The Night Curse (Book one)
Chapter 8 The Hunter

The Harling Estate is a far cry from the farm.

I spot the spires first, accented by finials, puncturing the heavens like spears. As the carriage nears, I lower my attention to the steeply pitched roofs and gables adorned with delicate wooden trim. Below that, ornate tracery windows and stained glass, taller than a door, decorate the facade. Tendrils of climbing ivy cling to the brickwork, devouring the limestone in a patchwork of jade cobwebs. Back home, we don’t allow creepers to grow for fear of the damage that they can do to a building. The Harlings don’t seem to mind. On the contrary, they seem to embrace it.

“I am to live here?” The words escape me without me realising.

Peter picks something from his coat and turns to me. “The groundskeeper has a separate dwelling, south of the manor. You’ll get the tour, but you are to meet with Earl and Countess of Hounslow upon your arrival.”

Peter had organised the travel almost immediately after informing me of the position. Someone, likely Kennith, had arranged everything.

I lean forward. “Why did the Harlings agree to hire me? We’ve never met, and I may know my way around a homestead, but a garden estate isn’t something that I’ve ever handled before.”

Peter remains poised, almost bored by my musings. “Our influence runs deep. People trust us.” He points to the embossing on his buttons and only now do I register the symbolic eyes watching me. Of course, Freemasons were everywhere. “So don’t let us down.”

The coachmen slows, and the clip of the horses’ hooves comes to a standstill. The carriage door creaks open, and I see a footman by the Harling Manor entrance and in his hands, the little amount of belongings that I’d had time to pack.

I move from my seat, ready to disembark, when Peter’s hand grips my arm. I look over my shoulder towards Peter’s narrowing eyes. “Send word when you replace the girl. That’s all.”

Peter turns forward and the carriage door closes, promptly proceeded by the whip of leather.

I’m left standing on the gravel, alone, spare the footman. Shortly, Lord and Lady Harling appear. “Your Excellency, my Lady.” I bow.

From the fine stitch and cut of his suit to the ladies’ long, billowing dress in rich maroon, the pair exude class. All of it heightened by their physical beauty. Lady Harling’s soft features and golden hair, worn in tight ringlets, stand out even beyond the elaborate hat worn atop her head. The nobleman, with hair contrastingly black, has an imposing posture—commanding. I feel instantly inferior.

“Save it for the Queen, Mr Elworth. I am George and this is my wife, Elspeth. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I attempt to bow, again. Elspeth coughs. “Welcome to our home. We are so glad that you could start on such short notice.”

I regard the manor as if I have been blind to its magnificence the entire time. “It’s astonishing.”

“You humour us. Surely, it has nothing on the palace,” Elspeth says coyly.

George offers me his hand, and I shake it. “We consider ourselves very fortunate to have a royal gardener at our service.”

I nearly choke on my own saliva. Royal. So that’s the story that Kennith has spun. I play along. “The privilege is all mine.”

A female emerges from the shadows of the entrance—a fair, brunette with equally admirable clothing.

“Greetings,” she says. I am disappointed when I see the brownness of her eyes. I don’t know why. No Dreamwalker would welcome me so brazenly.

Elspeth stands next to the girl. “This is our daughter, Clemintine.”

“You must be our new groundsman. You have big shoes to fill. Mr Fletcher was a fantastic gardener.” He voice is as clipped as the sparce shrubbery.

George frowns at Clemintine with folded, bushy brows. “Mr Elworth has worked with Her Majesty. We are lucky to have his expertise.”

Clemintine observes me fully, head to toe. “And at such a young age, too. Impressive.” Something about her distrusts me or she’s simply a defiant daughter. Whichever it is, I replace it disarming.

I bounce on the balls of my heels and take hold of my braces. “Everything I know, I learnt from my father.”

“Just how it should be, Mr Elworth,” replies George with a grin cementing his approval.

“Harlow. Please, call me Harlow.” I don’t know why I say it, and immediately feel foolish. It’s as if I have forgotten how to act or speak. Never in my life have I interacted with such aristocracy.

“Well Harlow, let our Butler escort you to your house where you can settle in. He’ll take you on a tour of the grounds tomorrow.” George tips his head before leading his family back indoors. “I look forward to hearing of your plans.”

Plans.

The scale of them weighs heavily on me with every stride towards my new home.

I tread behind the butler, taking in my abode. Unlike the manor, the groundsman’s cottage is Tudor in style, complete with thatched roof and half-timbered walls. We make our way to the masonry porch, flanked by shrubs, and he unlocks the door before handing me a wrought iron key.

“I hope you’ll dismiss the clutter. You arrived before our maids had time to clean. Be assured that everything will be restored and tidied tomorrow.”

Mess or no mess, this was the nicest place that I’d ever stayed. “I’m sure it will be fine, thank you.”

The butler turns on his heel and paces away. I close the door and inspect the interiors.

Like my farmhouse, the cottage has wide plank flooring and a warm palette. Above me, warped beams run the length of the kitchen and adjoining dining room. That’s where the similarities stop. Utensils, pots, and pans scatter the countertops. Bags of food and rubbish line the floor. Even the dining table is covered with paper and gardening tools. I heave out the wax-laden candelabra that’s wedged between a pile of newspapers, sparks already dancing at its wicks.

I head passed the staircase to the sitting room. Oak cabinets full to bursting and overflowing bookshelves line the walls. I kick the debris off the rug, and wade over to the fireplace. It isn’t yet dusk, but with the light fading, soon the candles will be my only source of light. Piles of logs are already stocked for lighting in the fireplace.

“Mr Fletcher did leave in a hurry,” I say to the portraits following my every move.

As I reach for the tinder box, I see that familiar eye inside a square and compass perching on the mantel. I take the metal from its display case and see it for what it is. A pendant without its chain. He left it. I place it back in its holder and strike the flint against the steel from the tinder box until the charred cloth sets alight. I toss it on the kindling and coax the remaining logs into flames.

With the cottage growing warm, I finally exhale.

What am I to do?

This Dreamwalker could be anywhere. Aside from their eyes, there is no way of sniffing them out. I’d have to go searching. First, I need the lay of the land. Then, I’ll be left to my own devices—free to hunt, but for what? These animals leave no tracks, remain indoors during the day, and only come out at night. That’s how this Amelia had been found. If that was her name. According to the story, Mr Fletcher had found her laid on the lawn, hidden by trees. She said she’d been sleepwalking. An ingenious cover if it wasn’t true.

Would she dare venture out again?

I head upstairs and light the fire in the only bedroom. From the window seat, I can see a large portion of the immaculate gardens, cast in shadows. The bruised sky sulks overhead, signalling rain. I glance towards the manor. From here, I can see part of the west wing. For a time, I am lost in the serenity of my surroundings when I catch sight of a dormer window, protruding from the top floor, lit in amber and partly obscured by the outline of a woman.

A chill runs down my spine.

The fullness of the day catches up with me, and I climb into bed, listening to the dying crackles of the fireplace. My mind keeps returning to the black shape in the window. I dream that her shadowy form leaks from the manor like smoke. The smog floats through the night air until it reaches my cottage, where it slowly creeps into my room. It rises from the floor, settling on my bed and over my sleeping body. My skin unwittingly begins to absorb the black cloud; its texture like ice picks against my muscles. I lash and writhe, attempting to refuse, but I cannot stop the possession as the darkness merges with my soul.