Page 1 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

Where Indy Gets Lost

In Westshire, where nothing peculiar ever happened, it shouldn’t be a surprise that we celebrated when an artificer came to town.

Miss Francesca Tallow sat on a table at the center of the tavern.

Her dress changed colors from sunset tones to sunrise.

She had a sharpness to her eyes, brown as autumn leaves, and her red hair draped like the most expensive silk over pale white shoulders.

Every aspect of her screamed luxury, an endless supply of desire always met.

The tavern was never busy as it was each fall when the baron hired an artificer to refashion the enchantments upon his lands.

That evening, the townsfolk visited to see what the artificer would conjure.

After all, there was no one born to magic in Westshire for as long as any could remember, and that said a lot.

Mrs. Bakerswell would turn one hundred and two that year.

No one else had lived long enough to debunk her, but she creaked when she walked, and I think she coughed up dust once, so I was of the mind to believe her.

Francesca took a puff from her golden pipe. The pink smoke she exhaled morphed into palm-sized butterflies. A drunk made the horrendous decision of chasing said butterfly, falling face first into the floor, causing an uproar and a mess for me to clean.

Lifting his head, Gary smiled with his two missing front teeth that he lost in a hog-riding accident. “Sorry about that, Indy. They were so pretty. I, mm, can mop.”

“There’s no need, but how about we call it a night?” I suggested, while taking his mug. All I had been doing was refilling drinks to mop them later. What a waste.

“Mm, yeah.” Gary wobbled. Keeping a firm hold on his arm, I helped him into a chair. “I’ll take a warm meal. Whatever ya got.”

“Coming right up.”

I lifted empty plates while cutting around the folk struggling to remain close to Francesca.

The tavern fit most of the townsfolk, as well as their memories.

Tan-colored photographs from one of those fancy snapshot cameras covered the walls that once solely were for hunting memorabilia.

I much preferred the photographs over animal carcasses.

Their eyes always felt like they were judging me.

The second floor had six beds for rare travelers, but mostly for locals too inebriated to stumble home, and a large fireplace warmed the tavern on that crisp autumn evening.

Gary, and everyone else, were there for hours ever since Francesca finished her work.

I wasn’t entirely sure what she did, but we knew the baron’s lands never suffered losing livestock or rats living in his walls.

None of his properties withered from old age or neglect, and no one could pass through the iron fence guarding his estate.

Trying was a rite of passage, which was how I got my first concussion.

Took a running start to leap over a fence only to be hit with such force, I went flying across the field.

A room full of red faces and grins watched Francesca hop off the table as gracefully as a dancer.

She was pretty, the kind of girl to make one’s heart stutter without effort, but like all artificers, she had an ego that scratched the sky.

She knew her presence was rare and drowned in the admiration.

Although she caught folk by the collar to tease a kiss, she would never do more.

At the end of the day, Westshire was a plaything to entertain her one evening a year.

“I need a volunteer,” she cooed in a prim accent, one we didn’t hear much around here, while I settled the empty plates on the counter, where Ysabel wiped away the remnants of anyone’s spilled drink.

Ysabel may have been so short she needed a stool to see over the counter, but none would dare miss her.

She wore the same orange head wrap every day and a permanent scowl atop her rich ochre skin.

As the owner, she loved Francesca’s visits.

However, that didn’t stop the complaints.

“These bastards are going to run me out of stock before the eve’s end. ”

“Speaking of, Gary needs a snack,” I said.

“Maybe he shouldn’t have drank so much.”

Gary smiled sheepishly.

Ysabel gestured at the doors leading to the kitchen. “Get him a bowl of soup and a bread roll.”

Free of charge, though she wouldn’t say that. It could ruin her tough image.

I sent a glance over my shoulder, wishing my attention didn’t immediately fall on Baxter. He wore his favorite faux leather jacket, once riddled with holes that I patched using all the scraps available. The patches give it character , he claimed as I spent an evening fixing the latest tear.

I was a fool to think my rotten luck was broken. As a less-than-a-year-girlfriend, I shouldn’t have been surprised when he broke up with me barely a week before our one-year anniversary. I was so ecstatic that I bought a new dress. It was a spur of the moment decision I wholly regretted.

