Page 18 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

Where Indy Understands Very Little

The best way to traverse Ivory House was to search in the opposite direction of where one may expect their destination to be.

The corners turned sharp, stairs led to dead ends, and windows opened into closets.

I sought solace far from Mr. Hawthorne’s intrusions, albeit necessary ones.

Becoming the enigma, the curiosity for him to pick apart, left a vile taste in my mouth.

Another hall led to a dead end, where I settled against the wall and slipped to the floor.

My ears twitched, a strange thought and an even stranger feeling.

My fingers played with the fur, feeling their warmth and the pain when I pinched them.

The ears didn’t feel like my own, a type of parasite leeched to my skull.

My life had been one bad turn after the other, and I was left wondering if this was fruitless.

Carline offered a life better than what I had, better than I could ever give.

Why should I fight that? What would be so wrong about agreeing if it meant, maybe, I’d have somewhere to belong, even if it was at a demon’s side …

“Be still, beast!” The patter of Miss Beamy’s paws closed in.

Slate flew by carrying a torn mouse toy in his beak. If crows could smirk, he certainly was. Miss Beamy attempted to chase, but the poor girl wheezed, then settled on her haunches to cough at the end of the hall. Her nap had apparently ended.

“You should take another rest, Beamy,” I suggested.

“That is Miss Beamy to you.” The cat staggered toward me, then sat primly. “And I may be old, but I am more than capable of catching that horrid bird.”

Quite old, based on the streaks of gray through her fur.

She was well fed, however, plump and perfect for snuggling, if any dared to try.

Mr. Hawthorne ensured her comfort based on the many cat trees, perches, beds, and toys scattered around the house.

No place was off limits to her, and she knew it.

Mr. Hawthorne created the Ivory House, but Miss Beamy ruled the roost.

“Why do you hate him so much? Because he’s a bird?” I asked.

“I don’t dislike birds. They sing beautifully in the morning, but that one,” she growled, and her fur stood on end, back slightly arched, “I dislike entirely. He is insufferable and follows my boy everywhere.”

“Are you jealous? Perhaps you should tell Mr. Hawthorne to take you with him more often.”

Miss Beamy sat silently for a moment, then asked, “What are you doing milling about the hallway?”

“I got lost.”

“Then all you must do is ask Ivy to guide you. The house will show you the way.”

“I don’t know where I want to go.” That was a lie.

I wanted to go home. I wanted to go to the past and ensure none of this ever happened.

I’d beg Father not to leave with that smug woman, and maybe together we would save Mom.

Uncle Fern could still be alive, and our families would meet regularly to have dinner in the city.

Maybe then I would find a partner who wanted to keep me around.

They’d meet my parents, where we would blush over dinner while they teased us.

I’d have everything so utterly normal that it’d be achingly sweet.

Life would be perfect if we were given that second chance.

“Have you seen your room yet?” asked Miss Beamy.

“I am not interested in getting locked up,” I grumbled.

“No, foolish girl. Your room, a place where you may rest and leave your belongings. You may still have one to use. It is important to have your space. I quite like mine.”

I smirked. “You have your own room?”

“I have whatever I please,” she replied. “My boy has built me many cat trees and dozens of cubby holes to sleep in. Now come along. Ivy will show us to your room.”

Miss Beamy strutted as if she knew the way.

We walked down a hall to the last room on the right with a rose-colored door and a golden knob.

The door swung open to a room that matched the door’s shade, the walls covered in painted foliage.

My suitcase, which had been forgotten in Mr. Hawthorne’s office, somehow sat at the bottom of a plush bed.

There were a dozen ruby red pillows and pale pink blankets, enough to make a fort big enough for me and my cousins to sleep in.

A writing desk sat next to a wide, circular window accompanied by a nook, equally inviting as the bed.

On the opposite side of the room was a full-length mirror between a dresser and a closet.

All the furniture was white, painted with lush vines and roses blooming across them.

A circular rug took up the center of the room, the same hue as the walls, and a chandelier dangled from the ceiling.

The handles spiraled out like vines, even decorated with a few leaves.

The sun caught in its crystals, reflecting dazzling shapes across the walls.

