The Night Curse (Book one)
Chapter 17 The Dreamwalker

All the room’s festivities dwindle as if the volume has been turned down and the visuals distilled. The flutter of my heart thuds in my ears, the inflection of my breath almost deafening. Harlow’s dark figure disappears into the crowd like night being swallowed by day. Yet, a connection remains—a lingering lasso clutching around my body, a kernel of need starved and enduring.

I’m paralysed and falling at the same time. His words, the taste of them, dissolve into every orifice of my mind. I’ve never felt more seen, contradictory to my appearance. Harlow put his hands around my pain and pulled it to the surface, only for it to weep in the light. There was no magic ocean to throw it into, no river to absorb my suffering. I had to face those emotions with only a veil for protection. And now I am beginning to accept, no admit, the anguish I’ll face when Clemmy leaves. No more nightly talks. No more laughing and hugging and dreaming with her. No more living vicariously through her—because that’s what I’ve been doing. She is my crystal ball, her recollections, and retellings are the closest thing I have to a life. More than anything, I have wanted Clemmy to do what I cannot and start her happily ever after. In all that time, not once did I stop to recognise the repercussions. I’m not only losing my sister, but a part of myself.

Harlow sees this. Even, sympathises with it. This stranger that intrigues me so, and still frightens me, only heightens my hunger to get to know him more. I can’t overlook the timing of it all. As my sister moves on, I simultaneously meet a man who may very well be my lifeline. He’s the only person on the Harling Estate, aside from my family, who knows of my existence and is willing to see past it to the girl behind the mask. I so want to believe that it is fate that has brought us together. The alternative is too miserable. Without hope, what do I have left?

Endless days and nights, a never-changing view. Growing old and alone and empty.

I can dream. Maybe, I can dream and never wake up.

A trace of Harlow’s touch resurrects on my skin. I sway my hips, reliving the dance he’d initiated, pinning for it once more. If I sleep an eternal slumber, that feeling will either be a memory or an invention. A part of me could lock myself in a loop, dancing with Harlow over and over, only pausing to embrace one another’s bodies. But no dream can compare with the real feel of him. The scent of him.

Clemmy and Elliot’s dance ends and the guests begin to depart. Clemmy sees me and grins. I return a smile—a silent signal of support. Her grin widens, and she starts thanking people for their attendance, likely relishing their showers of congratulation.

I quietly exit, returning to the staircase, towards my enclosure. With every broadening stride, my sorrows magnify. I resist the overpowering ache to cry, focusing instead on the hard floor until I reach my turret.

My bedroom door creaks as it glides open. The curved window frames the cobalt sky dotted with stars. I climb into bed, wrapping my limbs in shrouds of soft blankets. I crave the soothing words of Grandmother Hyacinth. I stretch my arms under my pillow and feel… nothing. I launch the pillows off my bed, then my quilt and bottom sheet, sending everything onto the floor in a heap of fabric until only the mattress remains. When my bed is skinned like a rabbit, I stand back in disbelief. The diary is gone.

Would Clemmy take it?

Had mother found it? Or father?

I’d looked at the diary as recently as before I had gotten ready for the ball. When did any of them have the time or inclination to take it? I had seen Clemmy leave my room, with my own eyes, with nothing in her hands. Fury surges in my veins as the only other possible candidate comes to mind.

I drag open the drawer of my nightstand, pick out the envelope, and unfold the letter to expose the strand of black hair Harlow gave me.

It takes a while for me to enter Harlow’s dream. Not because I can’t but because he wasn’t asleep. It had taken over an hour to make the connection. When I finally see him, I am surprised to see our surroundings. We’re in the gardens of Harling Manor and it’s summer. The garden is exquisite with the new season. A soft, rose tint stains the sky, giving the soft clouds golden frosting. Everything is verdant and teeming with life. Drooping wisteria now decorates the manor, making me almost forget the Gothicism within.

Leaning against the trellis, with his arms crossed, Harlow stares at me. “I thought I might see you here.” His voice is like honey.

As glorious as the dream is, I can’t stifle the bark waiting to erupt. “You have the nerve to make me think that you could like me.” I can feel the flare of my violet eyes as they attempt to shoot daggers into his own. They glower back at me like impenetrable glaciers.

“What are you talking about?”

“My diary, my Grandmother’s diary is missing.” He is silent. “Tell me you didn’t steal it,” I order.

“I took it.” His glacier gaze melts. He steps forward. “But only because I want to know you… and help you.”

He wants to know me, help me. “I can think of many ways a man can get to know a woman but stealing from them is not one of them.”

Another step closer. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can trust you. I want to.” The sun is liquid gold on his skin.

“How can I trust someone that takes from me?” He is warped. Very clearly warped.

