Page 11 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

“I am certainly not treating her poorly. I’m merely being hesitant because she has been cursed by Mother Wolf. If there is anything to be done—and that is a mighty big if—then it will be horrendous work at best and deadly at worst,” Mr. Hawthorne said, proving he knew more than he let on.

“Mother Wolf,” I repeated, resisting the urge to shove or shake him, whichever may get the information out expeditiously and bring me the most relief. “You know of this demon, then? ”

“I have read about a demon of the woods in control of wolves, though I am happy to say I haven’t made her acquaintance and wouldn’t like to, especially if she is turning people into wolves, of all creatures.

If I were to be any animal, it would be a cat.

They are majestic and sleek, such as myself,” he replied far too seriously, like he considered the option a thousand times.

Mr. Thatcher handed Dolly over. I crushed her against my chest, grateful for this, and how he countered. “You don’t need to meet her to help, and you know it. Do you not have a research paper due soon, Grand Artificer?”

Mr. Hawthorne sucked on his lips like he tasted something sour.

“The Eldari Council will not be lenient on a third missed report. If you wish to keep your title, you need to find a topic of research, and why not her?” Mr. Thatcher used his cane to gesture at me.

“They will be more than impressed to meet one cursed by Mother Wolf still in human form. I bet they will even look past the deadline being next week.”

Mr. Hawthorne tugged on the collar of his shirt. When next he looked at me, hunger festered in his eyes. Like our initial meeting, he didn’t see a person but a specimen to pick apart piece by piece.

“You needn’t get so snappy with me. I was about to make the same suggestion,” Mr. Hawthorne claimed, then deflated considerably. “Though I had forgotten the report was due next week. I should keep a calendar.”

“You do, but it is worthless if you never look at it,” said Mr. Thatcher pointedly. “I’ve been trying to speak to you about this since yesterday. Where were you hiding?”

“If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a good hiding space.”

Mr. Thatcher stomped his cane. “You are far too old to be hiding from your superiors. I fear I have done nothing but apologize to you, Miss Moore. I swear, neither of us is normally this impolite.”

“That is debatable in my case,” Mr. Hawthorne said under his breath.

“No, I… Thank you. I appreciate that you are… willing to help me,” I said, although it held little conviction .

They became the only option. Mr. Hawthorne wasn’t different from anyone else, seeing me as lesser because of the lack of coins I had to my name.

Like Miss Francesca, he was the type to parade himself through the tavern once a year to enjoy the fascination and adoration from those he deemed lesser.

If I had money, he would have accepted my case in a heartbeat.

Instead, I had to be an experiment, a report he could hand to his superiors that would add to his name.

“I will help under conditions,” Mr. Hawthorne ordered, one finger raised. “You will stay at Ivory House during these tests and go nowhere outside these walls without my permission.”

“My aunt cannot work the farm alone, and I have a secondary job. We cannot afford to lose that,” I countered.

“We can make an enchantment for helping hands. That should be allowed, considering that by helping us, we are hindering your work,” Mr. Thatcher suggested, leaning in to explain.

“Mannequins, when properly enchanted, can do twice as much labor as a person. We have plenty around the house. It wouldn’t take long at all. ”

Like the mannequin I saw outside the boutique in Cavehallow, I wondered.

“You will do the enchantments then, since it was your suggestion,” Mr. Hawthorne said, then pinned me with his stare.

“And you will be locked up every night for our protection, as well as your own. You must tell me every detail of what happened with Mother Wolf, especially the details you wish to keep secret the most. I will not find a cure if you lie to me. Do you understand?”

It’s as if he read my heart, knowing full well I would try to hide the humiliating truth. He waited for confirmation, hands on his hips and eyes narrowed in warning. Mr. Hawthorne had a report due, but if I didn’t do as he said, he would cast me aside without hesitation.

“I understand,” I muttered.

If humiliating myself spared us, then I would do anything. And the sooner Mr. Hawthorne discovered a solution, the better. I was uncertain about these helping hands Mr. Thatcher spoke of, if Aunt Agnes could do without me, but I couldn’t risk them .

“Before we start, can I visit my family? You said we are in Westshire,” I asked. Susannah needed her doll, and I so desperately wanted to see them, hopeful they hadn’t searched for me and praying that Carline didn’t have them.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Thatcher replied.

