The Night Curse (Book one)

I don’t know if my dream has worked. Clemmy has yet to venture to my room.

After the act, I wasn’t able to sleep. Thoughts spun like windmills, and a suppressed betrayal arose.

The first time that I altered Clemmy’s dream without her consent, I was so plagued by sin that I vowed myself to never do it again. We’d argued the day before, and I felt spiteful. My way of getting back at her was to cultivate a nightmare so frightening that she’d fear sleep for days. Clemmy’s ultimate fear was sickness.

When we had learnt of the Great Plague of London, Clemmy was utterly disgusted and paranoid. It wasn’t entirely unjustified. Not because the condition killed hundreds of thousands of people but because Clemmy did get sick. On her tenth birthday, she developed a fever that left her bedridden and delirious. We thought she was going to die. I’d entered her dream only once during that time of her life, and it felt like being trapped inside a tomb. There was nothing but terror and exhaustion as she spiralled towards death.

Her recovery was long and arduous. She had lost so much weight and muscle that she had to learn how to walk again. For a long while, it was as if I’d lost my sister and gained another frailer one in return. Clemmy would beg me to enter her dreams and take her on adventures. Before she could run, we’d race alongside each other. Before she could play, we’d laugh and perform together. All under the guise of sleep. As she gained strength, those dreams slowly morphed into reality.

Then we’d fallen out.

Clemmy had accidentally knocked over her doll, shattering her face into fragments too small to be mended. In a fit of jealousy, she’d broken my precious doll, too. I was so angry with her that I retaliated. That night, I made Clemmy dream that the sickness had returned, but this time she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, until eventually, her body withered away to dust.

Clemmy wet the bed for months after that, and although I never showed myself in the nightmare, she didn’t ask me whether I was responsible. To this day, she hasn’t. There were times when I thought that she was close to asking me, the question lingering on her tongue like a bad taste, but every time, Clemmy would swallow it down. Because between the love, a part of Clemmy is scared of me.

And now I’ve betrayed her all over again, but this time, it wasn’t fury that drove me. Compassion forced my hand. Yet, it still felt laced with depravity.

Finally, her hand ripples against my door. “Only me,” she announces upon entry.

My gaze is cast downwards, not yet able to reach her eyes. “How are you?” I ask, part of me not wanting to hear her reply.

“I have big news.”

My heart stalls.

“You are now looking at the future Marchioness of Abergavenny.”

I lift my chin, regarding the size of the diamond encircling Clemmy’s outstretched hand.

“Marquess Elliot?” I question.

“Yes,” she breathes with happiness. “Oh, Mia, he is truly perfect. He’s not as you described in your dream, but he is handsome and quite the gentleman. I don’t know what came over me, but I told Elliot just as much, and my apparent brazenness won him over. He said that he would be honoured to have such a strong woman by his side.”

My head is spinning. The contents of my stomach coat my throat, hot and sickly with bile. Already. She’s engaged already. If it wasn’t for the haste, I’d argue that my dream meddling had no bearing on this turn of events. That she’d somehow fallen head over heels in love. But the sheer speed of it all confirms that not only have I altered Clemmy’s opinions but the course of her entire existence.

It’s what I want, isn’t it? So why do I feel so sick?

“How did this happen?” I ask out loud.

“Well Father introduced us last night over dinner and at first, I wasn’t particularly impressed by his conversation of politics and the opera, but the plea in daddies’ stare made me agree to meet with him again. Earlier, he chaperoned me during a visit to the botanical gardens, and the moment I laid eyes on him, I felt this sudden, inexplicable bond. I had this strong urge to be his betrothed and the words tumbled from my lips as careless as my kisses.”

I whip my glare to Clemmy. “You kissed him?”

“Only when I accepted his proposal, of course.” Clemmy messes with the fabric of her dress, a salacious grin spreading across her face. “It’s customary.”

What have I done?

My sister is to be married to a stranger. And I was the cupid, sending an arrow through my sibling and Elliot’s heart.

What if it isn’t a match made in heaven? What if he hurts her? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

Clemmy’s face crumples. “I thought you’d be pleased for me. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Yes, but not like this. Not really. I robbed her of her choice. Stole her autonomy.

“Congratulations,” I lie, forcing a smile. “I bet father and mother are over the moon.”

“Father cried—he actually cried when I told him. Mother hasn’t stopped gushing.” A gracious sigh falls from Clemmy’s lips. She swirls her dress like a little girl. Her naivety unnerves me.

Clemmy pats my bed as she takes a seat. I comply. “The news doesn’t end there,” she says.

“Oh?” My brows raise, revealing my interest.

“I’ve met the new groundsman, Mr Elworth, Harlow Elworth. A bit young if you ask me but father and mother are beside themselves with excitement at the thought of having a gardener that’s worked for Queen Roselin.”

“The Queen?” I scoff, disbelief etching my voice.

Clemmy picks at her cuticles, almost disinterested. “Indeed and he comes highly recommended, as you’d expect.”

“Why would a groundskeeper leave Her Majesty to work for us?”

Clemmy shrugs. “I didn’t ask… I don’t think anyone has asked.”

I’m still reeling so much from Clemmy’s engagement that the new groundsman is an insignificant sideline.

I peek up at my sister from my lashes. She’s humming a song; lost to a daydream that I have no control over.

“Mia,” I start, pulling her to the surface.

“Yes?”

Her eyes are as wide as a deer hearing the snap of a twig.

“Are you happy?”

She knits her brows. “Of course, I am. I’m ecstatic. I’ve never felt happier, dear sister.”

“I’m glad,” I say finally, acknowledging the vacancy of her gaze. “As long as this is what you want.”

She entwines her fingers in mine and gets lost in the sparkle on her finger. “It is.”

A tear threatens to break free. I hide my face and turn to the window drenched in dusk. “That’s all that matters,” I murmur, silently grieving for the sister I am about to lose.