The Night Curse (Book one)

I light the candle in the lantern and leave the confines of my room.

The flame dances within the glass, slicing through the shadowy corridors like shards of sunlight. I look up, noticing the gargoyle sconces watching me.

“Good evening,” I whisper, with a tilt of my head, before making my descent down the grand staircase, the tap of my footsteps echoing like pebbles on water.

The front door, already unlocked, succumbs to the force of my hand. Cool, night air glides over my skin, rippling the navy fabric of my dress. Mother buys, or at times even makes, clothes especially for these times. Clothes that allow me to bleed into the night, as unassuming as a silhouette upon the ground.

I step lightly along the gravel path, taking the route away from the groundsman’s dwellings, towards the woods. I touch every tree that I pass, stroking the bark, the roughness of the wood on my hands. The silence is so peaceful. The moon is so full. Tomorrow it will start to lose slivers of itself, until it becomes invisible in the sky, only to start the whole process all over again. I look forward to the spectacle.

I move deeper into the woodland, listening to the crunch under foot, and the deathly quiet beyond. I spot the clearing ahead, where the trees fall away to reveal a patch of small earth, no larger than my bedroom, where nothing grows but grass. Unless I’m dreaming.

Here, I am surrounded by a shield of dense trees. I can’t see the manor or any of the surrounding grounds. All I see is the walls of wood and the patch of grass at its centre. It is my favourite spot. It is where I read, write, and draw. I’m far enough away that no-one can hear me. No-one can see me. I’m alone in the darkness.

Or not.

Sometimes, if I feel inclined, I allow myself to sleep and then I can do one of two things. I can dream my own dream, construct my own world and characters with whom to interact. Or I can… wander. Infiltrate another’s mind, another’s dream. If it is someone that I know well enough, like Clemmy or my parents, I can dip into their thoughts as easily as breathing. If it’s someone that I don’t know, I need something that belongs to them, like an item of clothing or jewellery. Anything that they’ve worn or loved. Then I can transport into their heads and do… whatever I please. To a certain extent, of course. I have my morals. My family don’t tend to like it when I enter their dreams. But I’ve since learnt that I can make them forget.

I open the diary that I’ve been cradling in my hand, bring the pages to my nose and inhale. They are worn, the ink a little smudged from when I dropped it one rainy night. When I’d found the diaries in the house, one evening when the weather was too horrendous to leave the manor, I wasn’t sure whether to read them or not. I was eighteen before I caved. That was two months ago. Now, I am devouring every word, and learning so very much about my kind that I wasn’t sure whether my mother had in fact intended for me to find them, so casually, laid within the drawer of her dresser.

You see, the diary belonged to my grandmother, Hyacinth, and she was a Dreamwalker, too.

I flick to the next entry and begin to read.

1801, September 21st

Mother tells me that I should marry a fellow Dreamwalker. True, it would be easier to run away and live out my days with someone that shared my gift, but they wouldn’t be Thomas. Thomas loves me, dreaming and all. He tells me that I’m special and he doesn’t see some unholy being when he stares into my eyes, but someone kind and beautiful. Someone to be cherished, not exiled.

It is dangerous times. I overheard mother talking about what the King is doing to Dreamwalkers. He keeps them prisoner and forces them to do his bidding. Whatever that means. Dreamwalkers have worked alongside royalty in the past, willingly schemed and fought, to advance a countries’ aims. Dreamwalkers have helped, supported, protected so many, too. But now all anyone remembers are those which conspired and murdered. To think, how powerful a seed of doubt or suggestion is when placed within the mind. Is it our fault that humans listen?

There is a bounty on our heads. The King wants to command all Dreamwalkers and be the most powerful conqueror to have ever lived. So I cover my face with dark hoods and scarves when I go out, and only at night, too. The darkness hides my purple eyes from view. As soon as we are married, Thomas and I may leave the house very little. I often dream of what it will be like. Alone. Free. I could touch his face in the sun. Kiss his lips in any room. Feel his body on any bed.

Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I slam the book shut. I recall the entries when Hyacinth met Thomas.

I slipped and there outstretched was a man’s hand, willing me to take it. When our eyes met, I was ready for him to run or grab me. He did neither. Instead, he asked if I was alright. As if he didn’t notice the purple in my eyes. As if he didn’t care that I was a Dreamwalker.

It made me consider doing the same, venturing out in disguises, but things have changed so much since those days. Queen Roselin now reigns over England, and she isn’t like her father. She is crueller.

I push the thought of her down until it seeps into the soil. I need a distraction, fun even. I close my eyes and dream of a man worthy of my sister.

Pressure on my heel. That’s what wakes me.

I open my eyes, noticing first the lightness of the sky—too light. What time is it?

