The Night Curse (Book one)

It’s early. The sun is low on the horizon, casting auburn sparks across the land. The radiance highlights the foliage and hints at the world past the wall, the hills I’ll never climb. I can only imagine what they hold. The life I could lead. Instead I’m here. Always here. Alive but never living. It’s no use praying for a different alternative. It’s not done me much good thus far.

I weave my hair into a long plait, sitting on my perch, my vantage point. From here, I can see the scope of my confinements. The boundary lines that blend into the trees, teasing me with a sense of freedom. Soon, I’ll imagine breaking down those barriers and build a world where I can run far away. Not out of fear. No. I’ll run for the thrill of it. Because nothing and nowhere is out of reach. My life will be limitless, my journey endless. And I’ll still be running long after the manor has collapsed into ruin.

My plait is wound so tight that strands bulk and break under the tension. My heated breath has clouded the glass. I realise that I’ve been clenching my teeth so hard that the bones in my face have started to ache. I roughly shake my hair loose and take a final glance at my prison.

A shadow of a man stretches out from the woods, merging with the black trunks. He breaks away from the shelter of trees and walks along the gravel path, into the light. He holds a pair of metal scissors in one hand and a large fork in the other.

The new Groundsman.

Harlow Elworth, my sister had said.

He’s much younger than I’d envisaged. He couldn’t have worked for the Queen for very long. I wonder why he wanted to leave. Harling Manor seems like such a step down from the palace.

I watch him, for longer than intended, firmly clip away with severe concentration, pruning the plants into shape. He makes swift work of the task and soon he’s so close to the manor that I can see the flex of his jaw straining with the snap of the scissors. His dark hair falls into his eyes, compelling him to tuck it behind his ears. He switches instruments and starts turning over the soil with the fork, breaking down the clumps into fine grains.

The sun has ascended and still he continues to twist against the hardened dirt, bringing darker soil to the surface. Sweat must be on his brow as he wipes his forearm against his forehead. As he does, I notice a pool of moisture darken the underside of his armpit. His white shirt clings to his body, hinting at the muscles that lie beneath.

Something tightens inside.

My mouth salivates.

I have the most unusual need to touch myself.

I tried it once. Allowed my fingers to linger longer than normal on my skin as I bathed, enjoying the sensations it produced. But my exploration stopped at the entrance of my core. I was so shocked by the discovery that I asked my mother for the doctor, fearing something was wrong with me. She told me then what its purpose was and the pleasures that awaited. But then she faltered, realising that they might never be awakened by the touch of another. The thought had made me so sad that I’d yet to resume my wandering hand.

Until now.

The urge to feel the heat between my legs, as I stare at this beautiful stranger, is palpable.

I deny myself the experience, savouring his form, memorising his face until he turns away from me and steps back into the shadows.

The bite of night nips at my fingertips as I step towards the cottage. Every nerve-ending ignites with the closing threshold. A rush of excitement pulsates through my veins. Harlow is just beyond my reach, but within my mind, I can seize him for myself. All I need is a piece of him, and when I see the fork leaning against the shed door it takes all my restraint to not plunge to my knees in appreciation.

Grasping the handle, I’ve never felt more exhilarated.

I take the fork and rush to the clearing where I can hide with the twilight. The vision of him running alongside me under the moon’s glow.

As I push through the trees, my chest heaving with delight, I trip and tumble onto the ground. The fork is inches away from my face, its sharp edges glaring at me from under my lashes.

That was close.

I rise to my feet, pat the dirt from my nightgown and use the fork as a walking stick for the rest of the journey until the soil changes to grass under my bare feet. Reaching my destination, my scalp prickles with anticipation. The near miss only accentuates the bliss coursing through my blood. For years, I’ve had nothing to look forward to. Nothing. All I have is my dreams and even those have languished over time. Restrictions from family. Visitors so rare. I’ve been desperate for something else. Harlow has lit a fire that I didn’t think I’d ever feel, and all I want to do is burn under his touch. A touch of my own making, but a touch never the less.

Panting, I lie down and clutch the fork down the length of my body, the handle resting tentatively between my thighs, my hands grappling with the hardness of the metal.

I force my mind to turn inwards and fade into black, searching for him.

The dream comes into focus, and I see Harlow, and the dream he’s seeing while sleeping metres away inside the warmth of the cottage.

