Page 23 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

“I trust your judgement, Mr. Hawthorne, and I look forward to receiving your letter of recommendation.” She retrieved the journal Mr. Hawthorne offered and gave as much of a curtsy as her old back could manage then wandered off, presenting an opportunity to latch onto Mr. Hawthorne’s arm.

He gawked. “My, my, Miss Moore, how bold of you. If you wish to be close, you need only ask, though I am flattered by your insistence.”

“I wish only for us to leave. Perhaps we could use one of your inscriptions if it will let us escape this hall before another drags you off.” I stomped along the path, quickening when another called for him. He hadn’t heard—finally focused on me rather than his adoring fans.

“Jealousy is unbecoming of you,” he said.

“The only jealousy I have is toward those who need not suffer a day with you. Now, may we speak? I have something to share concerning my curse, which is what we should focus on rather than your many acquaintances.”

“My acquaintances,” he snorted. “Do you know who Mrs. Whitmore is?”

“Why, yes, of course, I visit Eldari every summer, didn’t you know?”

He then turned a sharp corner. I would have tripped if he didn’t keep a firm hold on my arm. Others walked the park, and a couple took to cuddling on a bench. Children played tag through the trees, and a woman flew her kite, shrieking when the string tangled in the trees.

“She is the widower of Mr. Whitmore, and not long before her, I spoke to a Mr. Silman and Mx. Ranger. All three have heavily lined pockets that so adore a charming chat with an equally charming gentleman, who will soon request they use those heavily lined pockets to fund the building of a new school for artificers such as myself,” he explained.

“Egotistical and maddening?” I asked as we traversed the pathway out of the park and onto the city streets. Homes and shops stuck brick to brick. Musicians played on street corners, and bakers called from their open doors, welcoming in hungry customers with smiles and fresh bread.

Mr. Hawthorne smiled, as if he wasn’t bothered to reply, “Artificers of less renowned family ties. Unfortunately, not all of us could afford picturesque schooling, and so, yes, I do love to chat and,” he adjusted the collar of his shirt, “look charming while doing so because an attractive face can get one far in life.”

“You think quite highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“I have learned to, as it is necessary more often than not.”

“It is ridiculous.”

“It is,” he said, surprisingly. “Appearances, titles, last names. They have a commonality with magic; they are handed to those without reason. But I have the skill of magic and, apparently, the skill of appearance, so I use both to my advantage, which you should be exceptionally grateful for as it may lead to the end of your curse, and,” he tapped my nose like a misbehaving cat, “you are lucky to gaze upon one as fine as me all day.”

“Must you add that last bit? You were nearly tolerable for a moment,” I said.

He shared that smile again, the crooked and imperfect one that suited him far more than his charms. “I enjoy keeping you on your toes.”

I dared to release him only for Mr. Hawthorne to hold tighter.

“We need to stick close. I am not sweating in this suit all afternoon to find you when you get lost,” he warned.

“Oh, yes, we wouldn’t want to ruin one of your many priceless suits,” I mocked.

“No, we wouldn’t.”

Sighing, I readjusted my hold on his arm. “I have matters to discuss.”

“About my suits? I can recommend a tailor if you’re interested.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Dresses?”

“My curse, Mr. Hawthorne!”

“Do go on, then.”

I would have had the most wacky device not appeared before us: a type of carriage constructed of metal without horses, where a carriage driver sat in a boxed front.

She used a stick jutting out between her legs to steer.

Runes were carved across the facade, decorated to match the ruby and gold coloring.

The contraptions sat four riders behind the driver in a separate compartment, though one individual opened the back of their contraption to reveal an empty slot, where they stored a package.

I stopped in my tracks to gawk at the strange things cutting around horse-drawn carriages.

“Ah, yes, I nearly forgot you are a country bumpkin who has never seen a carriage car. Now who is wasting our time?” He tugged on my arm, guiding us down a thin cobblestone street, where ivy ascended to the rooftops and flowers blossomed outside open windows.

“My humblest apologies for being unaware of the grand advancements happening in a capital so far from me, I never dreamed of seeing it,” I said. “What in the world are those things?”

I regretted asking when his proud smile threatened to blind everyone within a one-mile radius.

“Those are the carriage cars I mentioned yesterday. Inscriptions by yours truly,” he ran a hand dramatically through his hair, “are now being used to enchant vehicles that will soon replace the horse and carriage. They can move at twice the speed and require only a yearly inscription inspection. Isn’t it magnificent? ”

“I like horses and carriages just fine,” I said, even if I was mildly interested. I just didn’t want him to know that.

His expression faltered, lips pursed like a petulant child. “Your lack of enthusiasm wounds me.”

My chest warmed at the implication prior to returning to my initial concerns. “I saw Carline this morning. She appeared in my room and spoke to me briefly. I told Otis, and he explained we may be attuned because of my curse. The sight of her unsettled me.”

“As it would unsettle anyone. What did she say?” he asked.

I relayed the information to him, hesitating to share the truth: “You’re not her daughter.”

I knew death at a young age. Death thrived in the warehouses, where illness spread and medicine was too expensive to spare us. I lost Mom the way many lost their parents, friends, loved ones, to another plague locked on the streets, ripping through the poor that couldn’t afford treatment.

I didn’t need anyone to explain death to me when Mom passed.

