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ONCE UPON A DREAM

S he dreamt, as she often did, of her sixteenth birthday.

Not of physically being sixteen again—thank goodness—but of the celebration that her parents had thrown for it.

They’d spared no expense, as if sufficient quantities of jewels, silks, luxury foods, and entertainers could disguise the fact that they were preparing to give a child away.

She and Boern had never had joint birthdays; hers was always held on the actual day, and his would be held separately a little afterwards.

To make sure he isn’t taken by mistake .

She stood on the dais, wearing her heavy court dress.

The dream always began here, even though in real life, she hadn’t spent any time on the dais.

Behind her, her parents sat on their thrones, their conversation blurred into background pleasantries.

A painful mix of sadness and anger boiled through her at the sight, and she let the dream keep their speech safely too quiet to overhear, turning firmly away from them.

Similarly, she kept herself from noticing whether her brothers were here too.

It was the one consolation from dreaming this one so often; she could make it go how she wanted, once she’d realised it was a dream.

The crowd gazed up at her with hunger, their pity mingled with anticipation.

What a story they’d have to tell their children when the terrible fae sorcerer arrived.

A story they’d tell later, when they were safe with their families and she’d been taken to the terrible fae’s lair.

The dreadfulness of her fate was their entertainment.

She sighed, mainly because why was she having this dream now?

She used to dream it a lot, in a thousand variations, but it had been years since she’d last revisited it.

She certainly wasn’t in the mood for any version of it tonight.

Not the dream of happy families, where the queen revealed that they’d been working on a way to break the curse and had finally succeeded!

Neither could she face the dream’s nightmare opposite, where her Malediction arrived and killed everyone and a terrible part of her was vindictively satisfied even in her grief.

She certainly wasn’t in the mood for the sexually charged one where an athletic prince sprang from the crowd and swore to fight a dashing duel in her name.

With something between curiosity and resignation, she turned to see whether and how her Malediction was going to arrive tonight.

The dreams where he didn’t turn up at all were the worst, too close to the real-life memory.

You shouldn’t have to feel like a failure for not being abducted, should you?

And yet, on that day, as the clock had struck midnight and the crowd had looked upon her in expectant silence as she waited, feeling sick with nerves, she had.

Usually, if Malediction deigned to turn up, it was as a cloaked figure manifesting in a swirl of darkness, although there was an embarrassingly large subset of variations where he turned out to be impossibly handsome and declared in an impressive way—as everybody looked on with envy—that she was special and since none of the people here understood her, he was taking her away to someplace too glamorous for their dull minds to appreciate.

It doesn’t take a genius to decipher the wish-fulfilment in that , she reflected wryly.

She’d dreamed every version except this one, she realised, as she saw what form the Malediction had taken tonight.

Of course—and of course this was why she’d dreamed it again now.

Now her subconscious knew the truth, there was no going back to either a terrifying monster or a seductive rake.

Here he was, merely his startled, cat-eared self, wearing a fine waistcoat and an emerald pin in his neckcloth.

He looked around with wide eyes. “What is this place?”

“My sixteenth birthday party. You’ve come to rescue me.”

His eyebrows went up. “I have?”

“Well, you might as well rescue me, since you’re here.” She held out her hand.

He took it cautiously, and a jolt of strange, potent emotion went through her: shame mixed with longing. Pagefires, it had been too long since anyone had touched him.

She stared at him. It had been a far stronger read of his emotions than any of their prior touches. Because it’s a dream, and in the dream, you want to know what he’s thinking, so of course you magically can all of a sudden.

Right. She was in control here. She turned them to face their audience and instructed him in an undertone. “Tell them all that they don’t deserve me and so you’re taking me away to somewhere much more fabulous. Make it sound impressive.” Might as well steer the dream down that route.

“As you wish,” he murmured, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. He addressed the crowd. “You’re all idiots who should have fought harder to keep your princess. You don’t deserve her.”

Usually, there was a small thrill of satisfaction to be found in the audience’s reaction at this point in the narrative, but tonight, she found she couldn’t care, too conscious that none of it was real. This version of Malediction didn’t belong in the fantasy.

With an aggravated sound, she pulled him down the stairs to the dancefloor.

He came with some stiffness, and she rolled her eyes and set their position for a waltz, glaring at him until he took the hint and stuttered into motion as the orchestra conveniently started up at that moment.

Even so, he didn’t seem to know the steps at all.

Her dream was being unusually clunky tonight.

“I didn’t expect my guilty conscience to conjure this,” he mused. “What in the sacred flame is going on with that dress?”

She’d almost forgotten about her court dress, which extended her diameter by several yards. “This was what was fashionable back then. This is the part where you tell me you’re awed by my beauty and wit.”

He only frowned. “You’re certainly not what I expected.”

She glared. Why couldn’t the dream just run the well-worn path of a nice fantasy and shower her with shallow flattery? Shallow flattery would be cheering right now, but of course this version of Malediction would ruin that too.

“Well, you’re not what I expected either.” She poked at his cravat. “An uptight, contrary gentleman who runs away from his obligations is no one’s fantasy.”

He cocked his head, and the hand that was on her waist pulled her closer than the proper waltzing distance.

It was only when he raised that same hand to cup her chin that she realised it hadn’t been a hand pulling her closer; it was his tail that was now wrapped firmly around her waist. They came to a stop at the side of the ballroom.

“Uptight?” he murmured. “I’m a better actor than I knew.”

A thrill of interest ran through her. No. She wasn’t going to turn this into that sort of dream. Even if it was a far more addictive flattery than words. It was still a lie.

In the real world, he doesn’t want you. He wants you so little he didn’t even bother to check on your welfare at any point in the last several decades.

And you don’t want him! she belatedly added, and then, with rather more truthfulness: Pretty as he might be and as desperate for touch as you might be, this is not a mentally healthy fantasy to continue with.

It was a tempting fantasy, though, the idea that he wanted her, even if it was in the basest of ways. The edge of the ballroom had morphed into a suggestively secluded alcove, screened from view by long drapes of fabric. Subconscious, thy name is subtlety.

“This is unwise. You should tell me to stop,” he told her, his voice rough, even as his thumb brushed slow circles on her lower lip.

Despite the echo of her own thoughts— because everything here is you; that’s how dreams work! —she didn’t move as he leaned closer. The scent of his magic quivered in the air around them, old books mingled with copper.

She jerked awake in the luxurious guest bedroom, full of frustrated desire and rapidly rising regret. She blew out a long breath. Of course, even in dreams, her Malediction would only ever cause her trouble.