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

even as I hastily locked my secret deeper within its stronghold where it belonged, scolding myself for once again trying to share it.

I knew I couldn’t confide in Mother, so why did I continue to try? The consequences should she find out about who I truly was would be dire, yet the hope that she’d accept me burned brighter, impossible to fully quench, no matter how many times she rejected my attempts to confide in her.

Mother hated magic, and she never let me forget it. Would she also hate me if she knew I secretly possessed it? My heart stung at the possibility. If she rejected me too, I’d be left with no one.

I stole another sideways glance at Mother kneeling beside me, bent over her plants with intense concentration, her expression hard as she pulled the weeds with unusual vigor. Her locket swung back and forth with each rapid movement, the glitter trapped within catching in the sunlight and creating shimmery patterns against the soil. There was something familiar about it, and the mystery drew my gaze to it again and again.

Mother glanced up and noticed my staring. With a frown, she hastily tucked her locket away, but as she did so, her fingers caught on the chain. It broke and the locket tumbled to the ground, spilling the glitter it harbored onto the soil. Once exposed, the shimmery substance glowed and floated into the air like feathery smoke. I stared, transfixed. Now I knew what it reminded me of: magic. But how was that possible?

Mother gasped and slapped her hand over the glitter, but wisps leaked from beneath her palm. Frantically, she scooped it up in handfuls into her locket, but stubborn and elusive, some snuck away, as if it possessed a mind of its own.

I reached out to help. “No, don’t touch it,” Mother snapped.

I rapidly withdrew my hand. “What is it?”

“Never mind,” she said briskly.

The question of whether or not it was magic burned on my tongue, but it couldn’t be…one thing I knew for certain was that Mother abhorred magic. Bringing it up again would only escalate her earlier disapproval. I bit the inside of my lip to force myself to remain silent.

Something warm brushed against my knee. I glanced down and discovered some of the sparkly dust hovering beside my leg. I quickly enclosed it in my hand before Mother saw it. I expected it to try and wrestle from my grip, as it had done Mother’s, but it stayed still, as light and soft as a feather but also grainy like bits of sand.

Mother scanned the ground. “Did I miss any?”

The dust quivered against my palm, a tickling reminder it was there. “I don’t think so.”

Mother leaned back on her heels, her expression strained. She spread her locket on her palm and examined it. “The clasp was loose,” she murmured to herself. “I must not have closed it all the way; how could I be so careless?”

She brushed her still spotless apron and marched into the house. I waited for the front door to click shut before I unclenched my fist. The glitter rose up and hovered like a shimmery cloud. It didn’t float away, as if it was meant just for me.

I created a tiny pocket in my handkerchief and poured the dust inside, tied a secure knot so it couldn’t escape, and burrowed it in my pocket. It left a thin layer of sparkly remnants on my hand, which floated up to dance and twist through the air the same way my magic did whenever I used it. Could this dust be magic too?

It couldn’t be. Mother would never possess such a thing. But in my heart I knew it was exactly what I suspected, the knowledge as much a part of me as my own burrowed powers. But if so, then what was Mother doing wearing it around her neck?

The words from the book I’d scoured earlier filled my mind: It is believed all witches have a magical source, which they draw upon to perform their spells. An idea formulated with each swirl Mother’s dust made. Perhaps this was the missing piece in overcoming whatever obstacle blocked my ability to capture what I most wanted: a dream.

Chapter 3

I snuck out before dawn. The air was crisp and misty after the recent storm, which left everything coated in a layer of raindrops. All was still in the grey morning as the village slumbered. I climbed up my usual oak and crept as far out onto the lowest branch as I dared. There I balanced my tiny jar and waited.

Despite the lulling pattering of last night’s rain, I’d scarcely slept, kept continually tossing and turning by my brimming anticipation as well as the questions brought on by stealing Mother’s dust. I slid my hand into my pocket, and at my touch, the pouch containing the mysterious dust quivered. The warmth was familiar, similar to my own powers. This was magic, I was sure of it.

Perhaps it would be the key to obtaining what I most wanted. While I enjoyed dream watching, I yearned for a dream that was mine, one where I could guide the course of the story and experience it in its entirety. Considering my nights were long and empty, bottling others’ dreams and witnessing them over and over would almost be as if I were dreaming them myself. Almost.

The sun peeked over the horizon as dawn arrived. I rested my chin on a damp branch and stared absentmindedly at the dandelion-puff clouds, dappled in amber hues. I startled when one of the clouds suddenly twitched.

I rubbed my eyes and squinted at them, but they merely drifted lazily through the air in a very distinguished cloud-like fashion. My usual drowsiness must be causing me to see things.

Down in the village, the blacksmith’s son, Mason, lumbered from his shop. A nightmare, considerably shrunken but still a distinct mucky brown square, floated just above him. I frowned. A nightmare wouldn’t