“Excuse me,” Mr. Hawthorne laughed.

“You can pack a few of your belongings and explain to your family what’s happening.”

“Have I no say in this?” Mr. Hawthorne whined.

Mr. Thatcher spoke as if he wasn’t there. “They deserve to know and hear from you in person.”

Mr. Hawthorne gawked, pouted, then threw his arms in the air. “This is my house! The nerve of you. Urgh, fine, we leave now.”

“We?” I asked.

“We do not know what more this curse can do, and you can’t spend half the day there.

” He stalked down the hall with more attitude than a scolded teen.

“We are now colleagues, Miss Moore, and as colleagues, I expect us to work together professionally. This shall be done expeditiously, so you may vacate my home before destroying it. Now, throw on some shoes. There should be a surviving pair in the closet, unless you ate them, too. Oh, my shoes!”

Mr. Hawthorne turned the corner, his voice continuing to carry in a shrill whine. “She has ruined my home and my shoes, and Otis is taking her side. This is abhorrent, unfair, utterly preposterous! The betrayal!”

Mr. Thatcher said nothing, keeping his smile on me. Mr. Hawthorne’s tantrums must be regular if they didn't warrant a twitch from Mr. Thatcher.

Who have I agreed to work with?

Facing the room, I didn’t want to think about what I may have eaten as a wolf and what that meant for my stomach.

At least there was a pair of boots in the closet without bite marks or dried drool.

I slipped them on, then followed Mr. Thatcher through the winding halls.

He wore the same green petticoat as yesterday with a darker shade of green trousers.

He felt like a garden personified, equally comforting, too.

I didn’t expect him to come through for me, but he had. “Thank you for convincing him,” I said.

“I’m sorry I had to.” Mr. Thatcher adjusted his jacket. “That boy, I thought I taught him better.”

“Were you his teacher, then?” He mentioned working for a school, although I couldn’t recall the title.

“I was. Rooke is the most brilliant pupil I’ve ever taught, but he has his quirks.”

Quirks was putting it lightly. The more I saw of Ivory House, the more obvious it became that Mr. Hawthorne couldn’t keep his sticky fingers off what he wanted, and those wants were many.

One might argue he had an eclectic taste, but that couldn’t encapsulate the scope of his dwelling.

Every space had been utilized, in the worst way, causing a sense of suffocation, of drowning among all that he had.

There wasn’t an interest he didn’t partake in, nor an object he didn’t find fascinating enough to display.

One room had nothing but wood-carved statuettes.

Another was full of paper mache, then there were fabrics hanging off a sewing machine and mannequins, perhaps the ones Mr. Thatcher spoke of, dangling lifelessly among the rubble.

If he had a room of porcelain dolls though, I would be forced to leave.

They were frightening creations with their dead eyes always watching.

An older woman who lived in the boarding house with Mother and me offered one to me, although it was missing a leg, and I swore it moved at night.

She ended up stashed under the bed and, oh, I never got her.

She might still be there, haunting the next inhabitants.

Mr. Thatcher led me to a foyer, where Miss Beamy, Slate, and Mr. Hawthorne waited.

He had tugged on a cloak to match his trousers, simple but defined.

A pocket watch dangled from his pants pocket while Slate watched from his shoulder.

He tapped the watch and said, “Tick tock, we don’t have all day. ”

Unfortunately not. My time was now limited by the sun, so long as the light touched me, I was myself. The moon belonged to the wolf .

“Be careful, and don’t let him frighten you.” Mr. Thatcher leaned in to whisper, “He’s actually a big softie.”

“I know someone like that. Thank you again, Mr. Thatcher.”

“Please, call me Otis.”

I hesitated to reply, unsure if I wanted to open myself anymore to these artificers than I had to. However, Mr. Thatcher—Otis had such a kindly way about him it somehow felt offensive not to respond, “Only if you call me Indy.”

“It is a deal.”

“Today would be nice,” Mr. Hawthorne barked from the open doorway.

He, on the other hand, did not have permission to call me Indy.

Mr. Hawthorne waltzed out with Miss Beamy trailing his steps.

I followed their swift departure lest they leave me behind.

