Descendants
For one brief moment, Euphemia almost felt as if she was back at the Saint’s Hearth, sitting beside her sister while the rest of the world remained safely outside.
Then the pounding at the door rattles her perception.
A moment later, Asvald crosses the foyer.
“Can’t anyone come around during the daytime?” he mutters.
Euphemia and Cybele take one look at each other before bolting across the parlor to peer through the doorway.
Asvald opens the door and all warmth saps from his tone. “Percival. What an unwelcome visit.”
Percival stands beneath the dripping eaves, his cloak pulled over his head. Somehow, he looks oilier than Euphemia remembers, or perhaps that’s only the rain drenching him.
“Yes, yes. Apologies,” he says, stepping inside before Asvald can invite him in. “I need to speak with Kelda. It’s urgent.”
He wrings out the backside of his cloak, a puddle spreading onto the floor.
Asvald doesn’t move.
Percival peers up. “Swiftly, preferably.”
If anything, Percival’s command only roots Asvald more firmly to the floor. “The lady of the house is not seeing visitors at this hour. Come back in the morning, though I can’t promise she’ll see you then either.”
As Percival finishes wringing out his cloak, he flashes him a thin, dangerous smile. “Listen, this is rather important. And I believe Lady Kelda would like to hear of it as soon as…”
His words fade as he takes in the foyer. The staircase.
Euphemia realizes too late that his gaze is drifting slowly toward the parlor.
“Ah. What do you know? A guest.” He sneers the word at Asvald before approaching Euphemia and her sister where they are tucked behind the parlor doorway.
At first, Cybele steps forward, something like eagerness bringing her forward.
But as he approaches, Cybele’s expression changes.
Not dramatically. Just enough that Euphemia notices.
“Hello, dear. I’m afraid we haven’t—”
“You,” Cybele whispers.
Percival’s brow furrows. “Have we met before?”
Instead of answering him, Cybele turns her confusion upon Euphemia. “This is your husband?”
Euphemia just stands there too stunned to respond, but mostly because of the way Cybele said it. Like she sounded betrayed. Euphemia can’t make sense of it.
Before she has a chance to correct her assumption, Percival clutches his chest and staggers back as if he’s just watched a cockroach skitter from her mouth.
“Me? Married to someone of her standing? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Euphemia might’ve been offended if she wasn’t still ensnared by her sister’s gaze. They become locked in a silent war, Cybele’s eyes bulging and darting toward him, as if she’s trying to convey something.
Finally she gives up on silence and whispers into Euphemia’s ear, “That’s the man I saw Thurstan speaking to.”
A chill slips down Euphemia’s spine.
From across the foyer, Asvald barks, “The only ridiculous thing here is you, Percival. Now, you can either leave willingly, or I can make you. Choice is yours.”
Percival chuckles, his patience waning. “As I’ve said already, it is imperative I speak with Kelda at once. I have no intentions of leaving this manor until she comes down here and hears what I have to say. So if you would be so kind as to go and fetch her, then I will—”
A knife whizzes past Percival’s cheek. It sticks into the door behind him.
Percival’s body becomes as rigid as stone.
“How dare you come back her.” Kelda’s voice is the low, vicious growl of a wolf ready to pounce.
Confusion creases Percival’s brow. “I-I beg your pardon?”
“I already told you, I won’t be marrying you.”
He flashes an uncomfortable smile. “I’m not here about that proposal.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” she mutters. Then, folding her arms, Kelda watches him. “Well then? What is it? Let’s get this over with so I can go back to bed.”
Percival clenches his hands.
Unclenches them.
Then he opens one side of his cloak.
“I came to give you a warning. As a courtesy. As your friend.” He ignores the rolling of her eyes as he gestures to a folded envelope stuffed in his inner pocket. “May I?”
“That depends. Am I going to like it?”
“No,” he says, retrieving the envelope without further approval.
Percival unfolds the parchment.
He hands it to Kelda.
Instead of reading it, she simply stares at him. “What is it?”
Her complete lack of interest and concern seems to knock him off balance. But he’s quick to recover.
“The deed to this estate. And some rather interesting documentation concerning the family who held these lands before Otho. Before Rayner.”
