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Air rips from Euphemia as she catapults from the chaise, Dagfinn’s journal plopping to the dusty floor with a hollow thud.
Euphemia pats her stomach. Her chest. Her face.
“It worked. It actually worked. I can’t believe it.”
But her triumphant grin is shrouded by remnants of fear. The air whipping past her face like garden shears. The jagged boulders that kept growing larger and larger. The sea spray that tasted like blood
Euphemia’s expression twists with outrage. “He shoved me!”
She stands from the chaise and flattens out her skirts. When he returns, she plans on giving him an earful, though she suspects he’ll be smug the whole way through.
Euphemia sees the concoction still brewing over the dim flame on the desk.
She continues grumbling to herself as she approaches her abandoned work station.
She turns down the flame and inspects the brew. She grabs the towel and retrieves it, swirling the rusty liquid inside the copper vessel. She gives it a whiff, and only after she confirms the earthen scent does she allow herself to celebrate.
She’s done it.
She has created her first draught.
A curl of desire tightens in the pit of her stomach.
Soon, Dagfinn will be home.
Purplish light has begun to filter in from behind the drawn curtains. Dawn is upon them. Which means it’s already later than she wants it to be.
She grabs a vial from the desk and fills it with her creation.
In the smaller vessel, the liquid cools faster, already easier to hold.
With the vial in hand, Euphemia scurries to the door and peeks her head out into the hallway. Streaks of lavender and amber sift into the vacant corridor. But no one stirs.
Careful not to disturb the peaceful quiet, Euphemia gently closes the door shut behind her.
But just as the door fully closes, a shriek quakes the manor’s stone walls. “My keys, Asvald! She’s taken my keys!”
For a fraction of a moment, Euphemia curses herself for not taking the extra time to simply unloop the one key she needed.
And then, she’s running. Galloping down the carpeted corridors with her skirts held in one hand, and the sloshing brew in the other. Don’t spill. Don’t trip. Don’t take a wrong turn, she screams into her mind like a silent prayer. Only this time, it is not God she beseeches. It is herself.
She cannot fail Dagfinn.
Her husband.
Euphemia reaches the staircase at the base of the tower.
When she looks up into the darkness, catching her breath and preparing herself for the final push of exertion, she hears the plodding of footsteps coming from somewhere behind her.
With fear gripping her heart, Euphemia looks to find Kelda thundering down the hallway, a menacing angle cut into her brows.
“Do not go up there, Euphemia!”
They are not words Kelda bellows after Euphemia. They are spears, hurled desperately into the darkness of battle. A warrior’s weapon unleashed with the hopes that it will strike true.
It is pure desperation.
A last-ditch effort.
And it is futile.
Euphemia flashes Kelda a sorrowful look, one that she hopes conveys the true remorse she feels for having to ignore this woman whom she has come to respect.
Then, Euphemia is bounding up the stairs, and the horrendous cry of a mother who believes she has failed her son comes careening after her. A shattering sound that will surely haunt Euphemia for the rest of her days. But only if she fails.
And she won’t—Kelda will see.
Each stride skyward fills Euphemia with confidence.
This will work.
She will show her.
She will save him.
Euphemia reaches the top of the stairs. Fumbles for the iron keys.
Behind her, Kelda’s strides reach the spiral steps, fury echoing into the cramped chamber. Euphemia hears her grunts and knows she doesn’t have much time at all.
The iron keys rattle in her hands as she searches for the right one—why hadn’t she done this part earlier? Why hadn’t she paid more attention to which key was the most important of them all?
Kelda’s pounding footsteps shake the walls.
Euphemia tries key after key.
None of them fit the lock correctly.
She curses herself. The keys. And Kelda’s quick, heated gait.
An eternity passes. Kelda is right on her heels when finally, one key slides into the lock.
Euphemia twists it and throws herself inside the tower chamber. There is no time to close and relock the door behind her. Kelda would be upon her before she even had the chance.
Instead, Euphemia bounds for Dagfinn’s body.
She slips her arm under his neck just as Kelda barrels inside, chest huffing.
“Put. Him. Down.”
