Page 22 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

Where Indy Yearns for Escape

The summoning circle was as basic a name one could have because it was, quite literally, a circle etched into stone in the back garden.

The flowers sprouted higher, forming a crescent, the points incapable of touching because of the path leading to the back door.

Trees enclosed the circle, where nothing grew within the runes.

Extraordinary shapes swerved together, spiraling into the center, where Otis and I waited for Mr. Hawthorne to saunter out more bedazzled than ever.

Simple wasn’t a word within Mr. Hawthorne’s vernacular.

The impeccably constructed white suit accentuated his figure in all the right ways, further impressed by the gold lining and half a dozen necklaces suspended from his nape.

A ring hugged every finger, and the golden heels of his shoes clicked like a lullaby upon which he finally graced us with his divine presence.

But he paused, settled at the edge of the circle, his eyes upon me.

I stiffened, worried I had done wrong, that I may have already stained or ruined the dress .

Perturbed by his silence, I gave a slight bow. “You have outdone yourself, Mr. Hawthorne. Thank you for the dress.”

Mr. Hawthorne chuckled. “Oh, this is not my work.” He took my hand and spun me. “All I did was enchant the dress to adjust to your measurements and a little pop of color. This beauty is all yours, Miss Moore. I fear for the hearts of Eldari, for they will be broken upon seeing you.”

A blush crept past my hairline. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“I am merely speaking the truth. You are beautiful.”

His simple words made my heart swell. That was all I had ever wanted to hear from Baxter and the others.

For them to look at me and pause, breathless for a moment as I had been so often for them.

But those words came from Mr. Hawthorne, a colleague needing me to look the part, and my chest deflated a little.

When this was over, I would wear that new dress and Baxter would say the same. He would.

Slate fell on Mr. Hawthorne’s shoulder, who kept hold of my hand. He guided us into the circle, where he grasped Otis. Taking a cue from him, I grabbed Otis next, so we stood at the center of the runes hand in hand.

“Miss Beamy will not accompany us? I thought she would love a day in the city,” I said, wondering if the aged cat slept in.

“She has found a family of mice in the fields that she plans to exterminate, so she will stay here for the day,” Mr. Hawthorne replied.

Those poor mice. She didn’t have to exterminate a whole family, did she?!

“I am assuming you have never taken a summoning circle before,” he said.

“You assume correctly,” I replied, still worried about those unfortunate mice. Miss Beamy was quite old, so hopefully she would tire out before her extermination attempt.

“Please face Otis. I do not want to risk ruining my suit.”

“Rooke,” Otis groaned then the runes came to life.

Silvery light erupted beneath us. The world became little more than a silhouette, over shined by the blinding shade.

Mr. Hawthorne hummed with power, a literal vibration felt through the palm of my hand.

Then Otis joined, and we rose. Ivory House hovered below us, blurred lines and shaking, then the world’s colors mixed to form a kaleidoscope of agonizing beauty.

My mind couldn’t grasp what I perceived, everything coalescing into peculiar shapes and forms. We were nothing but picked-apart pieces of ourselves twisting into nothing.

Though I felt Mr. Hawthorne and Otis’s hands, I couldn’t see them nor perceive them anywhere.

We were endless, infinity, spiraling through the center of the world itself.

Then we dropped, faster and faster. My heart leapt into my throat, and bowels grumbled, irritated and watery.

My feet hit the ground. I would have fallen if not for Otis and Mr. Hawthorne’s tight grip on my hands.

Then I learned why Mr. Hawthorne had me face away from him as my stomach threatened an expulsion that, thankfully, never came.

“Impressive,” said Mr. Hawthorne. “You kept in your breakfast. Most get sick on the first try.”

“Must you be so immature?” Otis asked, keeping a firm hold on my hand. Mr. Hawthorne released me, and Otis gently rubbed my back. “I fear this feeling was inevitable. Transportation takes its toll on us, but it will pass.”

“It is,” I said gratefully. My stomach settled, as did my feet. The firm ground gave a sense of safety, and with it, clarity.

We were not in a garden any longer. Endless scents infiltrated my nostrils, each more abrasive than the last. Then there was the noise, screeching, hollering, dogs barking, cats yowling, clicking heels, bickering, constant life that bombarded me.