I understood she wouldn’t return, but my aunt did everything a mother should.

She held me when I cried, washed the mud from my bloody knees after a fall, and made soup for when I grew ill.

I didn’t believe she loved me any less than her daughters, but Carline’s words struck something deep I didn’t want to think about and couldn’t bring myself to say.

“Carline may discomfort you, but we cannot pass up this opportunity. Should she appear again, engage with her. The more she speaks, the more we will learn about her, about why she chose you specifically, and how she has gotten this curse dug into your psyche. Though she is ancient, I fear we will not have as much documentation as we both hope. She is a known recluse, and that will make our study of her even more difficult,” Mr. Hawthorne said, either not catching my avoidance or choosing not to speak on it.

The thought of her kept me in a constant state of panic, and that panic came through my trembling voice. “How can I do that? What should I say? How do we know if we’re safe?”

“Her appearances are an illusion. What she’s doing is similar to dreamwalking, a way artificers can pass into someone’s mind, though she can do more than see your memories.

She’s capable of causing you to hallucinate her entirely.

She is messing with your mind and yours alone, though I suspect she is intelligent enough to guess that you are seeking help from an artificer.

However, she wouldn’t risk coming to the city or even my home.

Demons are hungry but not foolhardy, so interact in the ways that you can. ”

“That will not be easy.”

“Easy is never fun,” he replied.

“Forgive me for not caring about fun at the present moment.”

Mr. Hawthorne’s grip on my arm tightened. The question he asked had the same cadence as when one spoke of the weather, yet it struck me cold. “Do you care about sharing details concerning her deal at the present moment? ”

I knew he would ask again. That didn’t make hearing it easier, nor looking at him. Though he kept his gaze ahead, a chill took over his eyes. Unlike earlier, when he spoke animatedly and gave a sense of pride, here he became a suffocating silence, all consuming.

“I am not here to judge you. You need not fear any response from me,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear, if anything. When I spoke of her offer, if he said I should have accepted, then I would feel like a fool. If he said it was foolish to consider, I would feel like a fool. Regardless, it would be humiliating, but silence, I could potentially deal with that.

Above us, Slate flew overhead carrying that scarf he watched earlier.

He rounded the corner that brought us to our destination.

Wyvern Spire stood as many. A series of eight wide towers congregated to circle around a courtyard.

The structures were made of white limestone that glistened more than a royal gem.

At the center, a garden grew, where artificers sat with their books and meals and peculiar contraptions, such as a mechanical dog that wobbled on two legs and bubbles large enough to float in, as one artificer did, content to float and read simultaneously.

Mr. Hawthorne kept walking, regardless of my lack of an answer.

We traversed beneath the tower’s shadows.

With them came a sense of realization: we were truly doing this.

I was about to enter Wyvern Spire. We were one step closer to breaking this damned curse, although we couldn’t do it without my answer.

“Five years,” I whispered, my hold on Mr. Hawthorne tight enough to make my fingers ache. “She would grant my family the life of leisure they deserved. We would live happily and luxuriously for five years, then I’d pass in my sleep, my soul for her and that life for my family. Forever.”

I expected ridicule, laughter, disbelief at my ignorance, but Mr. Hawthorne said nothing. He kept his word, as Otis kept his. They were quite different from Francesca, than the artificers in town who curled their lips when my dirty shoes passed their shops.

Passing the garden, artificers offered polite greetings. They recognized Mr. Hawthorne as those at the transit hall had. However, we made it through without issue. Each tower had domed doors identical in appearance. Mr. Hawthorne guided us to the sixth.

The interior had the essence of an esteemed structure centuries old.

The craftsmanship spoke for itself with intricate carvings of scepters along the ceiling, appearing as an elaborate design if one didn’t take the time to inspect it.

Iron chandeliers, likely as old as the castle itself, hung from those ceilings, remaining lit by candles rather than bulbs.

They cast the interior in a hazy golden light that made it feel as if we fell back in time.

At least until we approached the front desk, where a purple-robed receptionist waited, hood up and nose in a romance book, based on the cover.

The receptionist felt no need to hide the half-naked caricatures and didn’t acknowledge visitors until Mr. Hawthorne tapped the desk and declared, “Rooke Hawthorne, here to submit my research project.”

The receptionist tucked a bookmark snuggly between the pages then tapped a rune on their desk.

A giant drawer erupted from the desk one person high.

The shock had me leaning against Mr. Hawthorne then pulling away upon realizing my mistake.

The receptionist snagged a paper from the stack and the drawer dropped without a single paper fluttering in the breeze.

“You are exceptionally late,” said the receptionist.

“I have been waiting for an intriguing project, Mercy,” Mr. Hawthorne said, resulting in the receptionist settling their dreadfully pale-gray gaze on me.

“Miss Moore has suffered a curse under Mother Wolf and requires assistance in breaking that curse. Miss Moore, may I introduce Mercy; they are the key to the spire. Should you need or want anything, you ask them.”

“Ever the flatterer,” they said, then cast those gray eyes, brightening to a pale-blue hue, on me. “You have found an intriguing project, and it is perfectly timed. Her Royal Majesty is present for a meeting with the Eldari Council. She would love to hear of this.”

The sovereign ?

I looked at Mr. Hawthorne to spare us, but he chortled. “Well, we wouldn’t want to upset our beloved sovereign, would we?”