now just being near one drowns her in dread.
She keeps looking to the shadows, fearful that the figure might be lurking nearby as well.
“Euphemia?” Kelda has stopped saddling the black horse, staring at her. Anyone else might have missed the horror that’s petrified Euphemia in place. Kelda does not. She sets the saddle down and props a hand on her hip. “You have ridden before, haven’t you?”
When Euphemia doesn’t immediately respond, she mistakes her silence for ordinary fear.
She throws the saddle onto the horse’s back and begins securing it. “Oh, it’s nothing to be afraid of. They’re docile creatures if handled properly and with respect.”
Kelda pets the black horse’s nose and Euphemia screams.
“Don’t!”
Kelda jerks her hand away as both horses spook.
They stomp their hooves and release frightened whinnies that fill the stables with dread. It takes Kelda a moment to settle them again, but as she does, Euphemia starts backing away. Heart pounding. Feet squelching in the damp soil.
Kelda looks up. “What is it?”
“I—I’m sorry.” A whimper catches in Euphemia’s throat. She fumbles for a lie that she knows won’t be convincing enough for a woman with the knowing. “I’m suddenly not feeling very well. Enjoy your ride.”
Then she’s running back toward the manor, back to where no horse can follow.
She cannot hear Kelda’s shouts over the trotting and neighing and inferno that swells in her skull.
They flood her senses until she can no longer tell the difference between what is real and what exists only in her head.
Between past and present. Reality and memory.
Euphemia rushes into the manor and slams the door closed behind her.
She stays there, her back pressed against the cold wood, until she hears Kelda and her horse trotting down the gravel road.
Only then, in the dark and quiet, can Euphemia reassure herself that she is safe.
Only then does her chest finally ease.
Only then does she realize she is alone—well, perhaps not entirely. Asvald is likely somewhere in the manor as well, doing God knows what.
She still can’t quite figure out what Asvald’s exact position is.
In the short time since Euphemia has been here, Asvald has been called an advisor, a reminder of home, he’s been a server at their meals, and the man who has offered to wash her linens.
He seems to take on any role required of him.
Come to think of it, Euphemia still hasn’t seen another servant around Thorfell at all, though it does not surprise her anymore.
Given what Percival said about Kelda selling her belongings, Euphemia is beginning to understand the larger picture here.
Without Dagfinn and a legitimate claim to their assets, Kelda is bleeding funds.
They likely cannot afford a household staff anymore, leaving those burdens to Asvald.
For a moment, Euphemia finds herself wondering what he might be working on today, and whether she could be of some assistance. This is her home too, after all, and she’s no stranger to hard labor.
But then she remembers her own task awaits in her bedchamber.
Euphemia heads upstairs, finds the soiled linens exactly where she left them, and bundles them into her arms before making her way back downstairs toward the great hall.
Though Thorfell no longer seems to have servants, Euphemia knows a manor of this size must have been built with them in mind.
The kitchen, pantry, larder, and washroom would have been tucked somewhere near the great hall, close enough where all the necessary workings of the household could remain hidden from noble eyes but easily accessible by staff.
Located at the manor’s edge, Euphemia finds what she’s searching for.
A small stone chamber full of steam and the scent of damp earth. Basins and benches line the walls, while bundles of soapwort hang from the rafters. On the shelves near the entrance, she finds a few spare linens of wool and cotton, a mending kit, and bunches of herbs used for washing.
A large window overlooks the countryside, and through it, Euphemia can see the stables where she left Kelda.
Dark storm clouds cast a shadow upon the roof, and Euphemia can’t help but think that the weather is not ideal for riding. But she supposes with no staff to tend to the horses, it’s left to Kelda and Asvald to ensure their physical needs are met.
The thought squeezes Euphemia’s heart and the word burden screams in her mind.
Shaking away her insecurities, Euphemia turns her attention to the task at hand.
She settles beside one of the larger basins in the corner of the room. Setting the linens on the bench nearby, Euphemia grabs the bucket and is about to figure out how she’ll get warm water in here, when she remembers there’s already steam in the room. That must mean warm water is somewhere nearby.
Euphemia walks around, peering into each basin until she finds the one already full.
She remembers her conversation with Asvald earlier.
Morning menses, she’d told him.
A soft smile touches her lips.
Euphemia makes a mental note to thank him later before she grabs some lye from the shelves and gets to work.
As she dunks her bedding into the basin, the rafters creak above her. Another dunk, and something mournful wails somewhere down the hall behind her.
She stops dragging the linens up and down the washing board to listen, but the noises stop. The manor falls silent again.
Euphemia waits.
Listens.
In the eerie silence, she thinks of her dream. The horned figure. How utterly alone she is down here. Suddenly, she’s also reminded of the sconce that lit itself in the corridor earlier, and a new thought creeps in.
Is this another symptom of her curse? Wind moaning and candles igniting?
Or is there something else going on at Thorfell Manor?
A shudder runs down her spine and Euphemia hastily rinses the lye from the cotton, checking that the wine-red stains have been scrubbed away before hanging the linens in the drying loft.