Panic rises in my throat, and I turn to see a man poking me with the handle of his shovel.

“You’re alive,” he says, spinning the handle around to its correct position. “And who might you be?”

I stand, brush down the wrinkles in my dress in a bid to keep my eyes from view. Has he already seen?

“I’m a guest of Clemintine Harling. I must have sleepwalked. How strange.” Can he hear the nerves in my laugh?

“Indeed.” A long pause. My face still points to the floor, focusing on the man’s heavy boots. “Best get you back in time for breakfast then, Miss…?”

“Amelia.” Damn, why did I have to say my real name?

“Follow me, Amelia.”

We walk through the trees until we are on the gravel path. I steal a glance at the vibrant gardens, the grandeur of the manor as it is bathed in sun instead of shadows. Wonderful.

“How long will you be staying with Lady Clemintine?” The man asks as he approaches the front door.

“Not long. A couple more days, perhaps. I’m… helping her choose an intended.”

I don’t look up to see whether he nods in approval, but I hear the doorbell chime and the creak of the latch as the door opens. I envisage the servant standing before us, confusion across her face.

“Good morning. We are here to speak with Lady Clemintine Harling.”

Heels tap heavily on stone. “Lord heavens, who is calling at this hour?” my mother interjects, and I lift my face to hers.

“Oh—”

“I do apologise, Countess Elspeth, but Amelia here says that she is staying at your residence, supporting Lady Clemintine?” The octave in his voice hints at disbelief.

“Yes, of course, Amelia, darling. Whatever are you doing in the garden?”

I start to speak but the man overtakes, “Sleepwalking. I found her on the grass while I was tending to the lawn.”

“Good gracious. Well, thank heavens you found her, Mr Fletcher. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience. Come in now, Amelia. You must be freezing.”

I pass Mr Fletcher upon entry, careful not to look him in the eye. “Thank you.”

I make out the tip of his hat. “My pleasure.”

The door shuts behind us with a thud, and I exhale, finally able to lift my head.

“What an earth were you thinking,” my mother groans as she grabs my hand. “Did he see you?”

“I don’t think so.” There was the briefest of moments when I first opened my eyes, but I closed them so quickly, he can’t have noticed.

“What do you mean, you don’t think? Did he or did he not see your eyes?”

“No,” I say, holding my mother’s gaze, her fine features making her appear much younger than her years.

She stares a beat too long; hand still lingering at my wrist. “Very well. You might as well join us for breakfast.”

“But the servants?”

“Will be dismissed. Wait here.”

I wait by the entrance to our dining room, picking at my nailbeds and listening to the murmur of voices. I can’t remember the last time that I ate with my family during the day. Normally, father leaves me meals. If I am still hungry, I even have my own pantry on the top floor. Clemmy sometimes joins me for supper. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t prefer the company.

The door swings open and my father greets me with a hug. “Mia, how lovely to have you for breakfast. Please, sit by me.” I regard him in the sunlight, so tall and handsome. He points to the chair next to him at the head of the table.

Clemmy dips her head and beams at me. “Tea or coffee?”

A decadent spread adorns the table: pastries, jams, and freshly ripened fruit. Light pours through the curved window, clouding everything it touches with pale fog.

“Tea, please.” I look upon my mother, worry still etched in her glare. “I’ve missed this,” I admit. There was a time when we ate regularly as a family, but then I’d been seen, and the staff were either paid off or fired. Ever since we’d decided it was too risky.

“We’ll need a new groundsman, George,” my mother announces, bringing her teacup to her mouth.

My father’s brightness diminishes. “Were you seen?”

The sound of fabric being pulled taut grabs my attention. Clemmy twists at the napkin in her lap.

“She isn’t sure.” Mother’s words are stern, but her voice falters. “It isn’t worth the risk.”

Guilt turns my stomach to lead.

“But Joseph is such a good man, and he has worked for us for so long,” Clemmy starts. “I really don’t think—”

“Even if he only thought he saw, he’d pry, or at worse gossip, and if talk of Mia reached the Queen.” He shakes his head. “Only this weekend I heard about a girl being found at the market. She was only seven and now she’s…” I notice the whiteness of his knuckles as he squeezes the flatware in his hand. “It doesn’t even bare thinking about.”

“But if he’s dismissed, won’t that make him angry? More likely to tell?”

Everyone shares a glance, contemplating my words.

“It worked for us before. It will work again.”

“You don’t know that father—”

He stands, his hands smack the table, startling me. “I have always kept you safe, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” I breathe. “I just—”

“Then let me protect you, Mia.”

I nod my head and take a sip of my tea, attempting to conceal the porcelain trembling in my fingers.