He’s on a farm, eyes searching the vista. His back faces me, and my chest swells at the idea of pressing myself against the broadness of his shoulders. I step forward and lace my fingers through his hand, causing him to jerk and spin around. His nose is inches from mine, and I see the confusion etched into his glare.

Hooded, deep-set eyes, intense with the heaviness of his knitted brows, hook onto mine. I marvel at the taper of his stare, the intensity of him. His face is impossibly symmetrical, like a sculptured angel, yet his long hair, bold and black against his tanned skin, speaks to something darker. The hint of dimples are shadows around his mouth. His mouth. Sensually full and defined and begging to be kissed. Accept the energy emanating from him, the way he regards me is threatening. I feel as if he’ll throttle me at any second from the anger radiating from his scowl.

I brush a strand of hair from his view, and he forcefully snaps his hand around my wrist. Shock replaces desire, and I twist at his grip, trying to free myself from his hold. He eventually lets me go, and I attempt to change his demeanour and the course of this dream to something more favourable, but my influence is haltered by some impenetrable force. The rigidity of it as strong as pillars of stone. Harlow’s marble expression wavers at the sight of me struggling to invade his thoughts.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

I stumble over my words, panicking at the uselessness of my powers. “I… I can’t do anything.” Am I broken? Has he discovered a way to resist being taken over?

Then it dawns on me. If my powers don’t work here, I can’t make him forget. I swallow down the lump in my throat. My eyes widen.

I reach out and grip his arm. “Please, don’t tell.”

Harlow flinches, and my hand falls back to my side. His mouth screws up in disgust and then he pouts as if he’s about the spit.

“Please,” I beg quietly. “If mother and father find out that you know what I am then you’ll lose your job or… worse.” The latter wasn’t exactly something that I knew for sure, but father’s protection knew no bounds. He’d do anything for me. As scared as I am at the revulsion on Harlow’s face, I don’t want him to leave. I still want him for myself. Evidently, my feelings are not reciprocated.

I try to appease to some empathy within him and extend my hand. “I’m Amelia. It’s nice to meet you.”

Harlow stares at my hand like it is coated with pox. His eyes meet mine again, and even though I can’t hear his thoughts, I can see the wheels turning behind his irises. My hand remains outstretched, and I know my expression is pained.

Please, please, please.

Harlow slowly lifts his hand and shakes mine. His grip is loose like he’s afraid to touch me for too long. “How do you know my name?” he says, his voice still loaded with hate.

“My sister, Clemmy, she told me about you.”

He nods, taking in the truth I’ve chosen to reveal.

“So, you are a Harling.” It isn’t a question but a statement.

“Yes,” I reply shyly, feeling too exposed, too vulnerable.

“What are you doing… here?” he wonders dryly.

My cheeks warm, I dip my chin and bite my lip, unsure how I can explain the nature of my visit.

“Normally, I can alter people’s dreams, if I have something of theirs, something they’ve touched—”

“What have you taken?”

“Just the fork that you were using earlier today.”

Harlow steps backwards, and rakes his fingers through his hair. “You were watching me?”

“I saw you gardening from my window. I live at the manor.” He seems to recoil from the thought of being watched by me. “I’m sorry.”

“You were saying, normally you can alter people’s dreams. Can you not alter mine?”

I shake my head. “No, and I don’t know why. This has never happened before. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it happening.”

Relief seems to relax his muscles as his shoulders drop, and his forehead smooths. “Well, that’s something at least. I wouldn’t want you meddling with my mind.” His voice is hoarse and stern.

“So… will you keep me a secret?”

He takes a deep breath and scans my face. “I will.”

A grin spreads across my jaw. “Thank you so—”

“But this doesn’t make us friends.” His tone is deftly serious. His body tightens once more.

“I understand, but I’m still thankful.”

He shuffles uncomfortably, glancing over his shoulder to the farmland that surrounds us.

“Is this your home?”

“Don’t do that,” he scolds.

I frown. “Do what?”

“Try to get to know me.”

I look at my feet, the last ounces of joy evaporating with every heavy breath. “Sweet dreams, Harlow,” I whisper and then open my eyes to the night sky back at Harling Manor, leaving Harlow alone, just as he wants.

Wetness stains my skin, and I realise that I’m crying. My bottom lip trembles from the scream trapped in my throat. I stand, shivering with emotion, and slam the fork to the ground. It lays, pitifully, in the centre of the clearing like a skeleton. I stomp away, leaving it there along with any chance of happiness.