Secret Pact
In silence, Kelda helps Euphemia out of her drenched garments and into a simple forest green surcoat. When she’s fully clothed again, Kelda calls Asvald into the sitting room and he drapes a wool blanket around her shoulders and Euphemia huddles by the roaring fire.
Only once Kelda seems certain Euphemia won’t catch her death does she finally say—
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Euphemia’s lips are still trembling. “N-no. Of course n-not.”
“Then what in Thor’s name is this?” Kelda gestures up and down the length of her. “What were you doing out there?”
Euphemia searches her mind for a lie. Nothing comes to her quickly.
“I—I was just—”
Kelda thrusts a finger at her. “Do not dare lie to me, Euphemia Varinsson. Not in this house. Not ever.”
And perhaps it’s the severity in Kelda’s tone, or perhaps it’s the way she uses her marriage surname, but something finally clicks for Euphemia.
Since discovering who the man in her dreams was, Euphemia has been trying to solve his curse on her own—unburying the lost deed, confronting the ghost, sneaking around the manor, and procuring ingredients for a draught she thinks will work.
Kelda has done the same. She’s spent months chasing fanciful ideas and performing risky rituals, all on her own.
But they’re not alone. Not in their hope or their fears.
They have each other.
Perhaps it’s time Euphemia let Kelda know of her plan.
“I saw you wandering out there,” Kelda is saying. “I watched you walk toward that cliff, and for a moment I thought…”
Her eyes glaze with tears, her voice strangled, and Euphemia realizes then what she must’ve seen. A young woman who’s lost a father, who left one troubled family for another, wandering toward a cliff in the dead of night. Kelda must have thought the worst.
Blinking away the tears, Kelda just stares at her, fighting with words that ultimately are too painful for her to voice. With a shake of her head, she eventually ends with, “For a moment, I thought Thorfell Manor might be cursed for all the grief it seems to bring.”
For once, Euphemia hardly notices the word cursed.
It doesn’t matter nearly as much as what Euphemia just accidentally put Kelda through.
Before she can second-guess herself, Euphemia throws her arms around the woman. “Oh, Kelda. I’m so sorry I made you worry.”
To her surprise, Kelda does not push her away.
She allows herself to be embraced.
Slowly, she wraps an arm around Euphemia as well.
With a sharp sniff, she ends the hug though. “Yes, well, that still doesn’t answer my question. Does it?”
Nerves twist Euphemia’s chest. It’s time.
“Alright. I’ll tell you. But you might want to be seated for what I have to say.”
For a moment, Kelda stands her ground, a challenging look in her gaze. But whatever she finds in her assessment must be enough to convince her because ultimately, she takes a seat. Asvald, however, remains where he stands, arms folded.
“Very well,” Euphemia says, standing before them.
But where does she even begin? What does she even say? That she’s been visiting with this woman’s son in her dreams? Does she tell her why the dream ward failed and that it was Euphemia who scared the spirits away?
Fear twists in her belly.
What if she tells them and they don’t believe her?
Worse, what if they try to stop her?
Euphemia clutches the cloak around her shoulders more tightly. “You’ll think me mad to say it.”
A single belt of laughter comes from Kelda as she leans an elbow onto the side of the settee. “You think I have any leg to stand on when it comes to calling someone mad? If anyone is near madness here, it would be me. Now spit it out already.”
The reassurance is enough to bolster Euphemia.
Perhaps Kelda is right. After all, she’s proven she is willing to do anything to save her son. Maybe she could help. At a bare minimum, it will be nice to have an ally, and not to have this secret wedged between them anymore.
Inhaling deeply, Euphemia begins.
“It is going to sound strange, but…I believe I have seen Dagfinn in my dreams.”
When Kelda’s expression does not flinch, Euphemia tells her as much as seems useful.
She leaves out anything that might make the woman worry—like the helhest, Níehoggr, the Wave Maidens, or the part where Dagfinn had been stuck inside a helhest skull for the better part of their encounters.
She also decides not to share anything about the deed or the ghost, since in order to mention either, she feels like she’d have to mention Otho first, and that is a wound she doesn’t even want to graze.
What’s left is actually simple and quite tame.
A man in purple meadow by a brook.
A girl trying to uncover his forgotten identity.
Them spending a few nights conversing, and slowly him remembering more of himself.
Her seeing his face for the first time in the tower, and everything clicking.
