Curses of Lavender, page 6
She took in a deep breath, letting the lavender scent remind her that despite the embarrassment, she wasn’t dreaming. As she proceeded on to her next step, her eyebrows dipped in confusion. She wasn’t in the yogurt shack or her house. Instead, she lay on a stiff bed that crinkled with each shift of her body. The room, barren of almost everything except a desk and tray of nurses’ equipment, smelled like hand sanitizer, yogurt, and of course—lavender.
A woman entered the room, startling Thicket from her thoughts. She wore blue scrubs and a stethoscope, which was slung around her neck. Slender glasses framed her narrow face and straight brown hair, cropped to her shoulders. Thicket’s brain finally registered her as a nurse.
“You’re up,” the nurse said. She retrieved a pen and clipboard from the desk, proceeding to scribble notes. “How is your head feeling?”
“It hurts.”
The nurse gave a small chuckle. “It’s bound to. Anything else? Nausea? Dizziness? Double vision?” Thicket shook her head. The nurse made some notes on her clipboard. “Do you remember what happened?”
Too well. “Yes.”
“Alright. I’ll be right back with the doctor."
After running all kinds of memory, balance, and concentration examinations that made Thicket’s already throbbing head pound worse, the doctor set her free, declaring she didn't have a concussion, just a nasty bump. He advised her to rest and ice it and call if it got worse.
Her mother was waiting for her in the lobby. She stood when she saw Thicket. For a second, she looked relieved. Then anger replaced the motherly concern. She led Thicket to the car and they drove home in silence. When they arrived, Thicket went straight to the freezer and stuffed a plastic bag with ice cubes. She did her best not to flinch when her mother threw her keys onto the kitchen table and let her purse fall to the floor. “What happened?”
Thicket placed the icebag to her head. “I fell.”
“Do you know how worried I was?”
Thicket looked down at her shoes. Clumps of dried frozen yogurt clung to them, the white fabric stained beyond repair.
Her mother pinched the bridge of her nose. “First, you get expelled. Now you go ahead and do the one thing that will guarantee you’re fired. What is wrong with you?”
Thicket’s head snapped up, disbelief shooting through her like a drumbeat.
“Do you want to be the town lunatic? Do you try to ruin everything we’ve worked so hard to rebuild?”
“N-no.”
“Then why, Thicket? Why can’t you do the simplest of things?”
“I-I try—I really do. But no one—”
“Try harder.” There was no sympathy in her mother’s eyes. No understanding. No sign that she cared. All Thicket saw was cold resentment.
Something in her snapped. “Everything I’ve been accused of these last few days hasn’t been my fault. Or has been an accident. A true accident. But I don’t get the benefit of the doubt. I have to be perfect or everyone thinks I’m crazy. I’m not even good enough for you, Mom. You’ve never been there for me. Not once. Not when your child was hurting and crushed and crying inside and out. Not when your daughter needed someone to believe in her, to be there for her. You weren’t there. You were too focused on helping me, but you weren’t. You were trying to fix me.”
Her mother flinched. Good. Let her feel one ounce of the pain she caused Thicket.
“Thicket…” her mother said. She stretched her hand out, as if to reach for her. Thicket recoiled. Tears filled her mother’s eyes and she lowered her trembling hand. “I—I’m sorry.” Her voice warbled. “I wasn’t trying to fix you. I just wanted you to be better so we can move on with our lives.”
“Why did I have to be better for that to happen? I’m your daughter. Not some puppet you get to manipulate and control so you can have the perfect life you have in your head.” Tears streamed down Thicket’s face, clogging her throat, drowning her obedience.
The door flashed in her mind, followed by a sense of longing.
It had felt so right to stand close to it. It was the first thing that had ever felt right. She was done trying to live up to the town’s impossible standards. It was time she thought of herself for once—time to do what she wanted. And right now, she wanted answers.
