Chapter 17

She is surrounded by tall,dried stalks of corn—so tall that every direction looks the same as the last. Instinctively, she knows there's a place she needs to be hidden somewhere through the mismatched rows, but the more she looks the dizzier she becomes. So she stands, feet rooted in the tiny clearing, unwilling to go forward blindly.

A smooth, accented voice to her left—one she already knows the face to, "What are you waiting for, Princess?"

Sara frowns, looking at him. He's always the same. Same eyes, same clothing. "I'm lost," she admits. Somehow, it's easier to confess her weakness in this strange world of dreams than when she's awake. Perhaps honesty has its own place in dreams. She frowns, head tilting. "Why are you here?"

Seth blinks. "I'm not."

"Oh," she breathes, not really understanding. "Ok."

He nods toward the maze of corn to her right. "The sunrise on the other side is quite extraordinary. You should capture it."

There's a familiar weight across the back of her neck. Sara glances down, finding her camera. Yes, that's right—she is supposed to be taking pictures. The rows of corn feel tighter, more impassable, when she looks up. "I don't know how to get there."

The smile he gives her is soft, unfamiliar, as he holds out his hand. "Close your eyes, then. I'll lead you through."

She hesitates, looking over her shoulder at the motionless scarecrow watching them. "But I can't leave him. He'll get lonely without me."

Seth shakes his head. "He's just a scarecrow. He doesn't have a soul."

A soul? Sara frowns. "I thought it was a brain the scarecrow wanted?"

He smiles, but there's no warmth to it. It's sad—knowing.

Pitying.

"Only in fiction, Princess."

Sara nods, even though she still doesn't understand. The scarecrow stares back at her, black button eyes swallowing the light and its painted mouth a neutral smear of red paint. She places her hand in Seth's waiting palm, his fingers curling around hers with a gentleness that makes her feel found. "I'm scared," she murmurs, a soft confession.

He squeezes her hand, a promise in his smile. "Trust me. Close your eyes and I will lead you."

Sara wakes slowly,her eyes fluttering open and taking in the light streaming from her window.

Groaning, she props herself onto her elbow and runs a hand through her hair—fingers snagging on the tangles with a wince. Ansel sleeps, undisturbed, at the foot of her bed; curled so tightly he resembles a throw pillow more than a cat. When she shifts her weight, he releases a whining, drawn out sigh at the slight disturbance. Sara stares at him, her mind slowly adjusting to the realm of reality.

She had been dreaming—she remembers she had. Her gaze lands on her camera bag across the room, and her eyebrows pull into a frown as she tries to piece together the hazy bits of remembered dream. There was a corn field and a scarecrow—the kind her hometown used to have at their Harvest Festival in the fall—and a patient, upturned palm...

The pieces fall into place, a sledgehammer to her heart. "Seth," she breathes, pulse jumping. She had dreamed of Seth.

She dreamed of him, and it hadn't been a nightmare.

Oh God.

"You called, Princess?"

His voice materializes beside her, and she feels a sinking dread in the pit of her stomach. Slowly, she turns to meet his gaze. He must read the horror in her eyes, because his bored expression tightens into something serious—something concerned. "What's happened?"

No, she's imagining it. She has to be. Sara swallows, tries to still the trembling of her hands by fisting them in her comforter. Then her gaze snags on her reflection in the mirrored closet doors and she stills. Her hair is a wild nest of frizz and tangles, complexion pale and hazel eyes wide, but it's not her reflection that startles her, but the absence of his.

Seth follows her gaze, the tension in his jaw—the hard line of his shoulders—relaxing. "Ah, yes. It's a trifle disconcerting at first, isn't it?" He regards the mirror thoughtfully. "I haven't had a good look in a few hundred years, but if memory serves I'm quite handsome."

She shakes her head, determined to get her thoughts back on track. No way in hell was she going to comment on that. "Do you manipulate dreams? Do you have that power?"

He frowns, eyes narrowing. "Not that I'm aware of... why?"

"Are you sure?"

He scoffs, almost insulted. "I can't say I've ever tried." A thought must dawn, because his head tilts and his stare sharpens. "Would you like me to?"

She chucks a pillow at him—he doesn't even flinch as it sails over his shoulder and into the closet doors behind him. A flush crawls up her neck, hot and prickling. Sara pulls the comforter up to her chin to hide the worst of it. "No!"

There is a grin flirting at the corner of his mouth, growing with each step, until it becomes almost predatory. A cat playing with a field mouse. "Well, you are in a state this morning. Aren't you?"

"Shut up," she hisses.

"What could you possibly have been dreaming about, I wonder?" He leans over her, eyes dark and teasing. "Was there a bed involved?"

The entire room feels hot, and she can feel herself sweating beneath the blankets, but she doesn't dare lower them. Sara sends him her sharpest glare and, because she's flustered and an idiot, blurts, "It was just a cornfield!"

His leer falters, coughing on a laugh. "You Iowans and your corn." He shakes his head. "I suppose there was flannel involved as well?"

"I hate you."

He doesn't even flinch. "Yes, you love to remind me." Straightening his cuffs, he gives her a roguish grin. "It's still rather early. Shall I leave you to try and revisit those sweet dreams of yours?"

She chucks another pillow at him, with the same results as the last. It only fans her fury. "Get out!"

His snicker echoes long after he blinks away. Sara stays in bed, the comforter pulled up to her ears as she watches the morning light shift and change. She wishes she could forget the pieces she remembered—wishes she could forget she had dreamed any of it at all—but she can't unsee the scarecrow's crude, painted face or unhear the tenderness in Seth's voice—the promise in his words.

Trust me.