The Dream Weavers Barbara Erskine (e ink ebook reader txt) 📖

open only a crack then hastily close again. ‘Come on. We must go and find your dad,’ she said loudly.

‘You mean she followed us?’ Emma was indignant as they climbed back into the car.

‘If it’s who I think it is.’ It was hard to believe, and if it was Sandra, where was her car?

The empty Micra parked on the verge at the end of the lane answered that question.

‘Is that hers?’ Emma turned to peer at it as they drove past.

‘I don’t know what kind of car she has,’ Bea negotiated the next bend and drove on, suppressing her indignation. What was Sandra’s agenda exactly? Spying on her round the cathedral was one thing, but to go to the trouble of following them seemed beyond rational. She glanced across at Emma. ‘Home?’

‘It’s funny, isn’t it, but I do think of the cottage as home.’

‘And you have extra revision to do.’ Bea grinned cheerfully. She was not going to let Emma see how rattled she was by the thought that they were being followed. ‘Practise your bubble. Everyone has their own energy field. See if you can see them.’

‘You mean like an aura?’

Bea was concentrating on the narrow lane, slowing to cross the busy A49. ‘Yes, the aura. You will find auras vary hugely. Different colours, configurations, constantly changing. With some people they are large, extending out a long way, and well defined, with others they are small and indistinct. You can learn a lot about how people feel about themselves and others, see how they interact with one another, you can see how people are feeling, their health, their mood. We all sense each other’s auras instinctively unless we are singularly insensitive. Most people feel them – their personal space – but you can train yourself to see them clearly.’

‘I bet Felix will laugh.’

‘You don’t tell Felix what you are doing. You keep it to yourself,’ Bea said sternly. ‘You don’t tell anyone, especially school friends. The word aura reduces the vast majority of people to paroxysms of mirth. Save yourself the hassle. And anything you think you see by looking at someone’s aura is private to them. You’re in a privileged position, like a doctor or a priest, but you are not a doctor or a priest so you do nothing with the information you may or may not deduce, is that clear? You do not tell them what you have seen, and you do not tell anyone else.’

She had never tried to see Sandra’s aura. No, that wasn’t quite true. She hadn’t been able to avoid sensing the woman’s strange avid darkness, but now her reluctance to probe must change. The woman had violated her privacy again and again, so perhaps it was time to return the compliment. There was something more than nosiness in this obsession of hers and Bea had to find out what it was for all their sakes.

‘What if you see someone has got cancer?’

‘You’re not a doctor, Emma, or a radiologist. Remember that. You are not in a position to diagnose illness. If someone tells you – really tells you – they’re not feeling well, encourage them to see a doctor. That’s all you can do. And,’ she changed the focus of the subject abruptly, ‘when you’re confident you can do it, remember you can include someone else in your bubble to keep them safe, as I did in church.’

Emma leaned back in her seat and beamed. ‘I’m going to enjoy this. The best lessons ever.’

The lane widened by a field gate and Bea pulled in and put on the handbrake. ‘I’m sorry, I know this is exciting, but you will find it’s not nearly as easy as it sounds. This all needs practice. The important bit for now is for you to work on your own “aura” and learn to strengthen it, turn it into a shield. You know when you’re talking to someone and you feel they won’t “let you in”? That’s someone who does it naturally. They have put up barriers. You need to learn to do that. And at night you do it before you go to sleep.’

‘To ward off nightmares?’

Bea nodded.

‘I had the weirdest dream last night.’

‘Oh?’ Bea turned round to scan her face.

‘I dreamt that Dad was dead.’

‘But you knew he wasn’t.’

Emma nodded. ‘I got out of bed and went to stand on the landing to listen outside his door to make sure he was still breathing.’

‘You didn’t need to do that to know your dream was not about your father. Not your real father,’ Bea said gently.

‘I know. But I had to be sure.’

‘Of course. Dreams can be so frighteningly real. So, do you know what the dream was actually about?’

‘Everyone was running about and shouting and crying and I was there, listening.’

‘Who was shouting?’

‘People. Men. Rough big men with leather jackets and beards and,’ she paused, replaying the memory, ‘swords.’

‘Anglo-Saxon men?’

‘So it was to do with Dad’s book?’

‘Probably.’ Bea made herself smile. Had Emma been there in Winchester? Could she have dreamed the same dream as she had? Heard the same messenger? Seen the same men, felt the same panic as news of the death of Offa, their king’s greatest ally, spread around the court? She reined in her thoughts sternly. If Emma had been there, she would have seen Eadburh. ‘Were there any women in your dream?’ she asked after a moment.

‘Only me.’

‘Were you part of the scene or watching it like a film?’

‘I was there. I was part of it. The messenger had come to me. I was wearing a lovely long red dress. I was the queen.’

After dropping Emma off at the cottage, Bea drove home in a thoughtful mood. She had studied for years on and off with different teachers to harness her own natural abilities and she was trying to teach Emma in a few hours. And Emma was all over the place. Would the girl remember what to do if she saw St Ethelbert again, or if the voice