Page 15 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

There, in the threshold, I received the first true glimpse of Ivory House hovering above Westshire.

Having seen the castle through its own window hadn’t shown its true merit.

The construct truly was miraculous, impossible for my mind to fathom.

The house itself sat on an island, where the land beneath was perfectly smoothed like the bottom of a sphere.

Ivory House was its own entity, mismatched and stitched together like a quilt of leftover fabric, as chaotic as the interior, and yet unbearably charming.

The spires ranged in sizes from short and stout to tall and thin, and the walls, while all stone, were different shades.

Mr. Hawthorne couldn’t decide on an aesthetic, so chose all of them.

Said man leaned against the cottage, waiting, and stood taller at the sight of us.

“How did you make such a castle?” I asked.

“I have been cursed by an excessive set of skills,” he answered.

“I do not believe I have met one as egotistical as you.”

“I would hope so, as I do not want to be stripped of such an illustrious title.”

He said no more concerning the creation of the Ivory House.

Perhaps artificers didn’t enjoy sharing their secrets.

After all, there was only one Ivory House, so popularized that I heard about it in the middle of nowhere.

No other had anything like it, and that certainly must add to Mr. Hawthorne’s renown.

How else could someone explain where he got the money necessary for all the unfortunate items stowed away inside the castle?

“I’ve told the villagers everything I could. Ysabel has offered to be the center of information, so any news I have, I will send to her, as well as your family,” Mr. Hawthorne explained. “May I come in?”

“Yes, of course. I must thank you again for all this help,” my aunt said when reaching for his hand to shake. “Without you, we all would be in much more trouble.”

“Think nothing of it. As an artificer of our great kingdom, it is my honor to defend the people against these nasty demons.”

He said he wanted nothing to do with demons. The man should have been a stage actor rather than an artificer with those acting chops.

Mr. Hawthorne slipped a hand into the interior of his cloak.

He retrieved a scepter unlike Francesca’s.

Occasionally, I saw artificers in Cavehallow conducting work.

Each had a differently designed scepter.

Francesca’s was elaborate, pink in hue with a string of pearls dangling from the back.

The scepter was made to stand out, as I expected Mr. Hawthorne’s to be.

Instead, I would never have thought the item was a scepter, deep blue and tipped in silver, simple as could be, certainly nothing like its user.

My aunt and I kept a distance while Mr. Hawthorne ran a hand along the front wall.

Charlotte watched from the table, where she munched on a bread roll.

Slate wandered on the counter, attempting to decipher how to fit one of our forks in his beak.

Even the twins gave Miss Beamy a moment to lie on her back and catch her breath to watch Mr. Hawthorne’s work.

Digging in his cloak pocket, he inquired, “Would you mind a carved rune? I could use chalk, but a carving lasts longer.”

“Carved works fine,” my aunt replied.

Mr. Hawthorne retrieved a sharpened tip to connect to the end of his scepter, then he took to writing sideways along the window’s edge.

I wasn’t sure if he did that out of necessity or to hide the rune, considering one may not notice if they didn’t search for it.

As he wrote, silver light filled the spaces.

None of the lines made sense. The language of enchantments had a jagged and harsh cut to them, like someone slicing out blindly, but each mark was made with careful deliberation.

“What does that do?” Charlotte asked.

“This is an enchantment that will make your home invisible to anyone seeking to cause your family harm.” Mr. Hawthorne carved the same rune on the left side of the kitchen, then pointed toward the bedroom doors. “I’ll need to place a rune on each side of the house.”

Aunt Agnes took him into the bedrooms, where he finished the inscriptions.

Susannah and Maude followed like young chicks, gawking at the magic pouring from his fingers.

I worried he would comment about our lackluster abode, but to Mr. Hawthorne’s credit, he remained professional and never said more than what he was asked.

Then they returned to the kitchen, where Mr. Hawthorne stashed the scepter in his cloak.

“The enchantment will last as long as the runes remain intact. Should there be any damage, write to me, and I will return to fix them,” he explained while opening the front door.

My aunt would have thanked him even more had she not been stunned into silence.

Four bodies moved in perfect synchronization toward us.

The sun reflected off their porcelain skin that wasn’t skin at all.

The mannequins Otis spoke of arrived donning plain trousers and blouses.

None bore a face, making them uncanny. The mannequins came to a halt at the door, their hands settled politely at their waists.

“Your helping hands, Mrs. Shepherd,” said Mr. Hawthorne. “They can perform everyday tasks, such as cleaning, cooking, mucking out the stables, and such.” He peeked at one’s arm. “And can carry up to two hundred pounds, so leave any heavy lifting to them.”

“I, uh.” Aunt Agnes gulped, equally perturbed by them as I was. “Please tell your colleague that we appreciate all his effort. How do they work exactly?”

“Simple. Tell them what to do. When you aren’t in need of one, tell them to rest, and they’ll be kept out of the way, though I recommend keeping them inside at night.

These are what I had around the house, so they’re simply made and could be destroyed by bad weather,” he said that so nonchalantly, like anyone would have mannequins that could be enchanted to do housework lying about.

“Shall we get going?” he requested, his polite way of saying we had to go.

I hugged my family for what I hoped wasn’t the last time.

Charlotte assured me she would do everything she could to help her mom, which had been what I hoped to avoid as long as possible.

She should enjoy the last of her teenage years rather than worrying about finances and chores.

The twins said they’d never go into the woodlands again, which I hoped wouldn’t remain true.

The woodlands were such a wonderful place for the children of Westshire to play. Now, they would be fearful of it.

Then Mr. Hawthorne and I set off. I looked back, watching Aunt Agnes—and the helping hands—wave goodbye.

Miss Beamy strutted between us, muttering about not having the time to catch one of her beloved field mice.

Slate landed on Mr. Hawthorne’s shoulder, where he proudly displayed his achievement of having stolen two kitchen utensils on this outing. What an odd little bird.

Mr. Hawthorne cast a sidelong glance at my suitcase. “Is that all you have?”

“I have my clothes. That’s all I need,” I answered.

“What of comfort? Something from home. You may be gone for some time,” he explained, sounding serious. “There are steps we must follow. I imagine you are aware that no artificer may enchant someone without their consent.”

“Unless ordered by the sovereign.” Or done so in secret to those without an important enough voice to listen to.

“Yes, war times are exceptions.” Mr. Hawthorne smiled, unbothered by the sentiment, or good enough of a liar to feign not to be.

“But here, I must follow these steps, then we must conduct our experiments. Those take time, and depending on how those experiments go, this may take weeks rather than days.”

Weeks away from home, the life I had always known, stuck with strangers and treated as an experiment because there were no other options.

In the end, he may not discover a solution.

We both knew this, and he was willing to say it.

I saw it in his eyes, the way his lips fell, preparing to speak their poison.

“Don’t.” I feared what I may do against his honesty. “I know what this means. I’m prepared for whatever the outcome is.”

“Good. When we return, tell me everything. From the beginning, spare no details,” he said.

“I will.”

“Will you?” he challenged, his eyes taking on that dark hue of curiosity.

“Yes.”

Because I refused to let Carline get her way. Because I had to return home, if only to prove to myself that I made the right decision about refusing Carline’s deal.