If her theory about her dreams being connected was right, and if the door was truly her way inside the dream of darkness, then maybe she could ask the people there why she had her dreams. What they meant. Why her.
Thicket threw her icebag into the sink and stalked across the living room. She didn’t look back as she marched up the stairs, ignoring her mother’s frantic shouts, and slammed her bedroom door closed. She locked the door as she slid out of her shoes. Electric nerves ate away at her stomach, churning and flipping from what she was about to do.
Something moved in the corner of Thicket’s eye, making her freeze. She turned her head and came face-to-face with her reflection. Her green eyes were wide as they stared at her body, covered from head to toe in dried yogurt, making her look like a sad, pale rainbow.
A mad grin split her face. She looked crazy. Insane. Delirious as could be, with her matted hair and absurd, messy clothes. It suited her, though, highlighting all her flaws and imperfections. Everything she had pushed down until now. It was time to embrace all that she was. Dreams, madness, and all.
It was time she went through the door.
Without caring she was still filthy, Thicket slid under the covers and—for the first time in her entire life—fell asleep welcoming the dreams she knew would come.
A gasp sprung from Thicket’s lips.
The door was inches from her face.
There were no image dreams, not even the dream of darkness, to precede the hallway. It was like the hall was as eager for her to go through the door as she was.
There was no hesitation as she reached out and grabbed the knob. It was warm, inviting, and seeming to say, yes, that’s it. Go on through.
Thicket opened the door. She was met with a swirl of colors—purple and green and gray. A new scent tickled her nose. Not dust or smoke—or even lavender. It was something new, something floral—something pleasant. This flower would replace the old, just as whatever awaited her through this door would provide her with a fresh start, one where she didn’t have to work every second of every day to be something she wasn’t. A place where she could let her soul be free to frolic amongst the flowers and madness.
Thicket breathed in the rich flower scent and stepped across the threshold, welcoming whatever strange things were on the other side.
PART TWO
The jealous fairy cast a curse on the child
so that one day she would prick her
finger upon a spinning wheel and die.
Chapter Seven
Thicket woke up. Squinting, she rubbed the hazy lens coating her irises. After a few seconds the haze washed away, leaving her to stare up at a soft, lilac purple canopy. It was draped over four wooden bed posts, encasing her in swaths of fabric.
She was here. In the dream. This was the moment she both dreaded and anticipated her entire life. The chance to experience her dreams firsthand. Through her own eyes. With her own mind. The prospect left her with a surge of empowerment.
Thicket sat up. Her head immediately started spinning. She extended her arm to brace herself against the sway of her body. When the dizziness dissipated, her vision cleared enough to make out her surroundings. Walls made of light, creamy yellow stone and a matching tiled floor greeted her. A large window was covered by deep purple curtains, making the space shadowed and dark. Orange candlelight spilled from sconces on either side of the bed, and a hope chest lay at its foot. Beyond the bed, a girl a few years younger than Thicket perched on a wooden stool, clutching an ancient book. Her eyes, the lightest of blues, were wide, startled—and staring straight at Thicket. “Y-you’re awake.”
Thicket recognized her voice. The young girl they called Lotta in the dream of darkness. “Is there anyone else here with you?” If the girl was here, then the older man must be, too. He seemed to be the one in charge, which meant he was most likely the one who could answer her questions.
“Mr. Lazare will arrive shortly.”
“Great.” Thicket threw the covers off and slid from the bed. Clothes she had no recollection of putting on enveloped her pale skin. The purple fabric was soft and velvety, with sleeves of thin mesh spotted with gold dots. Flowers curled along the neck and cascaded down her sides to the middle, clinched by a pale ribbon bow. Spotting boots tucked neatly under the bed, she grabbed them and stuffed her feet inside.
“Your Highness, are you—”
Thicket’s head shot up. “What did you say?”
Lotta frowned. “I was going to ask if you were feeling alright. After... everything that happened.” Before Thicket could respond, a door in another room groaned open. “That would be Mr. Lazare,” Lotta announced, rising from her chair. “Come. He will be delighted to see you.”