Cobblestones led from the door into the foliage, wild as the forest smelling of wildflowers and pollen.

No one tended to the forest as it grew wild and free, although I saw a garden in the backyard yesterday. Otis must take care of that.

The walkway curved with the forest’s natural movement, more like a stream than a path. There were more animals and insects here than expected, bees buzzing around flowers and birds in the trees. A traveling island hadn’t seemed like a suitable home, but the wildlife proved otherwise.

Slate launched from Mr. Hawthorne’s shoulder to circle him, then me. I tensed under the bird's scrutiny. Though he had yet to speak like Miss Beamy, his eyes had a watchful, intelligent look about them. The bird ascended into the sky to disappear.

“No chasing field mice today, Beamy,” Mr. Hawthorne proclaimed ahead.

“Not even one? I so love field mice. They make the finest of playthings with their sweet shrieking,” she replied, her tail swinging quickly.

“Yes, and you love to forget the time, which we are short on.”

“Need I remind you, I am the only reason you passed your LAAs to begin with?”

Mr. Hawthorne guffawed.

“You have always been the one horrid at time, even with an alarm. You would have slept in had I not bit your nose,” Miss Beamy stated proudly .

With a bruised ego, Mr. Hawthorne said, “Now is not the time to discuss that, Beamy.”

“Then, may I chase a field mouse or two?”

“You may, but no more than two, and you will clean your paws before we return. I will not have blood ruining my cloak. It took me weeks to work out the enchantments.”

She snaked around his feet with the skills of a cat that had done it a thousand times. At least he was a loving cat owner.

We fell into a comfortable silence afterward. Soon, the trees cleared, and the edge of the island came into view. It was a sheer drop with nothing to warn of the end. Realization settled thick as molasses in my gut.

“How are we going to get down?” I asked, refusing to go further.

“We jump,” he answered.

I grew tired of everyone answering so nonchalantly, like I was the weird one rather than their magic.

“Must I remind you I am no artificer? I can’t fly.” And I had no interest in testing the theory. I preferred my feet firmly planted on the ground here on out and wished that the ground was, well, on the ground.

“You don’t need to. I didn’t expect an outing today, and your village wouldn’t be happy if I destroyed their fields with a rushed landing,” he replied.

“Can’t you open a door, like the one that brought me here?”

Mr. Hawthorne wore a blank expression. “I beg your pardon?”

“The door that I came through, it was just in a field.”

“A door? You poor pup, that night must have frightened you good.” Mr. Hawthorne laughed before catching me from under the knees to lift. I shrieked and grappled for his neck. He smirked, forcing his eyes to form crescent moons illuminated by a wicked light. “I told you, I’m stronger than I look.”

“And you clearly took more offense to me daring to imply otherwise.” I tried not to think of his fingers tightening against my thighs or the sturdiness of his chest pressed against my side. “May you sit me down? ”

“That would not end well for you,” he said while approaching the drop. “I suggest you hold on.”

Miss Beamy leapt onto Mr. Hawthorne’s shoulder, her eyes wild and bright. We reached the edge, where the world spanned below, familiar fields of wheat and cattle. We weren’t as high as expected, but that didn’t make me any less dizzy.

“Is there truly no other way to get down? I swore I came in through a door.” My hold on Mr. Hawthorne tightened. His scent enveloped me, coffee and crisp paper.

“If you had, that was Ivy’s doing, and I don’t see a door opening into another field, so this is the best option for your sudden request,” he replied.

“And the most fun,” said Miss Beamy, then he stepped off the cliff.

I screamed.

We didn’t fall. We floated, down and down, gentle, with Mr. Hawthorne’s arms tucked beneath me.

His cloak fluttered at his back like wings.

A silver light appeared within the stitching, revealing runes all over the cloak.

I pinched the fabric around his neck. A pulse rippled beneath my thumb, breathing life into my fingers.

Miss Beamy raised her head high. Her paws made biscuits on Mr. Hawthorne’s shoulder.

Slate dove past us, becoming a blur of black across the fields below.

But as beautiful as it all was, as safe as we were growing closer to land, my stomach still churned.

“I might get sick on you,” I warned.

“Dare to, Miss Moore, and I will drop you,” he replied.