In this version of the story, Euphemia tells Kelda and Asvald that it was the name that unlocked his memories, not Otho. She hopes it’s a small lie they can forgive her for later.
“Once he remembered who he was,” Euphemia concludes.
“He told me what happened to him. How he had been working on a tincture that would allow him to…cross into the afterlife and save his father.” She pauses, glancing between the two of them who are still listening with rapt attention.
“After I told him about the state of him here, he suggested I brew his wakefulness draught. He thinks it will counteract the deep sleep he’s put himself in. ”
For a moment, Euphemia almost crosses the room to retrieve her satchel to show them the roseroot she retrieved outside.
But their silence is unsettling.
The kind of heady quiet only known to graveyards and haunted castles on treacherous cliffsides.
Worry begins to grip Euphemia again.
“I was out by the cliff because I was looking for roseroot so I could brew the draught tonight. I thought if I could wake him, it might erase the pain of today. But…its was too dark to see much of anything out there. I’ll have to look in the morning.”
“You will do no such thing.” Kelda’s voice is barely more than a whisper, her lips scarcely moving.
Euphemia’s brow furrows. “Why not?”
But Kelda does not answer her directly. Her gaze has thrown itself at the fire, reflections of embers burning through her once blue eyes.
Euphemia shifts from her weight on her feet, dread rapidly growing.
Kelda shakes her head after a moment. “I knew I should’ve stopped him. I watched him delving into those dark magicks, losing his mind to them. And I just let it happen.”
“Let it happen? You couldn’t have known. Not even Dagfinn knew.” Euphemia softens her voice, trying to reassure her.
But Kelda is hearing none of it.
“I should have intervened. I should have made him see that this is just part of life to lose a father. That is the way of things. We honor them by moving forward. By living. Not by—” Her hand flexes and her eyes close as if the words pain her to even think.
Kelda pinches the bridge of her nose and after a few stabilizing breaths, she continues, “I should have locked him out of that damned study before something like this happened.”
Defensiveness awakens in Euphemia.
Fierce.
Unwavering.
“Lock him out of it? Dagfinn loves that study. It isn’t even magick he does in there. It’s brilliant what he does. You should see his work. He’s done countless of experiments, made untold discoveries. He could—”
“He could get himself killed,” Kelda’s voice cleaves Euphemia’s words like a butcher knife. “He could get you killed. Or were you even thinking about that when you went outside in the pitch black and crawled over a cliff?”
“I was being as safe as I could be.”
“You were being reckless. Just as he’s been.” Kelda’s booming voice falters, taking on a tremulous quality. “Reckless, just as I have been.”
Slowly, Kelda hangs her head. She covers her face with her free hand and Euphemia takes this opportunity to glances at Asvald, searching for any indication of how he’s feeling about all of this. But he remains rigid where he stands, impossible to read as ever.
“The damn fool,” Kelda says, lifting her face. “We all are. Refusing to accept the fate the gods have given us. Fighting for power in our lives like it might make a difference. Like it might change anything. As if the fates haven’t already decided.”
Her eyes meet Euphemia’s. For one terrible moment, Euphemia understands that Kelda isn’t speaking only of Dagfinn. She’s speaking of herself.
A sigh shudders through Kelda’s shoulders.
The room feels cold, despite the fire.
The words leave Kelda’s lips like a whisper. A prayer. “Forgive me Odin.”
Then she buries her face in her hands again. Her fingers work at her temples, rubbing more and more furiously with every passing moment. She’s shaking her head the way Euphemia does when she is thinking she wishes she could go back and make a different choice.
Euphemia’s bones become ice.
The hairs on her arms stand straight, alerted to the potential threat Kelda might pose her plan now.
A humorless laugh escapes Kelda as she stands from the settee.
“Here I am, slandering Dagfinn, when I am just as guilty. When he fell ill, I refused to accept it. When my prayers to the gods were not answered, I sought out magicks to alter the fate they chose for him. I beseeched false gods and in so doing, I have not only endangered my son, but also those around me.”
The room is so heavy, Euphemia almost cannot breathe.
She can feel everything slipping away from her.
She has to make Kelda see things differently.
“No one is in danger,” Euphemia says. “Not from what Dagfinn has asked me to do. The preparation will work. I can show you. He taught me exactly what I need to do, I just need more roseroot and you’ll see then. You have nothing to fear—”
Like a clap of thunder, Kelda bellows. “You are not permitted anywhere near the cliffs nor that cursed study. Understood?”
“But Kelda, I—”