Thicket followed her out of the bedroom and into a short hallway. It contained two more doors before expanding into a joint living room and kitchen, both archaic and cramped and nothing like modern day minimalism. Across the house, a tall, graying man stood by the front door, shucking off his once fine coat, now laden with lint pebbles and patches. He hung it on a wobbly coat rack. “Lotta, could you please prepare some tea—” Mr. Lazare paused, brown eyes locking on Thicket. “Thicket? You... you are awake?” He looked at Lotta. “How long has she been awake?”
“Only a few moments, sir.”
Shock melted into relief. “Thank the Chalices...” Mr. Lazare started forward, arms outstretched. Thicket shied away. Not from the expected embrace—though it was a contributing factor—but from the expression scrawled across Mr. Lazare’s ebony skin. She hadn’t seen it in a long, long time.
A heart wound that never quite healed began to bleed, dripping beads of pain into Thicket’s chest. Breathing became hard, like the painful squeeze one felt when underwater for too long. It was an effort to prevent her face from crumbling under the weight of the memories.
The last time she’d seen her father.
The first time she’d had a dream of darkness.
The last time her mother looked at her with love.
Thicket forced her heart to harden against it all. She would get answers and then leave. She couldn’t let the dreams tempt her. She kept the thought in the forefront of her mind, even as Mr. Lazare’s forehead creased with confusion—and hurt.
“Um, hello,” she said awkwardly. She cleared her throat. “My name is Thicket, which… you already seem to know.” Mr. Lazare’s confusion doubled. Thicket swallowed and pressed on. “I would like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Mr. Lazare said, his words slow and deliberate, as though every syllable was carefully considered. “However, may I ask one of my own?”
Thicket hesitated, but nodded.
Mr. Lazare interlaced his fingers and let his long arms fall to his middle, as if trying to gather his composure. “Do you not remember me?”
Something uneasy pricked the back of Thicket’s neck. “What do you mean? Remember you while I was… sleeping?” Both Lotta and Mr. Lazare had said, you’re awake. And she had been in a bed when she’d arrived here and when in the dream of darkness. If her dreams were connected to this place through the door, then it made sense to assume that to them, she had appeared to be asleep.
“You sound as though you do not believe you were sleeping,” Mr. Lazare noted.
“I wasn’t—at least not here. I know this must sound crazy, but I’m in a dream. This isn’t real.” Mr. Lazare’s brows shot upward. Thicket fidgeted with her fingers, twisting and wrapping them around one another. The distraction made the words easier to get out. “I’ve had dreams my entire life, actually. No one else has these dreams and… I want to find out why. What they mean. And why me of all people.”
Mr. Lazare ran a hand down his face. “If you are dreaming, then why have you not visited before?”
“I couldn’t. I have different kinds of dreams. Dreams of when I was younger, living in a castle. Dreams where I am lying in a room, unable to see or move, but able to think, feel, and hear” —Mr. Lazare stiffened— “and finally I dreamed of a hallway. It had a door that led me here. I believe all my dreams are connected to this place.” Thicket gestured around her, taking in the odd, old-fashioned room.
“I see… And, do you not know where you are?”
Thicket shook her head. “Usually, my dreams take place in a castle.” She hesitated. “Except the ones of darkness. Those take place here.”
Mr. Lazare nodded slowly. “And you came here to find out why you have these dreams?”
“Yes.” It came out as a relieved breath. Finally, someone understood her.
Mr. Lazare clasped his hands together, expression softening. “What would you say if I told you I know why you have dreams? And better yet, why they are connected?”
Hope lit up inside her. Bright, and perhaps foolish, but joyous all the same. “Y-you do?”
“Why don’t we take a seat and discuss it.”
“Mr. Lazare… Thank you.”
He smiled. “Please, call me Caspian.”
