Page 94 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

“I know.”

I close my eyes briefly. “I’m so tired,” I mutter. “I just can’t get my brain to shut up long enough to sleep.”

“You know what you need?” Harrison begins, then hesitates. “It’s probably a stupid idea.”

“Tell me, I love stupid ideas.”

He snorts quietly. “When I was younger, when everything got too much and I was overthinking, distraction was key. I needed to give my brain something else to focus on. My dads would read to me, and it was very soothing. I would be so busy following along with the story that I would stop overthinking and drift off to sleep.”

“You going to read to me, Prickles?”

“I told you it was a stupid idea.”

“No, it’s not. I want to lie here and listen to your voice.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“It was your idea. You can’t tease me with the promise of a bedtime story and then not deliver.”

“Fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Wait a minute.”

Suddenly, the view from my screen switches to his bedroom ceiling. He’s obviously laid his phone down and switched on his bedroom lamp. I can hear him get out of bed, then a moment later he reappears, book in hand, and props his phone in such a way that both of his hands can be free.

“What are you going to read?”

“It was one of my favourites from when I was a child,” he says.

Even from here, I can see the gorgeous, warm flush of his cheeks and—“Are those pentagrams on your pyjamas?”

“Shut up,” he says dryly. “Do you want a story or not?”

“I do.” I grin. “What is it?”

“It’s called The Phantom Tollbooth.”

“Oh my god.” A warm feeling spreads through my chest as I watch him plump up his pillow and get comfy. “I remember reading that in school.”

“Did you like it?” he asks curiously.

“It was one of my favourites.”

“Close your eyes, then,” he instructs, but I can’t, not when I can look at him all snuggly in his duvet reading me a story about a boy escaping to a magical world.

I wish, not for the first time tonight, that I was cuddled up next to him, feeling his body heat and breathing in his scent as I drift off to sleep.

22

Igroan and open my eyes. I don’t even have the energy to move.

My stomach turns, but I must be getting used to the horrific nightmares. I no longer vomit every time, but that doesn’t mean the images don’t plague my waking hours too.

This one was a judge, and watching him have his entrails pulled out by a demon for the tenth time was not on this week’s bingo card. If the demon had been a pro wrestler that would have been his signature move—he certainly used it often enough.

God, I feel horrendous. I’m so bloody tired. I can’t sleep, just snatches here and there, interspersed with an ongoing reel of Cordelia Crawshanks stalking through London and exacting her revenge on all of Dr Whyte’s cohort.

And there were many of them.

The nightmares have been going on for months now, ever since Sam left for Yorkshire. I have tried every single trick, folk remedy, spell, and incantation I can think of. I’ve even resorted to sleeping pills, which I actively avoid because they make my magic sluggish and unpredictable, but no. It makes zero difference. Cordelia is determined that I see her greatest hits, and I evidently have no choice in the matter.