The Night Curse (Book one)

A thorn pricks my finger as I walk, outstretched, through the rose garden. I bring the cut to my mouth and suck, tasting the copper tang of blood. It’s on the brink of spring and soon the garden will be full of colour and beauty. For now, the acres of land remain starkly green. Miles beyond, only English countryside.

I turn to face the manor between slithers of black hair now coiled around my face. The wind changes direction and sends tendrils dancing like star beams. It’s so open, so vast and empty, there is nowhere to hide. Or everywhere to hide, depending on how you look at it.

The grounds could easily accommodate a mansion, but my grandfather, Earl Thomas Harling, built a manor instead. George, my father, his only heir, thus inherited his vast fortune and estate upon his death. A large portion of it derives from owning a lion’s share of the coal-mining industry. Something my father now also supersedes. But the manor, with its pointed arches, accentuated by buttresses and stained glass, was all Grandmother Hyacinth’s idea. It speaks of her admiration for literature. Her fascination for anything… otherworldly. And my grandfather had loved her for it. So much so that he’d gone against the mould and built her the temple of her dreams.

My mausoleum.

Being out in the fresh air, with only the birds for company, is a normal that I have come to know. Solitude isn’t a choice, nor a punishment inflicted by my family. Staying at Harling Manor is a necessity. I’ve grown to both love and loathe the haven. Anyone visiting would be enthralled by the manicured gardens and its impressive design. I’m acutely aware that I have comfort on my side. There are many worse places that I could be. But like a gilded bird, I long to spread my wings and take flight. Freely see the plains of this Earth for myself. Knowing that can’t be, and complying to a life of containment, is both suffocating and stifling.

I step towards the porch and the gambled roof above it, my heels clattering against the grey stone. Inside, I am met with the rib-vaulted hallway and suspended bronze chandelier. It’s safe to roam at this hour, but I won’t have long. I head, steadfast, for my bedroom and lock the door.

A light tap rouses me from sleep.

I hear a faint voice call for me. “Mia, it’s me.”

I push off the bed and open my door, creaking it wide enough to make out the profile of my sister. A little too hurriedly, I yank her inside, eager to start our nightly ritual.

“Easy,” she barks before smiling.

I smile back and pull her into my arms. “Clemmy. Tell me all about your day.” I relish the feel of her between my arms after a day of isolation. When I let her go, she’s rolling her eyes.

She grabs one of the wooden pillars on my bed, swings, and falls dramatically onto my mattress, feigning tiredness. “Exhausting, Mia, truly. How, do tell, is it ladylike to spend hours cross stitching when it leaves your skin calloused and bruised?”

I pick up her hand and click my tongue to the roof of my mouth. “They’re as smooth as a babies’ bottom.”

She cocks a brow. “And you would know, how?”

Mean. So very mean.

A pillow launches at my face. “I’m playing with you, honestly. Don’t be a bore like those suitors. What a ghastly tradition. And to think, I am to marry one of those fouls.” A feigned faint this time. If she needed work, acting would be a rather good profession for her. The only real work that Clemmy needs is the custom of etiquette. No amount of money nor time can quell her spirit. Thank goodness. Despite how brutal her comments might sometimes be.

“Clemmy,” I say, low and loving. I reach for her arm and remove it from her covered face, revealing the same brown eyes as our father and mother. Eyes so dissimilar to my own. Her dark hair is splayed out on the pillow reminding me of the wind from earlier and my lonely existence. An arrow impales my lungs. “Be thankful that you even get to meet them at all.”

Her face turns solemn and sad. Pity.

“What I mean is, father needn’t take your opinion into account.”

She sits up, ruffled, and flushed to the cheek. “True. At this rate, I’ll die a virgin.”

Another blow.

“Again, sorry. So very sorry.”

I sit down next to her. “I know you’ll find the one,” a nudge to her shoulder, “just give it time.”

She grins but her eyes are cast downwards. “You’d have laughed yourself silly at the Earl of Stafford’s son, Eric something-or-other. We were sitting and drinking tea in the atrium when I burped. I couldn’t help myself, Mia. It came from nowhere.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from howling. “And what did Eric something-or-other say?”

“He inhaled his tea from the shock, I presume, until it was coming out of his nose.”

“See, he doesn’t sound like a bore!”

“Afterwards, he coughed up some lie about having alternative arrangements and left. It was quite telling. I embarrassed him. I want to be able to burp in front of my husband and he simply remark ‘excuse you,’ or burp back.”

“Your idea of love is charming, Clemmy.”

“Isn’t it?” She places an arm around my shoulders. “And you, where did your dreams take you today, dear sister?”

I’m taken back to when we were mere children, and she’d ask me that same very question with eyes so wide and full of wonder. She was too young to see my condition as the burden it truly is. Then, she envied it, was beguiled by it. “Why didn’t I get your gift?” she’d say. Now grown, she no longer asks such silly questions.

“I spent the day in our garden, relaxing.”

“Of all the places you could go, of all the things you could do, you chose to be here, again,” she complains. “If I am to tell you of my… conquests, then you need to bring me better dreams.”

Dreams. How can I explain that what I dream, what I truly desire, is to be normal. To grace the halls of our house or the lengths of our gardens in the day, without the fear of being seen. Without the risk of being killed for nothing more than existing. There was a time when I’d conjure up dreams as wild and mad as those written in story books. Clemmy would hang onto every retelling as if they were a sacred vow. A vow she’ll someday speak. And I was the one who envied her for it.

“I shall dream up your future husband next time.”

“Do make him devastatingly handsome won’t you? And brilliant. And wise. And funny.” Her eyes twinkle from the flames burning in my fireplace.

I turn towards the tall window, seeing only blackness beyond. “And kind. He must be kind to you.” I don’t know why but my eyes begin to burn with tears. “You better be gone. It’s getting late.”

Clementine doesn’t have a bedtime. Mother and father know of our nightly conversations, encourage them. But Clemmy doesn’t argue.

I feel a featherlight kiss upon my forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then she leaves, and I get dressed.