Euphemia’s spine stiffens.
Slowly, she looks over her shoulder, her voice shaky as she says, “I cannot do that.”
Behind Kelda, Euphemia hears another set of steps leaping up the stairs. Asvald reaches the landing a few moments later.
“Let her try,” he says to Kelda.
A torn silence follows.
Euphemia raises the bottle up to Dagfinn’s face.
“Please, Euphemia,” Kelda begs, her voice haggard. “You don’t know what you’re doing. Dagfinn studied this magick for years, and look at the state of him. He still didn’t understand it. If you got anything wrong, you could kill him.”
Euphemia considers Kelda’s words as she gazes down upon her husband.
Kelda is wrong though. Dagfinn did not fail. In fact, his concoction did exactly what he intended. It brought him to the only place where he could find acceptance. A place where he could finally say goodbye. A place where Euphemia could too.
She shakes her head at Kelda, her voice low as she says, “He understood it more than you know.”
Before Kelda can stop her, Euphemia lifts the vial the rest of the way to his dry lips. And pours.
The brew spills into Dagfinn’s mouth.
The lump of his throat bobs once.
Twice.
Euphemia hears Kelda struggling behind her the whole time and realizes Asvald must be holding her back. It seems he would do anything for that woman, including incur her wrath forever if this doesn’t work.
It will though.
Dagfinn finishes drinking the full contents of the vial.
Finally Kelda rushes to his bedside as Euphemia lowers him back down.
The look she flashes her is one of severe rage, but also tentative hope.
The two women kneel there at Dagfinn’s bedside.
Neither of them speak. Neither of them move.
Their gazes are fixed upon the man that has brought them together. The man they need to save.
His chest rises and falls.
Euphemia can’t tell if it’s any slower or quicker than it was before.
Doubt tries wriggling into her thoughts, but she ignores it. She believes in him and she believes in herself.
Euphemia takes Dagfinn’s hand into her own.
And it is then that his eyes finally open. Eyes that are not black pits like they were last time. But his eyes. Bright blue that shine with amazement.
Kelda leans forward, gazing upon him. “Dagfinn?”
It draws his attention and he says, voice harsh, “Mother?”
A sob cranks out of Kelda. “Is it…is it really you this time?”
He swallows thickly, like the brew has clogged his throat with moss. But his wry humor remains.
“Who else would it be?”
Kelda envelops him then, wrapping her arms around the son she thought she’d lost months ago. The son she thought she lost again last night. The son she thought might never awaken and would die in this manor, just as his father had done before him.
From the doorway, Euphemia hears Asvald sigh as he makes his way into the room and approaches the family. He tussles Dagfinn’s hair as if he were his own child.
Euphemia watches their emotional reunion, frozen in place.
Her hands tremble where they still cling to Dagfinn, too scared to let go. Because what if he had been wrong. What if it was all just a dream and he doesn’t remember her. What if none of it had been real. Not the tender moments they shared. Not the harrowing adventures.
What if this will be the last time she touches him because he wants nothing to do with her?
“Sorry. I’m squeezing the breath out of you,” Kelda says, releasing her son.
As she leans away, Euphemia’s view of Dagfinn clears.
Their eyes lock.
A thunderstorm surges through Euphemia. Electric and burning.
She holds her breath.
Afraid to move.
Afraid to do or say the wrong thing.
If Dagfinn doesn’t recognize her or feel the same way…she doesn’t know what she’ll do.
She waits for a smirk or any sign of recognition, but he just stares at her wide-eyed, like he’s seen a ghost.
Finally, he speaks. “I worried I hallucinated you.”
The breath whooshes from Euphemia’s lungs.
She squeezes his hand tighter, leaning closer. “I worried the same.”
His fingers tighten around hers, pulling her closer. And though Euphemia knows he did not use enough strength to bring her all the way down atop him, she folds forward, pressing her lips upon his.
Beside them, Kelda gasps, but Euphemia hardly notices.
Dagfinn’s mouth upon hers is warm. He tastes of moss and dirt, but she does not care. She lets him steal the air from her lungs as his hand comes behind her head and presses her nearer. Holding her firmly. As if he is worried she will disappear.