“If it is not to your liking, you may ask Ivy to find you another one,” Miss Beamy suggested, having hopped on the bed to claim it as her own.

“No, this… this is all for me?” I asked softly, awe-struck.

“Of course.”

I’d never had my own room. When Mom was alive, we lived in a boarding house, where we shared a bedroom and the rest of the home with ten other women.

At the farm, I shared a room with my cousins.

I didn’t know what to do with all this space, how I should feel about knowing this was a space dedicated to me, albeit momentarily.

I had a closet and a dresser and a bed too big for once. In truth, it was a tad overwhelming.

First, I opened the closet, surprised to find it empty.

Actually, I was surprised the room was livable.

Mr. Hawthorne filled all the others, so it was a miracle there was any space available.

I sat my suitcase in the closet rather than unpacking it.

For some reason, I thought unpacking it meant a longer stay.

If I kept my belongings there, maybe time would move more swiftly and I’d return home healed.

The scent of chamomile hit my nose. I glanced about the room in search of the smell. A moment later, Otis peeked into the room. “There you are,” he said. “I see Miss Beamy and Ivy have found you a room.”

Otis carried a tray of tea: the chamomile smell. “I thought you may want a warm beverage after today.”

He sat the tray on the nightstand, then picked up a porcelain cup to present to me.

“Thank you,” I said, appreciating the gesture and the taste.

The drink hit the spot. I settled on the edge of the bed—my bed, even if I wouldn’t use it much. Miss Beamy curled up beside me, allowing the occasional head scratch. Mr. Hawthorne took great care of her because her coat was softer than silk.

Otis sipped his drink. “Rooke mentioned we’ll be going to Eldari tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I thought it’d take longer. Can the house travel that fast?”

I didn’t think it could, considering it took us a day to travel to Westshire.

“Oh, no.” Otis waved his hand dismissively. “We will use a summoning circle, enchantments artificers use to travel. We have one in the garden that can take us to a few places around the world, so long as the circle on the other side is also open to us.”

A summoning circle. I never heard of such a thing. They could travel with such ease, bounce around the world without a care. The envy within me blossomed, and I tried fruitlessly to tamper it .

“Speaking of the house, would you like a tour?” Otis suggested, setting aside his finished tea. “Ivory House is a labyrinth, and I say that as one living here. Ivy will show you the way when lost, but it’s nice to find the path yourself.”

I sat aside my tea, jumping slightly when the cups fluttered over to the tray. Then the tray wandered out of the room. I would never grow accustomed to flying inanimate objects.

“While on this tour, could I ask about it? I cannot fathom how Mr. Hawthorne did this on his own. He mentioned being the best inscriptionist in the world, but he seems to love his dramatics,” I said.

“Of course he would, but never agree with him, otherwise you won’t hear the end of it.”

“I figured as much, but surely you helped?” I asked.

“None other than him knows the secrets of this place.”

Otis stepped into the hall. He offered his arm in a gentlemanly manner I saw the nobles do to one another. The act always made me laugh, but here, I wouldn’t deny how it felt good to take his arm, to feel like he appreciated my presence and valued my conversation.

“I understand enchantments as well as any artificer, but Rooke’s specialty is discovery, in learning new ways to command these enchantments.

They’re more complex than a scribbled rune here or there,” Otis said when rounding the first corner to present the library I had been searching for previously, four stories high, with more books than anyone could read in their lifetime.

A staircase at the back of the room led to the upper floors that circled the tower.

Each shelf was stacked full. A fireplace warmed the sitting area configured with a large couch and two plush armchairs in a deep burgundy tone that clashed with the plum-colored walls.

Windows interrupted the shelving, switching between a triangle and circular shape.

At the center of the ceiling, a long light surrounded by shimmers like fireflies lit the room.

It wasn’t a chandelier or lamp, but something made of magic entirely .

I was never an enjoyer of books. Having never been given a proper education, my skills at deciphering text were lackluster at best. Books were intimidating.

However, I loved when a bard came through Westshire to sing tales of their travels, and I always wanted to see a stage play.

Cavehallow had a theatre, but we couldn’t afford the tickets, and it’d be so rude of me to go without my family.