The Dream Thief
Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
Darkfrith, Northern England
1768
In the dream, she was always blind.
That's what would come first, the utter darkness, settling over her like a soft, soft blanket. But it wasn't a hopeless or desperate kind of blindness. In fact, it always seemed absolutely normal. Because the dream was never about what she could see, but all about what she could hear.
"Lia."
"Yes," she would answer.
It was a man speaking to her in the dream. A man's voice, one she knew as well as she knew the flow of water over the rocks of her favorite streambed, dark and familiar and smooth.
"Lia," he would say, an imperative.
"I'm here."
"Come to me."
And she would, because in the dream there was nothing she wanted more than to obey that voice. It was her only ambition.
"Tell me about today," the man invited, still so smooth.
"The peaches are ripening. The wheat is hip-high. The Dartmoor ruby has a buyer in Brussels. He wants the emeralds as well."
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