The Night Curse (Book one)
Chapter 7 The Dreamwalker

The burglary had been a disaster. I should never have gotten Clemmy involved. Although, without her, I’d likely still be wedged in the window frame, Mr Fletcher cursing my name.

It is late afternoon going by the dimming light, but I’m wide awake, hunched over by the dwindling fire, getting lost in the swirls of orange and white that rise and fall within. I grab the poker to stoke the embers when floorboards creak outside my door. The handle turns. I am about to hide when I see my father on the other side. He steps in and closes the door behind him.

He’s dressed in his tailcoat with a matching waistcoat and embroidered shirt, making me feel impossibly plain. A ghost needn’t bother with hair nets or braids.

“You’re up.” A hand tucks into his pocket. “Are you hungry, child? I can—”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m too worried to eat.”

It’s true. My belly is hollow, yet my appetite shelters from the whines of my mind.

He comes nearer and kneels by my side. “You needn’t be. It has been taken care of.”

I furrow my brows. “Has he been dismissed?”

“Yes and given a hefty sum for his loyalties, too.”

A bribe then. I motion for the window and look at the sky that’s slowly being swallowed by the night. “And did he say anything… about me?”

“Nothing.”

Maybe he didn’t see me after all. A subtle relief washes over me, and I try to ignore the seed of doubt worming away at my insides.

“You’re dressed well. What does the evening hold?”

“Marquess Elliot is coming.”

“For Clemmy?”

He paces the room. I haven’t seen father this despondent for some time. If memory serves, he hasn’t been this edgy since I’d been observed by staff. But this time, it is Clemmy that affects him—torments him. “She’s declined four proposals this year.” There is disappointment in his face and something else… sadness. “Seeing you, as good as locked up in a dungeon, my beautiful daughter, it haunts me.”

“Father.” I place my hands on his in a bid to comfort him.

“You are my eldest. You should already be a…”

A wife. A mother. My eyes glaze over.

“And your sister is throwing away her life. I can’t bear it. I pray that God grants me at least one happy ending.”

He wipes a fallen tear from my cheek. “I’d give you the world if I could, Mia. If only this world was kinder.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from sobbing as he kisses my forehead and leaves.

Once father’s footsteps dwindle, I lift my pillow and take Grandmother Hyacinth’s diary in my hand. I know the date that I’m looking for.

1803, December 20th

I love this time of year. The songs, the decorations, the building excitement, and the long nights. Lately, Thomas has been allowing me to test my abilities on him after gifting me a book called, Somnia Nuntios. It translates to Sleep Messengers.

Last night, I entered Thomas’ dream and attempted to change an opinion. This is different to erasing or changing memories, or even planting ideas. If it worked, I would change a fundamental part of him. Forever.

We agreed on spiders. He is terrified of the eight-legged insects and changing his opinion of them would be a viable test, with little consequences. So I entered his dream and began.

I summoned a single spider in the palm of my hand. Thomas approached us warily, and I showed him the arachnid, no bigger than a leaf. He was visibly shaking as I asked him to hold out his hand. I caressed his cheek, soothed his nerves, and then gently passed him the spider. He immediately trapped it in his other hand, ceasing any escape.

I placed my fingers upon his forehead and pushed until my hands were inside his mind. I found the fear, a solid black mass the size of a stone, and pulled it from his head. I imagined that we were standing, surrounded by oceans, and asked him to throw away his fear. He was no longer trembling when the pebble left his grip and descended into the watery depths. I asked him to open his palm and see the beauty that lay within. He did so and smiled.

When Thomas found the spider I had caught in our bed this morning, he did not scream or jump. He picked up the creature and kissed it.

I can’t give father peace or grandchildren, but Clemmy can, and she will.

I lay across my bed and listen to the soft tremors of the house. The house is quiet, save for the clock’s chimes as midnight echoes through the manor. My mind sinks into the depths of sleep like an anchor descending to the seafloor. My inner thoughts are slippery and wet like clay, waiting for their creator’s hands to mould them into shape.

I focus on my sister. The idea of her.

She emerges, as if through blurred vision until her body crystallizes and sharpens. Her colour becomes saturated and dense; her skin fills the corset of her dress, and her chest rises with breath as if awake. She stands before me. Eyes closed. Her flickering lids inform me that she is dreaming. I use the moment to delve into her head. It feels like jumping off the edge of a cliff and diving into a whirlpool.

Her dream unfolds lazily. She’s a girl again. I’d guess eight years old by her little legs and plump cheeks. She’s playing hide and seek in the garden, and I see a young mirage of myself playing alongside her.

Is it a memory?

Clemmy doesn’t notice me. She’s too busy searching—laughing. It takes me a second to remember my intentions. I shrug off the smile tugging at my lips and focus on the task at hand. Destiny.

I click my fingers and the dream transforms. Clemmy and I sit opposite one another on chairs carved from marble, whiteness beyond.

Her face contorts. “What is this?”

“An intervention,” I admit, wishing I could be this honest in real life.

Her brow arches. Her lips purse into thin lines. “I thought—”

“Imagine your biggest fear,” I interrupt. “The things stopping you from choosing a husband.”

Clemmy’s features slacken, and her body deflates. She blinks slow and hard. When her eyes open, I see that they are glistening with tears.

She sobs, “It’s not fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“It should be you, Mia.”

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the notion. “What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you.”

Silence proceeds. I stare into my sister’s gaze, wishing that my powers could solve not only my sister’s woes but my own.

She continues, “I don’t want to leave you.”

I can’t listen anymore. I plunge my hand into Clemmy’s head and pluck the black thought from her mind. We no longer sit on marble thrones but on the plank of a boat. The whiteness is now a still river. I let the blackness take on the form of a pebble and unfurl Clemmy’s hand.

“Rid yourself of this fear, dear sister. Fear it no more. Open your heart to love.”

She stares at the black stone against her palm and without instruction launches it into the water. Her face remains tear-stricken, but there is a new brightness to her eyes.

I conjure a knife and slice a painless cut across my hand. This is essential to ensure Clemmy doesn’t remember me in her dream. My slick blood flows like liquid silver, and I wipe my hand across my face and then Clemmy’s. Her eyes turn blank, and I awake, vanishing from her dream as fast as a shooting star.

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