I held a hand over my hat, hoping it would silence the sounds splicing apart my nerves.

“Does anything trouble you?” Otis asked.

“It’s too loud,” I answered, squinting as if that would ease my headache.

Mr. Hawthorne whipped out his scepter. “Ah, we should have considered this earlier. Hold still, Miss Moore.”

He walked behind me to inscribe runes on the hat.Upon completion, the sounds dulled. The scents I could deal with easily enough .

“Better?” he asked.

“Much.” I took a relieved breath and admired the world around us now that I could. A domed arena, the top constructed of clear glass, revealed a clouded sky above. Otis guided me out of the alcove, egg-shaped with the same runes from the garden carved into the stone floor.

There were dozens upon dozens of alcoves covering the walls three stories high, flashing with that silvery light, tendrils reaching out of the coves to beckon the next artificer.

People departed clutching briefcases and papers, their heels clicking on the floor toward one of the four exits on the bottom floor.

The entire building was constructed of the same material: an off-gray stone.

The stairwells followed the curve of the walls, and the railings were carved with spheres.

At the center of the bottom floor, a golden geometrical shape expanded outward.

“Welcome to Mayford’s Transit Hall, created by Hope Mayford, a brilliant artificer who founded summoning circles, thus leading to the construction of this hall,” Mr. Hawthorne declared, sounding awestruck.

“Fascinating. Her work is like poetry, true beauty within her inscriptions. I’d give anything to have met her. ”

“Any artificer can use this?” I asked, observing the many artificers coming and going. One could scarcely keep track, and none of the exits had security. “Is this not unsafe?”

“Only licensed artificers of the Sidore Kingdom have access to Mayford’s Transit Hall.

Inscriptions are updated regularly and sent to artificers to ensure there are no unwelcome guests.

” Otis’s hand remained on my back, soothing as a father’s touch.

“I shall take my leave. We will meet later in the Grand Tempest Archives. Until then.”

Otis tipped his hat, then vanished with a rush unlike him. Slate followed, dipping out of the hall into the sun rays. I soon learned why when a series of artificers called, practically in unison, “Mr. Hawthorne!”

“Mx. Ranger, how are you?” Mr. Hawthorne laughed like he heard a joke and shook the hand of an artificer draped in silks clutching a leather bag.

Behind them, another artificer rushed to offer a hello.

Mr. Hawthorne hardly took three steps before stopping, chatting away about subjects ranging from the weather to projects artificers sought his assistance on.

He garnered attention, as he so clearly wanted, leaving me to meander at his back, desperate to reach the exit.

At the rate we were moving, Mr. Hawthorne would greet every resident artificer of Eldari.

A clock suspended from the center of the dome, four-sided like a spinning top, tolled, signaling the strike of noon.

Questions of whether we could get what we needed done in time overwhelmed me, leaving a lingering sensation of irritation.

That irritation was rightfully pointed at Mr. Hawthorne, who took to blabbering on with Mrs. Whitmore, an elderly woman waving around a notebook of scribbles, or rather, inscription work, as Mr. Hawthorne was most taken by it.

We at least made it outside, where a grand park full of lush gardens and winding pathways surrounded us.

Families sat out on picnic blankets, enjoying the autumn day.

Unlike Westshire, the capital had a warmer air, even into the fall season.

A band played nearby, the tune upbeat and garnering the attention of locals, who took to dancing before dropping coins into the singer's outstretched hat.

The magnolia trees remained in bloom this far south, making one believe to be in a forest rather than a city.

Slate took to waiting in one, fixated on a scarf trailing along behind a young woman waltzing through the park.

Through the gorgeous pink petals were glimpses of bricked buildings and balconies, and above them were steeples so high, they challenged the sky.

The castle steeples congregated together, topped in a shade of deep blue, like the ocean I could now smell.

Salt and brine—nothing I’d ever smelled before—wafting through the trees on a cool breeze.

I wondered where the port was, if we would see the boats and their many colored sails, but alas, I remained at Mr. Hawthorne’s side, waiting for his lips to seal.

“While I am currently indisposed, Mrs. Whitmore, please allow me to recommend another artificer to visit your estate. Should you be displeased with her, I will come as swiftly as I can,” said Mr. Hawthorne with the elderly woman’s hand carefully grasped in his.