He flashes his teeth, as white as bone. His lips curl. “Have you not taken things from people before, for your own indulgences?”

The question cuts me like a razor. My throat dries. I have stolen from people. People I care about and all for my own gain, my own curiosities. “This isn’t the same.”

“Is it not? I don’t have the power to enter someone’s dream, Amelia. After tonight, I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

Arguing with Harlow is like taking punches in the ring. He’s relentless. Just when I think I’ve delivered the final blow, he punches back, knocking the wind out of me.

“I thought that the diary was yours,” he starts. “I thought it would tell me… what you thought about me.”

I drink him in. Every inch of his muscular body. His gorgeous face. “Why do you want to know what I think about you?”

Harlow’s gaze traces my body with equal intensity. “You’re enigmatic.”

Not monstrous, not callous, or evil—enigmatic. My mouth gapes and my fists give up, unable to punch anymore.

Harlow motions to the world around us. “I thought you’d like to see your home in the day. In the light.” People begin to walk along the gravel path, the garden lawn. They flitter in and out; servants, maids, the butler, and footman. Mother and father are standing on the manor steps. Clemmy is playing croquet with Elliot. “And to experience the mundane normality of being ignored.”

If I could control Harlow’s dream, this is what I would create. It is all that I want in this life. He’s given it to me without any encouragement, showing me once again how much he understands me.

“I don’t know what to say.” My voice is barely a whisper.

“I know many ways a woman can thank a man, Amelia,” he says smoothly, and it is suddenly very difficult to swallow. “But I’ll settle for a walk.” He loops his arm through mine, tucking my elbow into the crook of his. We walk along the path and before I know it we are heading to the clearing.

I glance up at him from the corner of my eyes. “You can call me, Mia.”

He smirks, making my heart quicken. “Tell me, Mia, what do you like about this part of the garden?”

We are in the clearing now; the sky above is clear and far-reaching. “It’s my escape.” Harlow frowns, and I realise how odd that must seem to him, me being a Dreamwalker and all. “It’s the only place that’s mine.”

His frown lines relax. His gaze softens. “Then I’m honoured to share it with you.”

My palms are starting to sweat at the profound pressure between us. “I hear you came from the palace. Did you work for the Queen?”

“I guess you could say that,” he retorts, something about my question humouring him.

I decide to bypass his strange reaction. “What was it like?”

Harlow lifts his chin to the hanging blue above. “Well, working for Queen Roseline requires great sacrifice.”

“I can imagine.”

His lethal gaze turns to mine, alive with hidden promises. “I’m sure that you can.”

A beat of silence passes before I pluck up the courage to speak. “I’m glad that you came here. I hope that you don’t see me as a burden of sacrifice.”

Harlow’s brooding stare returns, the one that traps me in a chokehold. “The only burden is not being able to do this when we are awake.” His hand takes mine, separating my fingers into a hold. My heavy breathing accelerates.

The air charges as I tilt my head back, my chest leaning into him just so. Harlow’s other hand lifts until his fingertips are running along the edge of my jaw. I wet my lips with a trembling tongue. Harlow watches intently, his hand now carving into my hair. The distance between us erases as he cups my chin and draws me in, sealing our lips with a tender kiss. It is tentative and lenient as if Harlow is reluctant to push me too far, or himself. I can’t help but push harder, driving his mouth wider, and allowing me to deepen my tongue to his. It spurs him on, and he claims my mouth in return. His hand now grips my hair taut, arching my back and twisting my insides. I grow hot under his towering form as my body slams against the floor. His fumbling touch tugs at my dress, and I know if I had the capability, there’d be no fabric separating our skin.

“What are you doing?” a voice shouts with alarm.

Harlow pulls himself off me, and we both look up to replace a man scowling at us from the trees. I’m confused. Why has Harlow dreamt this?

“Who is that?” I question. He doesn’t look like any of the staff at Harling Manor. He watches us with the same hateful eyes that Harlow had expressed upon our first meeting. What reason does he have for interrupting us?

Harlow abruptly stands. “We better stop.”

“Who is that man and why have you summoned him?” I turn to him and see that he continues to glare back.

“He’s my… I’m sorry, Mia. I think we ought to part ways, for now. I need to think.”

Think about what? I can see the cogs turning in his mind, regretting our kiss. I stand alongside him and place my palm on his cheek. “Harlow, please.”

He carefully lowers my hand, pain emanating from his gaze. “I just need time. Let me walk you home.”

I huff, exasperated. I want to scream how it was he who wanted me to come, and it was he who wanted to get to know me. That he had kissed me first. But I do not waste my words. I simply open my eyes to my dark bedroom, abandoning the nightmare.