The Night Curse (Book one)

Clemmy glides through my bedroom door without knocking. “Did you dream me up a match made in heaven?”

She always knows how to lift the mood. I think back to the man that I had moulded for Clemintine and the life I had envisaged for them as time ran away from me yesterday. “He is broad-shouldered, obviously dashing, blonde and fair-skinned with rosebud lips to match your own.”

“Do go on,” Clemmy purrs, her hands anchor beneath her chin as she lies by the hearth ablaze with fire.

“He’s an Earl, exceedingly rich, but also a philanthropist. Hosts charity balls where you can wear decadent gowns and dance late into the evening.”

Clemmy’s eyes shine. “And what of our future?”

I take a strand of her hair and tuck it behind her ear. “Well after a glorious wedding, fit for a princess, you go on to bear four children. Two girls, and two boys. You live in a grand mansion on the Earl’s estate and visit Harling Manor between your many important benefits.”

Clemmy spins onto her back, focusing on the ceiling. “Well, I have to come back. Who else would look after my darling sister?”

I don’t mimic her laugh. I recoil at the lonely idea. “Because I’ll still be here, locked away in a tower, waiting for a prince that will never come.”

She clasps my hand. “Mia, what I meant to say was that I will never leave you. I will always be here for you.” Her other hand touches the skin above her heart. “That’s if I ever do find a man good enough, anyway. It could be years yet.”

I begin to question whether Clemmy is as picky as she implies, or if, deep down, a part of her is finding faults so that she won’t have to leave me. Because as much as she says that she won’t, we both know that one day she’ll start her own life, and I’ll remain stagnant—forgotten. As much as it pains me, the notion that she’d keep herself from love, for me, breaks my heart.

I play with the fringe of the throw strewn across my bed. “I never told you but the only reason no one told about me, after the servants saw me last year, was because I made them forget.”

The memory surfaces. Me dining with my family. Two servants, meant to have left for the night, stumbling in on us and staring wide-eyed at my purple irises, hands muffling their screams.

Clemmy’s groomed brows wrinkle. “What do you mean?”

“I stole items belonging to them and it allowed me to enter their dreams while they slept. There, I replayed the memory of them seeing me, and I… erased it.” Blacked it out, like ink spreading in water.

Her face remains warped, her breathing rough. “Oh. And have you ever made me forget? Or mother and father?”

I shake my head profusely. “No, never.” A lie. It was a lie.

“Because we agreed that you needed our consent, Mia. To alter our memories, that would be…”

Don’t say unforgivable.

“It would be wrong. We are your family. We love you. We trust you.”

Worse. Much worse. I am a horrible person.

Yet, she’ll never understand the need to know myself, as I hide from the world. The ache to uncover the depths of my powers when all I do day after day, night after night, is question why it is that I need to hide at all. What makes me so monstrous that the Queen seeks to destroy us? Am I to turn away from myself? Deny the very essence of what makes me me. Suppress my skills, as innocent as they are, just to please people? Because they are afraid, because they don’t understand. What of my feelings?

“I told you. I haven’t, and I never will.”

She widens her gaze, regarding my promise with scepticism. Her expression decidedly softens. “So I suppose you are worried about Mr Fletcher.”

I nod.

“And now you need something of his so that you can erase the memory and ensure no one knows that you’re here.”

“Yes,” I breathe, not daring to meet her eyes.

“Then, I’ll help you.” She springs to a stand. “But don’t make a habit of it.”

I can’t believe my ears. “It could be dangerous. We could get caught.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Live a little.” She stretches out her hand, beckoning me to take it. I’m reminded of Grandmother Hyacinth and Grandfather Thomas’ first meeting. The start of the rest of their lives.

I reach out and take her palm in mine. “Do you have a plan?”

The groundsman’s dwelling is modest. Nestled between sycamore trees, I can just make out the rooms on the east side of the property. No lights save for a single candle in the upstairs window.

“He must be in bed.” My voice is so small amidst the sprawling grounds.

Night-blue shrouds Clemmy’s face, and even still, I can tell that her confidence wavers. “What kind of object do you need?” she questions.

“The more precious, the better. I need to get closer and see what’s lying around.”

“When you say closer, please mean while staying on this side of the wall.”

“You can stay here, keep watch.”

I don’t waste time waiting for her to change her mind. Stealthily, I crouch towards Mr Fletcher’s house, resolute on the flicker of the candle. Nothing lies discarded on the ground. All gardening equipment appears locked away in the workshop by his lodgings. I approach the shed and tug on the steel lock. Sealed.

A few yards from me, Clemmy remains rooted to the spot, akin to a scarecrow mounted on a field. I venture closer until my hands are groping the brick of the exterior. My weight shifts, the gravel crunches under my feet. I lean forward and angle my head just enough so that I can see into his sitting room while remaining flush with the wall. He might keep our gardens in check, but if the condition of his sitting room was anything to go by, I’d wager that he’s a bit of a hoarder and a messy one at that.

The room is so dishevelled, I don’t know where to rest my vision. Books, trinkets, newspapers, and pots litter the surface of every piece of furniture. Then, something catches my attention. Something too clean amongst the shambles—a sheen of gold or brass by the fireplace. Pressing closer, I glean the symbol of an eye embossed into its middle. A medal, of some sort. Military, perhaps. It looks important. Important enough to have on display. It would work very well, but how to get to it?

I feel around the edges of the window until I find the lip of a window not in line with the clasp of the lock. A man this untidy was bound to forget. I push against the window, opening it as wide as I can—just enough so that my fingers can reach inside and lift the hook.

Just a little more.

The medal shines in my eye.

Come on.

The hook releases with a clink. I pause and hear nothing.

I push open the window wide and heave myself up and into the sitting room. My body, even though slight, feels so cumbersome with the effort. Slowly, I let myself lower into the room, the skirt of my dress unfurling like a broken umbrella. When I land with a thud, I whip my gaze towards Clemmy who still stands beyond the window. I watch as her head travels north, her mouth goes slack. The creak of the floorboards warns me of what she’s seen.

Footsteps.

Coming down the stairs.

I glance at the medal and then the window, the footsteps all the while growing louder and more urgent. My body hesitates, rocks back and forth. The medal is across the sitting room, at least four strides there and then eight strides back to the window.

No time.

I lunge for the window as Mr Fletcher’s foot lands on the bottom step. Clemmy rushes over and pulls me out. As soon as my shoes hit the gravel, we sprint for the manor, and listen to the threats of Mr Fletcher behind us.

We make it to the front door, our chests heaving for breath. I steal a glance behind us and see no one making chase. We’d made it, but without anything belonging to Mr Fletcher.