Mr. Lazare—Caspian—led her into a half-circle of chairs and couches that appeared to be the living room. He took a seat in an oversized brown chair while Thicket perched on the edge of a nearby couch. “I must say, I am relieved. When you said you didn’t remember me—or anything for that matter—it was cause for concern.”
“Okay…” She wasn’t sure where he was going with this.
“To answer one of your first questions, the place you dreamed of is called Minloc. It is Vindrya’s main city and home to the royal castle.”
“Vindrya?” Thicket asked.
“Our kingdom. Currently, we are in Bilya, a small farming town located in the southern-most part of Vindrya.”
A million more questions popped into Thicket’s mind. Why had she dreamt of a castle when she quote-on-quote lived here? Why had she been asleep? Why was Caspian relieved she woke up?
“To address your second and more pressing question,” Caspian went on, “you have dreams because you were put under a sleeping curse.”
“A... sleeping curse?”
“Precisely. You, my dear, have been asleep for a century.”
Thicket’s immediate thought was to dismiss the idea. It was insane. But this was a different world. Just because they believed something didn’t make it true. She’d come here for answers—and any answer was better than none. There had to be something Caspian could tell her that would help explain what was wrong with her. “If I was under a sleeping curse, how did I wake up?
“That is the thing.” Caspian shifted forward, his eyes alight. “You were not supposed to. I had hoped but ultimately believed you would never wake up. But earlier today you moved. A few hours later, you woke up.”
“Wait—slow down,” she said, trying to make sense of the words flying through her head. Cursed. Not supposed to wake up. “This isn’t making any sense.”
“That is because you have lost your memories. I do not know why. They should have returned to you when you woke up, but it appears that is not the case.” He reached out and grabbed her hand. “But we can get them back. There is a spell. I just need you to trust me.”
Thicket yanked her hand away. “No.” Spells? Curses? Lost memories? “This… This isn’t real.”
“The curse has confused you,” Caspian insisted. “It has made you believe the world in your dreams is real, while in reality this is.”
No... No.
Caspian was wrong. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
Thicket realized her mistake.
She’d thought by going through the door she’d get answers. But it was a trap—a way to suck her into her dreams and ruin everything she’d worked towards.
“This is a mistake.”
“Pardon?”
Thicket stood. “I need to go.”
Caspian stood, as well. “Go where?”
“Home.”
“You are home.”
“No,” Thicket snapped. “I’m not.”
Caspian set his jaw. “What do I need to do to convince you?”
She started for the bedroom. “Nothing will convince me. I won’t let my dreams deceive me any more than they already have.”
“You are Princess Thicket Rose Vogeli” —his footsteps chased her— “second daughter to Aubert Vogeli and Maria Vogeli. Your birthday is March thirtieth. When you were five—”
Thicket spun around, heart screeching to a halt. “Did you say Princess?”
Caspian straightened, as if he hoped this had somehow triggered something inside her. “Yes.”
She laughed, a sad, broken thing. “That’s how I know this isn’t real. In no reality would anyone ever make me a princess.”
Princesses were supposed to be beautiful and sweet and adored by all. Friends, family, subjects—princes. It was a cruel thing to give her hope that in some version of her life she wasn’t an outsider. Wasn’t a freak. Wasn’t alone.
She scrambled for the bedroom, needing to get away before the tears came. She clung to her steps like a lifeline, trying to remember this wasn’t real. She couldn’t smell the lavender. She didn’t know her surroundings. The stories were nonsensical.
“Thicket, wait—”
Thicket slammed the door, slid into the covers, and buried her face in her pillow. Somehow, she managed to drift off to the lull of her silent tears.
Chapter Eight
Golden light danced across Thicket’s eyelids, coaxing them open. They fluttered, unable to register anything with sleep’s weight lounging upon them. She rolled over, arms stretching wide as a yawn rose from deep inside her belly.
She froze. Blinked once—twice—to make sure she was seeing clearly.
No navy-blue sheets. No desk.