The name snags in Euphemia’s ear.
She has not heard it before.
Yet there is not a doubt in her mind who it belongs to.
With a growl of disgust, Kelda smacks the papers back onto his chest. “Unbelievable.”
Percival fumbles to catch them. “You haven’t even read them—”
“I don’t need to. I already know what the deed says.
Rayner Varinsson conquered Thorfell Crag.
When he did, he murdered the family living here, and then settled that debt with England with coin, as was the custom at the time.
Now, I’m not saying what he did was right.
But by the corrupt laws that be, these lands were declared his. Now they’re Dagfinn’s.”
“That was true,” Percival says softly. Almost tenderly. As though he actually cares. “Until I discovered something rather unusual.”
Euphemia feels Cybele shift beside her.
Kelda’s eyes narrow.
No one looks away from Percival.
He taps the paper against his palm. “You see, when they drafted the deed, they originally believed the family fully slain. However, new information has come to light, and they might not have been quite as extinct as we once believed.”
Suddenly, a name surfaces before Euphemia can stop it—
Thurstan.
His complaints about stolen land. What Cybele said about him insisting the Varinsson family owed him something after they took Euphemia. And the older, respectable man Cybele saw him speaking to.
It couldn’t be a coincidence…
Could it?
To Euphemia’s dismay, Kelda actually looks concerned.
“Give me that,” she says, holding her hand out.
Percival returns the deed to her, a satisfied smirk twitching at the corners of his lips. “As you can see, the deed names the Varinssons as rightful owners on the condition that no surviving descendants can stake a claim.”
Kelda’s lightning spark eyes trace the words on the deed. And over. And over again.
Finally, she folds the deed back up. Returns it to Percival.
“So it’s come to this then? Blackmail?” Kelda snorts.
“My obligation, Kelda, is to see that any legitimate claim is properly investigated. Unless, of course, I were to have some personal stake in the matter. In such a case, I might be able to find a rather more…convenient solution.”
Kelda stares at him. “There it is.”
Percival blinks innocently. “There what is?”
“The part where you stop pretending this is about your duty.”
“I am merely suggesting that there are ways to make this unpleasantness disappear.”
“By marrying you.”
“I didn’t say that.” He smiles, a look that tries to be disarming but has the opposite effect. “But I, of course, would be elated to hear if you have reconsidered.”
Shaking her head, Kelda stares off down the corridor, toward Dagfinn’s tower.
Deeper into the heart of the home she has protected.
Yet the way her gaze travels over the stone walls makes Euphemia think it is more than that. There is something heavier in her expression. Something that looks suspiciously like the question Euphemia has been wrestling with herself:
What right do any of us have to call these lands our own?
These lands were stolen.
By right, if there are still living descendants, the manor and the lordship belong to them.
And yet…
For one terrible moment, Euphemia doesn’t know what she wants.
If Thurstan truly has a claim, then what right does anyone here have to deny it?
She thinks of the manor. Of Kelda. Of Asvald. Of the rooms that have slowly begun to feel familiar. Comforting. Like home. A place where she belongs.
No part of Euphemia wants to see Thurstan rewarded for all the nights he griped and moaned. The despicable behavior. The rancid rumors. The fetid soul that is his whole existence.
He doesn’t deserve Thorfell.
Thorfell doesn’t deserve him.
They deserve someone kind. Like the husband Euphemia has yet to meet.
“For the hundredth time, Percival,” Kelda seethes through her teeth. “My answer is no. I do not want your help. I do not need your help. I will never want your help, your companionship, or your presence anywhere near mine. Do you understand me?”
Percival shakes his head and sighs.
Euphemia watches as he tucks the parchment away.
Cybele’s words return to her.
That’s the man I saw Thurstan speaking to.
Whatever Thurstan wants from Thorfell, Percival now has a reason to help him get it.
And Euphemia has the distinct feeling that neither man is telling the whole truth.
As Percival steps into the doorway, he turns back to Kelda. “Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you—”
“No, Percival. It is I who am warning you. Do not come here again.” She storms across the room and plucks her knife from the door. “Next time, I won’t miss.”
Percival turns on his heels and disappears into the storm.