There is no disappearing this time though.
He is here.
And she will not let him leave again.
As they pull apart, Kelda’s voice is quiet. “You were telling the truth then. All of it?”
Embarrassment creeps into Euphemia’s chest. She starts to pull away to be more modest, but Dagfinn holds her close.
“She was,” he tells his mother.
Kelda’s head bows with shame. “Then I owe you the greatest apology ever, Euphemia.”
Euphemia shakes her head. “It’s alright. I don’t blame you. I’m not sure I would’ve believed someone if they had told me the same thing.”
The four of them stay like that for a while, sitting around Dagfinn’s bed and soaking in each other’s company.
Kelda smacks him upside the head only once, and tells him that if he ever does something like this again, she’ll kill him herself.
And though most adult children might roll their eyes at such parental ferocity, Dagfinn’s eyes only glitter with gratitude.
The conversation veers through all sorts of topics. Dagfinn asks about the war, about famine and disease. He asks after Asvald’s family, eager to hear everyone remains in good health.
In time, Kelda tells him about some of the harder things that have happened in his absence. She tells him of Maryam’s cooperage burning. Of Percival’s coercive attempt to get Kelda to marry him. And about the threat to their lands.
It reminds Euphemia she’s still holding onto the deed.
She pulls it from her breast now, handing it to Dagfinn.
“What is that?” Kelda asks as he unfolds it.
“This is the original deed to Thorfell Manor. The one Old Man Reynar signed. The one Euphemia found buried in the garden.” Dagfinn hands Kelda the deed and stares at her with hurt piercing through him. “Did you know about this?”
She takes the deed, sounding incredulous. “Why would I know about this?”
Dagfinn glances at Euphemia, uncertainty in his eyes. “Because it was father who buried it.”
Kelda’s eyes snap to his. “Otho did?”
Dagfinn nods.
For a moment, Kelda just shakes her head. “Why would he do that?”
Dagfinn tells her then about finding Otho in the dreams, how he confessed to burying the deed at Percival’s behest, and how he had helped Otho forge a new one to help keep Thorfell Manor protected.
Kelda’s eyes fill with betrayal.
It’s clear to Euphemia that this was not something Otho had told her. Dagfinn looks as if he thinks the same.
Kelda stares down at the parchment again. “All because we might have owed the Walsham heirs some coin?”
Dagfinn shrugs. “I guess he was worried it might turn into something more.”
But the longer Kelda looks upon the parchment, the more her brow furrows.
She looks up at Asvald, then to Dagfinn. “Did you read this?”
He snorts as if to say he’s kind of been otherwise indisposed.
Kelda holds the deed out and reads, “The surviving heirs of the Walsham family, George Walsham IV and Maryam Walsham—” With wide eyes, Kelda glances at the two of them again. “You don’t think—”
“Maryam? As in our Maryam?” Dagfinn asks.
Asvald shrugs. “That was her brother’s name, wasn’t it?”
“Aye,” Kelda says, reading the deed again. “You know what this means?”
Solemnly, Dagfinn’s head bobs.
Euphemia can see his mind working.
Finally, when he speaks, his voice is as dark as night. “It means our family not only committed one crime against hers, but several. And now it is time we set things right.”
Dagfinn throws the furs over the side of the bed as he starts to stand.
Kelda and Euphemia jump.
“What are you doing?” Kelda asks. “You should rest.”
“I’ve rested long enough.”
Dagfinn swings one leg over the bed, angling to face Euphemia. She offers him the crook of her elbow and helps him stand. Even on wobbling legs, he still towers over her. Still smells of fire and cedar and sea. Still is exactly as he was in her dreams.
Kelda folds her arms as he hobbles by her. “And what do you plan to do?”
Euphemia already knows his answer.
“I plan to fix everything, to give Kelda what she is owed, and to end Percival’s threat to us once and for all.” He pauses in the doorway just long enough to glance over his shoulder to where Asvald and Kelda stand frozen and speechless. “Come. There is much to prepare.”