“Foolish,” I muttered.

“What?” asked Ysabel.

“Nothing. I’ll bring out a fresh pitcher of water, too. We’ll need it.”

In the kitchen, the cook stirred the pot of stew, already plating a couple of bowls.

She never said much, and I never bothered her.

She enjoyed being away from the crowd, unbothered and surrounded by cooking utensils she meticulously cleaned.

One could see their reflection in the spoons or be blinded by them if held at the potentially wrong angle.

Grabbing what I came for, I headed out to find Francesca had picked her volunteer.

The sight of her leaning over Baxter’s shoulder made my blood run cold when it shouldn’t.

We were done. He made that abundantly clear.

Jealousy and envy were ugly emotions rotting one from within, and at that moment, I spoiled.

“Hold still, sweetheart. We wouldn’t want to harm that cute little mug of yours,” said Francesca.

Baxter’s ears burned red from the laughter of his friends. My heart wavered, and I cursed the organ for doing so.

Francesca retrieved a scepter from her purse.

Shaped like an elongated pen, artificers used the curious devices to weave their magic.

She switched the sharpened tip for a piece of chalk tucked in her purse.

With a focus unlike her usual charm, she swept the scepter over the back of the chair.

Silver light poured from her fingertips to the scepter that wrote a series of runes across the wood.

Baxter cursed when the chair floated. The further the chair rose, the tighter my chest became.

By the time I reached Gary with his soup, Baxter’s head knocked against the ceiling.

I wanted to ask if he was alright and offer him a cold rag, but bit back the urge.

Baxter shouted when the chair turned. He caught the seat of the chair before it flipped.

The tavern laughed at his flailing legs.

“There is no reason to be frightened. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” Francesca said dreamily.

Baxter took a gander below, then at her, and he let go. He fell into his group of friends, mead flying and chairs toppling. No one ever thought about the cleaning lady, did they?

One of the larger farm hands tugged the chair down for Francesca to run her hand across the back.

The silver light flickered beneath her palm, then vanished.

Without the enchantment, the chair fell.

The crowd roared with applause, a dozen of them asking for her to do the trick again.

She was more than happy to oblige, resulting in three others floating to the ceiling while I begrudgingly mopped the messes. Including the spill by Baxter.

I didn’t want him to see me, although he knew I was here.

For nearly a decade, I took a shift at the tavern after tending to the farm.

That was how we met. Baxter hadn’t been born in Westshire, so a fresh face garnered attention, and I was foolish enough to believe he would forever fill the space I cut out for him in my heart.

I mopped around the tables. Baxter remained with his group of friends, the lot of them gawking at Francesca, who enchanted a woman’s cloak to glow like a firefly.

At some point, Baxter caught sight of me.

He smiled. That was what attracted me first, the dimples in his rosy cheeks.

He had a confidence about him, shoulders high and back straight, that sparked a sense of confidence within me, too.

As if his presence was enough to make me proud.

Baxter stood with his hands clasped around his empty mug. “I didn’t know you were working tonight.”

“I work here every night,” I replied, confused that he spoke to me.

I hadn’t seen the breakup coming, although I never did. Baxter hadn’t been my first partner. However, I was always the one left wondering if I was born to walk the path of life alone.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Fine,” I half said, half asked.

He scoffed, as if he should be the irritated party in this scenario. “You’re not going to ask me how I’m doing?”

My mopping hastened. “No, I’m confused why you’re asking me, actually.”

“Because it’s polite.”

“If so, I would prefer it if you weren’t polite.”

Baxter threw his head back in a disbelieving laugh, the same he gave after I haggled anyone for a cheaper price on everything.

Initially, he said he liked a girl who understood the work put into earning a living.

He understood I didn’t come from much and spending frivolously wasn’t an option.

But that appreciation festered into annoyance as he sat across from me, red-faced and scowling, like my presence was more than enough to humiliate him.

“You’re as lifeless as ever,” he said.

Hot shame bristled behind my cheeks. I dropped the mop into the bucket, where the water had browned. “Are we done here? I have work to do.”