Isla's Inheritance Read online

  I was dreaming.

  I didn’t often know when I was dreaming, but there was something vivid about this dream; it lacked the hazy and disjointed feeling of my usual nocturnal ramblings. Although it was typically surreal.

  I stood in the middle of a huge hall, wearing a ball gown of black silk; like the distant ceiling above, the fabric was flecked with starlight. A questing touch revealed the stars to be hard stones, like diamonds, except they sparkled with their own inner light. The skirt was full and wide, and whispered against the floor as I moved. My hands were sheathed to the elbow in gloves of the same silken material.

  The other figure in the room—he wasn’t there a moment ago, was he?—was a man dressed in a thousand shades of brown, a motley made of what appeared to be sackcloth. His face was a scarecrow mask, and he had long pointed ears.

  The sackcloth jester was speaking, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. He paused, waiting for me to respond. I shrugged at him. “I can’t hear you.” My voice echoed.

  He frowned, the sackcloth forehead furrowing, and gestured for me to turn around.

  Behind me stood a full-length oval mirror, mounted on a stand. The frame was carved in hand-chased silver. That definitely wasn’t there a moment ago.

  My reflection was astonishing. It was as though someone had taken my photo and altered it in a number of small ways that, cumulatively, made me look quite different. Awake, I wouldn’t have chosen to wear a dress with such a low neckline. The black fur stole around my shoulders did nothing to cover my cleavage, which was never so prominent in real life. Dream-me must be wearing an excellent bra.

  My hair, worn loose and woven with more of the starlight stones on silver chains, wasn’t brown but black as midnight, framing a face never so dainty in real life. My eyes were deep ebony, my lips blood-red. If it weren’t for the colour of the gown, I’d look like Snow White.

  When my gaze locked with that of my reflection, it began to move independently. I gasped, taking a step back as the reflection’s eyes narrowed to stare at me so intently I thought it might reach through the glass and lock its gloved fingers around my throat. Its lips curled, and when it spoke I heard the word flatly through the glass.

  “You!”

  The mirror shattered, and I fell…