Dreamer (The Dream World Chronicles Book 1) by Camille Peters (thriller books to read .txt) 📕

dream, but my control was slippery, and the magic stopped inches from its target. I pushed my power further. It crept closer until it cradled the dream in a swirling orb, but no matter how hard I pulled, the stubborn thing didn’t budge, held back by the same invisible block that constantly hindered my powers. Weariness pressed against me, and after a moment my magic slipped away, returning to the dormant recesses of my mind.

I slumped against the trunk, panting. Alice re-entered the bakery, her dream close behind, making it impossible to steal now. Disappointment pressed against my chest at another failure. Once again I’d have to try another day.

Thunder groaned in the churning sky. My fingers curled around the package nearly crushed in my apron pocket, its neat wrapping a mask for its mysterious contents. Mother had given it to me with firm instructions to deliver it promptly, orders I’d already failed to accomplish. I rarely entered the village except to fulfill the occasional request for the unusual plants Mother grew in her enclosed garden. Unfortunately, the task of delivering them always fell upon me.

A few drops of rain pattered my hair as I scrambled from the tree and landed clumsily on the ground. Through the latticed village gate, crowds bustled amongst the market of crammed stalls, their now nearly faded dreams following them like shadows.

The gate’s ominous creak was lost in the swarm of haggling as I pushed it open. My heart pounded as I hovered on the threshold, trying to gather my courage. With a shaky breath, I plunged into the sea of vendors. I managed to rush past the fishmongers and the stalls laden with garden produce before the atmosphere shifted from the usual market clatter to the sharp gazes that stalked me whenever I ventured into the village.

A trio of women hovered outside the butcher’s, watching me with narrowed eyes. A sour-faced woman leaned toward her companions. “It’s that witch girl,” she said without even the decency to lower her voice. “Just look at that hair. Only magic could result in such an unnatural color.”

Heat seared my cheeks as I cradled the end of one of my lilac ringlets protectively.

The other gossipers tittered. “And those eyes. I heard violet eyes are a sign of witchcraft.”

I hurried past, but their pricking voices followed me for several more yards. “Rumor has it she grows all sorts of unnatural things in those strange gardens of hers—herbs for magical potions, flowers with unusual abilities, concoctions for spells. Dark magic, I tell you. Without question, she’s the one responsible for the fire that destroyed the barn last week.”

“Without a doubt.”

Tears burned my eyes as I stumbled blindly through the clamoring crowd. My destination—the squashed bookshop tucked at the edge of the market—loomed ahead. A tiny bell jingled faintly as I slipped inside and closed the door, finally smothering the villagers’ jeers.

Pale lantern light cast long, flickering shadows across the line of towering shelves, and dozens of footprints marred the dusty floor like imprints in the snow. The carpet of dust muffled my footsteps as I followed the tracks through the maze of shelves and up the winding staircase to the living quarters above. The owner’s widow, an ancient woman so hunched and wrinkled she appeared half-dead, sat buried beneath a layer of moth-eaten shawls. Instinctively, I searched the air around her, but none of her dreams lingered, already forgotten.

She looked up at my entrance. “It’s about time you got here. My poor back couldn't handle any more delay. Have you got my remedy, girlie? Give it here.”

I shuffled forward and handed her Mother's package, which she opened with shaky fingers. Triangular black herbs glistened within the faded wrapping. The old lady nodded, satisfied.

“Stew them in hot water and drink three times a day.” I recited the usual instructions in a monotone.

“Hurry and make me up a cup so I can drink it straightaway.” She gestured towards a kettle warming on top of a squat stove. “I’m in too much pain to wait for Wendy to return from her errand.”

This was nothing unusual; Wendy had an uncanny knowledge of when I’d drop by with her grandmother’s “medicine” and always made it a point to be anywhere else.

“Have her bring the payment by tomorrow night.” I dropped a spoonful of Mother’s herbs into the cleanest spotted cup I could find and poured the boiling water over them. An earthy smell rose with the steam as I handed her the cup. She shakily grabbed hold, causing some of the remedy to slosh over the rim and splatter her threadbare shawl.

My task completed, I ached to leave, but as usual she couldn't resist a listening ear, however unwilling the victim of her rambles was. “People keep urging me to stop buying from you, tell me to purchase from the apothecary instead where the herbs are untouched by magic.” She sipped the grainy liquid, now a putrid green. “They call you a witch and say you do magic.”

I gritted my teeth as I glanced at my unassuming hands. In the shadowy light they appeared entirely ordinary, with no remaining traces of the magic they’d recently performed.

“But I always tell them—magic or not, nothing soothes my aches and pains like that witch's herbs.” She grinned toothlessly.

“I don't grow them,” I said, my heart in my throat. “It’s my mother who—”

Her raspy cackle pierced the dusty air. “Ah, the phantom mother no one has ever seen. Poor orphan girl.”

She patted my arm and I recoiled from her bony fingers. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from retorting.

"There are such rumors swirling around about you. Can you really do magic, girlie?”

My stomach jolted and I was sure even her near-deaf ears could hear my pounding heart. “Magic doesn't exist.”

“Humph, just as I thought, everyone is getting their apron strings in a twist over nothing. You can’t go anywhere without encountering superstitious nonsense. In my day, folks paid no heed to such gibberish. Even Wendy’s head