Author's note: This is the opening of a novel that I wrote when I was thirteen. I am looking for publishers at the moment and would really appreciate your reads and comments. Thank you in advance, Felicity
Life is just a mirror, and what you see out there you must first see inside yourself. Jacob Bigelow
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PROLOGUE
Annabel’s Dream
Sometime in November, 2000
It was approaching midnight. A bell clanged through the streets of London and smoke lingered in the shadow of doorsteps. In the distance a dog barked and the disrupted song of drunkards rang through the labyrinth of alleys. Above all this Annabel rose. She was acutely aware of the senses closing in on her, the scuttle of a rat underfoot, the pungent smell of the sewers and the harsh glare of neon lights. Could this be more than a dream?
The light was cold and unsettling; streetlamps cast an eerie shadow and did little to illuminate the city swamped in infernal fog. Annabel ascended slowly over the mirror edged surface of the Thames, her gaze lost in its endless reflections. At first she merely swayed with the wind. Then, she began to tremble and shake and she felt herself being dragged downwards, sucked into the waters’ unfathomable depths.
Darkness wrapped itself around her. Faint smudges of colour spun into the atmosphere, orbiting her before fading back into gloom. She wasn’t scared, her actions and emotions seemed remote from her. She felt intoxicated and dizzy. There was a smell, strange and foreign, that clung to the air like stagnant water, and sticky hot mist streamed past, making her eyes blur. Abruptly, the sights and sounds ceased. Annabel gasped, finding her feet planted on hard ground.
She was in a gypsy’s tent: almost bare, as if put up in haste. A few masks, barbaric tribal artifacts, rested in one corner and a table stood upright in the centre of the room. Flickering candles and jars of incense sat in groups, each a unique scent. Annabel recognized them instantly; lemongrass, cinnamon and jasmine, mingled with the smoke and burning her throat.
It was the table and its occupants that aroused her interest the most. There was a tall man with his back turned to her. He sat on a stool, his legs flung open comfortably and his hands in his lap. The winding slope of his back and uncombed hair pricked at Annabel’s memory and seemed familiar, yet she could not see his face. Annabel wanted to talk to him, to find out what he was doing in the tent, why he was here. Nervously, she willed her legs into action. She couldn’t move. Frustrated, she tried again to raise one heavy leg in front of the other, still she couldn’t move - as if witnessing a performance she could not take part in.
There was a woman, standing bent at the man’s feet. She wore a mask of some dark, glittering substance that showed off the jade of her eyes. The light, her figure-hugging dress, and the exotic flowers weaved into her hair combined to form an image of unworldly beauty. The woman was concentrating, drawing a circle of cards around the man and murmuring softly. He appeared shocked by what he was hearing because he sat bolt upright and let out an exclamation. He seemed excited too, a thick layer of sweat emanated from his body.
Annabel regained some sense of movement. Stumbling forwards out of the shadows she tried to catch a glimpse of the man’s face. The woman’s head snapped round like a snake. Annabel froze. Their gaze met.
The woman was refocusing on the man, murmuring something urgent in his ear. Perplexed, Annabel struggled to lean forwards, trying to ignore the fast beating of her heart, desperate to hear and at the same time trying to ward off the prickling feeling of danger.
Suddenly, everything seemed to change. The tent flap flew open. A silhouette appeared in the doorway. Ornaments crashed to the floor and the man jumped up in surprise, not fear but exhilaration radiating off him in waves. The woman stood up fast: her mask hit the ground and smashed into millions of scattered segments. Urgently, the woman pressed something into the man’s hand – it had the appearance of green bottle glass. The man looked bewildered. He took a wild glance around the room. Annabel saw him. She saw his face. Shivers ran down her spine.
He had changed. His empty black eyes and dead look seemed strange and foreign: bewitched. She forgot about everything else in the room.
“Uncle.” Annabel screamed over the noise, but she was only a witness to the action. He could not hear her.
Annabel woke up and she knew. Clearer than crystal, than water or glass, something was wrong.
YOU ARE READING
Tapestry of Deception
FantasíaWhen fifteen-year old Annabel Suvagante’s Uncle goes missing she is determined to help find him. Little does she know that his disappearance is only a forewarning of another’s – her own. In her search for her Uncle, Annabel finds herself the centerp...
