Page 17 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

“They didn’t, by the sounds of it,” he countered. His pen scribbled furiously. “They were intelligent enough to guide you to their master. That is rather troublesome.”

“Wasn’t that Carline controlling them?” I asked.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. We cannot make assumptions and must always ask questions.” Mr. Hawthorne’s pen noted this on the page.

He requested details about Carline herself, what she looked like, sounded like, any abilities she may have shown, and the feelings she invoked.

Recalling the memory of her sent a chill down my spine, and my ears flattened.

It was strange to feel them react, then we went onto the cottage, what it looked like, smelled like, and the specifics of the interior.

At the mention of the dresses and jewels, I expected Mr. Hawthorne to make a crude remark. He did no such thing, but asked, “Were you interested in them, the dresses and jewels?”

His words came back to me: no lying. I twisted my skirt in my hands until my knuckles shrieked.

The truth felt childish, selfish, humiliating even, and that truth burned the back of my throat.

I grabbed the cup of tea the pot poured for us earlier.

The steam had long since faded, yet it felt too much for my tongue.

I swallowed hard and set the cup aside to give a muttered answer. “Yes. They were beautiful. I’ve worn nothing like them… although I have thought about it. I’ve wanted to, occasionally.”

“Would you say, then, that it felt like Carline put them there to test you?”

“Absolutely.” I detailed the moments from the mirror, my reflection, and the dance behind me.

“A masquerade ball,” he said, and the pen underlined the words. “Does that mean anything to you? ”

More hesitation on my part, coaxed on by Mr. Hawthorne’s telling stare.

He had the look of someone you wouldn’t like the consequences of lying to.

But it was worse admitting that to him, someone who lived the life that would have a masquerade ball or two.

To him, my feelings must mean nothing, must be so very little in his eyes that saw a world beyond my abilities.

“Yes,” I admitted. “As a child, I walked home from work with my mother. We passed carriages carrying nobles to a masquerade ball. I was dazzled by them. I always wondered what it would be like to attend one.”

“So Carline understood your desires well,” he said.

“It wasn’t a desire I have lingered on. That was from childhood. How could she have known that? And why pick that, of all things?”

“Demons seek what they want, the similarity I mentioned earlier, the emotion that makes them feral, and they use what they think they can to convince their prey to accept their terms. Continue,” he replied.

I recounted my escape, how Carline followed me through the forest, and the door I thought I saw in the field. “Could the house truly have made a door appear out of nowhere?”

“If Ivy sensed you were in trouble, there could be ways the house got you here,” he replied nonchalantly.

“Aren’t you interested to know if your house is capable of letting in strangers whenever it pleases? Perhaps the day will come when it grows tired of you stuffing it full of things and may let in a band of thieves.”

“Then they will regret doing so. Believe it or not, Miss Moore, but I am not one you wish to trifle with.” Mr. Hawthorne scanned his pile of notes concerning my firsthand account.

He circled or underlined what he perceived to be pertinent information.

“You need to tell me of any changes you feel as well. The ears are a start, but there may be more.”

I barely contained my groan. “Like what?”

“My worry is your change. The longer you have a curse, the worse it gets, so there may be a chance that you will shift during the day. ”

My stomach dropped. Hadn’t I asked the universe to cease the sick-inducing sensations? Apparently, the universe did not care for me.

“There may even be emotional responses,” he said, just as Slate lunged at me.

I shrieked, but Slate passed over, then circled to his perch. The moment I caught Mr. Hawthorne’s stare, I snarled, “You had the crow do that on purpose. I thought you said no experiments.”

“That wasn’t an experiment,” he denied. “Just a little poke to see if Slate could entice anything. I would rather find out now if emotions can trigger a change; otherwise, it may not be safe to take you to the capital.”

The capital. I forgot my irritation in the face of wonder.

Eldari, the capital of Sidore, the Port of Opulence.

Everyone had heard of it, although we wouldn’t all have the privilege of seeing it.

Eldari presided to the south along the ocean, far from the border of Arestat.

I never thought I would lay eyes on it, couldn’t dare imagine what the streets were like, and soon, I wouldn’t have to.

I’d get a glimpse of another world that had always been out of reach.

I could see the ocean, something I had only heard about.

For the first time since this ordeal began, I felt a hint of excitement.

At least there would be an unfamiliar experience I would appreciate, knowing I would never get it again.

Once this ended, I would return to Westshire and live my life out on the farm, helping my family.

There would be no time for such frivolous traveling.

“Be warned: you will be the talk of the spire. A girl cursed by Mother Wolf with her mind intact? That will be a sight to see,” he said irritably.

I disliked the thought of artificers finding me fascinating as much as I disliked the treatment from Mr. Hawthorne. I was an experiment, the chance at a new discovery, and I wouldn’t be there if I didn’t have merit. He would have left me for the wolves, literally.

“On to our final task for the day,” Mr. Hawthorne declared.

“I thought we were done.”

“I haven’t asked the most important question.” He leaned against the desk, his expression colder than ever. “What was the deal? ”

I saw Carline, her eyes gold and bright, teeth sharp as death, then her voice whispered against my ear. “I can give them everything.”

My hands formed fists in my lap, knuckles turning bone white. I should have expected this to be difficult, that even if I was nothing more than an experiment, I still couldn’t bring myself to admit to such personal feelings to a complete stranger.

“You promised to be honest,” he said.

I squirmed. “Can’t we save this for tomorrow?”

“It will be as hard tomorrow as it is today. Is it not better to get this done and over with?” He sounded disappointed, even a tad annoyed. He made me think of Baxter.

He said we would start over when I returned, if I returned, yet my chest still ached. We ended once, and we would probably end again in the same way all the others had. That annoyance, that disappointment, I tasted that disdain, felt it coming from Mr. Hawthorne’s pointed stare.

Every part of me became overwhelmed by regret: regret that I hadn’t tried harder in my relationships, regret in not being capable, and most of all, regretting that I couldn’t do better for my family.

“No.” My pulse hastened.

“There is no need for such dramatics. We are colleagues now. This is work. Don’t make this more difficult for the both of us.”

“I am not a book you may study or a paper you may write, Mr. Hawthorne. You cannot toss me away or tear me up when you dislike me, and I can stand my ground should you try.” I stood, struggling to breathe, finding the room too small and his presence too unsettling. “I will share the deal tomorrow.”

“Miss Moore,” he called as I slammed the door shut.