The Night Curse (Book one)

Harlow’s footsteps grow quieter the further he advances towards his cottage. I’m spying on him from the shelter of a weeping willow, hidden by the curtain of leaves hanging from the pendant-like branches. I’d struggled to settle after our dream. It wasn’t until I’d left that the gravity of my situation materialised. My powers didn’t work. No matter how strongly I pushed, impassable resistance fought against my influence. Harlow’s mind was like a forbidden realm, an impenetrable fortress. As hard as his foreboding stare. The unsettling thought of him lured me back to the clearing. I didn’t know how it would help or what I would find, but I certainly didn’t expect to find him here. Afraid of what he was doing, I decided to stay out of sight. Now he’s gone, I tread out from behind the tree and see that he’s taken the fork, leaving a letter in its place.

The edges flutter in the breeze, secured only by the weight of a stone. I pull it free, inspecting the envelope closely. I turn it over in my hands, the smoothness of the paper gliding against my skin. On the front, my name is written in calligraphy, and I see that the flap remains unsealed. Slowly, I take out the letter and open it, nerves swirling in the pit of my stomach. As I open the letter, I find a curl of black hair. I run the pads of my fingers over the strands, stunned by the gift. Carefully, I put it back inside the envelope to stop it from blowing away. Using the stars and moon as my only light source, I make out Harlow’s words.

Dear Amelia,

My sincerest apologies for how I reacted when we met. Dreamwalkers are something that I have been raised to fear. Never did I expect to meet one in real life. I was scared and rude and for this, I am deeply sorry. I promise to keep your presence a secret and refute the idea that we cannot be friends.

On the contrary, I would like to try. My dreams are open to you, as is the door to my home. I would like the opportunity to remedy my hostile introduction if you deem me worthy enough of a second chance.

Regards,

Harlow

My knees buckle. The letter almost falls from my grasp. He’s apologising. Harlow wants to be friends. It’s hard to combine the words on the page with the harsh man that I had just met. The author of the letter is open-minded and forgiving. Harlow seemed so resolute on hating me only moments ago. His ice-blue eyes were so full of resentment for my kind. Between my hands now lies acknowledgement of how unfair that was. Something has made him question those prejudices.

When I met him in his dream, I had all these expectations. Never did I consider he’d resist my influence, or protest such distaste towards me. But why? Of course, he’s trained to loathe me, fear me. He reflects how the outside world sees me, proving just how integral it is that I stay enclosed behind the manor walls.

Harlow wants to change. To try to be friends. My initial reaction is to go to him and see for myself the change so that I can judge its authenticity. But I will not see him tonight. I feel too fragile, too cautious. I need to show Harlow that I’m just like every other human he’s met, and right now, I don’t think I have the energy or gumption to do so. Instead, I plan on scouring Grandmother Hyacinth’s diaries for help. Perhaps she had suffered a similar fate.

I return indoors and head for my room, too absorbed in my thoughts to register my surroundings. I could walk the journey blindfolded as I’ve done it so often. The route is carved into my brain like the directions on a treasure map. My feet drag me to my bedroom, and tiredness takes over. I lie in bed, comforted by the familiar scent of smoke and spice.

I remove Grandmother Hyacinth’s diary from under my pillow and begin flicking and scanning through the entries, searching for answers. I find nothing relating to my experience with Harlow. The words are blurry: my eyes strain to stay open. As I inhale deep long breaths and slip into sleep, I find that I cannot evade Harlow’s face. Despite the turmoil we’d endured, with every blink, his dagger-like stare pins me to the bed. As much as I want to cower and shrink from the potency of his hatred, I also yearn to be devoured by it. Another blink, and another illicit desire flickers before my closed lids. Rough, torturous hands on my skin. Our bodies colliding. As sleep draws near, I stop blinking, stop fighting, and give into my cravings, allowing my dream and Harlow to consume me.

My room is filled with rays of sun. Spring. I must have slept for the entire day. The letter remains crumpled in my palm. Hyacinth’s diary is open by my head. Unexpectedly, Clemmy bursts in, a smile beaming on her face.

“Mia, we are having an engagement party!” she screeches, her hair bouncing with the rush of her movements.

I wipe the corners of my eyes, still adjusting to the light. “When?” is all I can muster.

“This Saturday and all of high society is invited. But that isn’t the best part.” Clemmy looks as if she’s about to burst. She’s practically vibrating.

“What is the best part?” I ask, not knowing quite why my tone is coated with suspicion.

She flings her arms in the air. “It’s going to be a masquerade ball. It was all my idea, of course.” She jumps on the spot, her diamond ring glinting in the warmth.

I don’t react, unsure why my sister thinks that I’d be interested in her event. I pull the covers back over my body and muffle my congratulations.

Clemmy giggles. She yanks the covers off me. “Don’t you get it yet, Mia? You are invited, too! I’m having a mask custom-made to conceal your eyes but still allow you to see.”

My heart rattles against my ribcage. I don’t know which emotion to focus on. I’m incredibly thankful to have a sister as cunning and caring as Clemmy, and I am also beside myself with glee at the prospect of socialising, drinking, dancing. My skin fizzes with glorious trepidation.

A chuckle erupts from my mouth, and I leap to my feet, joining my sister in jumps of joy, only stopping to embrace her. “Thank you,” I say against the shell of her ear. She squeezes me tighter.

“You deserve a night of fun, Mia. This way, I can celebrate my impending nuptials with the one person whose blessing I want, my sister,” she declares, nudging my shoulder. “And you get to meet my husband.”

My grin fades. “Do mother and father know?”

A devious twinkle shines in Clemmy’s eye, telling me all I need to know. “No one will know who you are, Mia. You’ll just be another guest having a good time.” She twirls me around, mimicking the Waltz.

I look down at my appearance woefully. I’m not fit for such an occasion. I’ve never deemed it necessary or likely. Balls are for nobles, high society, and at the very least humans. I’ve never had to make the effort for anyone or anything, so plainly, my wardrobe lacks the refinement required for such an occasion. “I don’t suppose you had a dress made for me alongside my mask?”

She lifts a groomed brow mischievously. “Indeed I have.” Then she leaves.

Clemmy returns to my room with a deep russet gown hung over her arms. I glide my pads against the fabric. Satin. Its skirt is adorned with ruffles and the hem cascades at least a metre wide. The bodice appears fitted and decorative with intricate gold embroidery along the panelling. A square neckline leads to long, narrow sleeves.

I tear my gaze from the gown to Clemmy’s smug face. “Where did you get this from?”

She shrugs casually. “I have connections. We’re a pretty big deal, you know?”

I don’t know, not really.

“How can I ever repay you? This is the nicest thing that anyone has ever done for me, and it is your engagement!” A dream come true; I consider.

She smirks and then winks, that scandalous glint returning to her eye. “Well, you’ll have to get me a pretty special present then.”

She passes me the dress, and I carry it to my wardrobe as if it’s as brittle as ceramic. Saturday can’t come soon enough.