Page 25 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

“You may discuss my situation, if you’d like, but I won’t consent to working with anyone unless Mr. Hawthorne is the head of my project.”

The temperature of the room rose considerably.

The anger of the council members washed over me in a wave of frustration.

They grumbled and shifted, muttering under their breath.

I needn’t hear them to guess what they said.

The sovereign made no show of annoyance, but her brother did.

He scowled, deep and cold, sending a spiteful look at Mr. Hawthorne.

To his credit, he maintained a contrived smile that furthered my assessment that he would have done well as a stage actor.

“Even if there is someone better suited to the work?” asked the sovereign.

“I imagine that the best artificers of our kingdom can work together. My cousins are barely seven and can clean the kitchen together, so I’d expect much better cooperation here.

I am open to everyone’s help, of course, but Mr. Hawthorne helped me in my time of need and has done enough to tell me I would feel most comfortable under his charge,” I replied.

“You flatter me,” Mr. Hawthorne said, sounding smug. He wouldn’t let me live that down, but I would face the teasing if it meant doing the right thing.

The room waited for the sovereign’s response with bated breath, a series of eyes dark even beneath the high sun’s light.

They wanted the information I could give them, to potentially make a name for themselves, or improve upon what they already had.

Greedy as ever. Maybe artificers really never changed.

Born to power, yet they continuously reached for more, even if that meant stepping over their own people.

“Then you shall remain with him and he will receive any and all help he may require. I expect to be kept updated on your research and her condition. If she is well enough, I want the two of you to attend the Moonlit Ball,” the sovereign said, and what she said was final.

None dared argue against her, even her brother, who lowered his head in reluctant acceptance .

“Of course, Your Majesty. We are flattered to receive the invitation,” Mr. Hawthorne replied, bowing low, and I mirrored him, although I was unsure about the invitation. A ball sounded far too out of my depths.

“I wish both of you luck. May you find the answers needed to protect her.”

The sovereign left the room, and the artificers followed.

Most gave Mr. Hawthorne disdainful looks.

None gave me more than a passing glance.

They wouldn’t risk angering me; otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to help and thus put their name on the front page of Mr. Hawthorne’s work.

In that regard, I had some semblance of power in this unfamiliar place.

Once the room emptied, Mercy came next to us. “This way to the meeting room. An intermediary will go over the consent forms with you. She’ll be with you momentarily.”

Mercy guided us down the hall to another room.

Inside, a table sat at the center surrounded by four chairs, two to each side.

A drawer sat beneath the arched window looking over the courtyard, and paintings lined the walls depicting cozy countryside scenery.

Mr. Hawthorne retrieved a hefty folder from the drawer, as well as pen and paper, to drop on the table.

“That is the contract, I presume?” I asked, intimidated. I didn’t expect to understand much of it.

Nodding, Mr. Hawthorne took his seat. “Do not hesitate to ask for explanations. The intermediary will be here to provide answers and ensure you understand what we’re doing.”

He faced me, his gaze unreadable, then settled his attention on the table. “You were impressive earlier, Miss Moore. Few stand up to the sovereign.”

“If that is your way of saying thank you, I won’t accept it. I prefer hearing the words themselves,” I teased.

“Thank you.” His blunt appreciation put me at a loss. I didn’t think he could thank someone without complimenting himself in the process.

I played with the hat’s knotted string under my chin. “Being serious doesn’t suit you. ”

“I’ll keep that in mind in case there is another miracle where you have to defend my honor.”

“A miracle, indeed, as I would never want to be put in such a position again. I fear it has made me quite ill already.”

He smiled, and so did I. The stress from earlier dissipated, replaced by a—dare I admit it—comfortable atmosphere.

He leaned back against the chair, less proper and stiff, making me realize he had been upset earlier.

Mr. Hawthorne didn’t voice it, but he wore armor that slipped off once we were alone.

Leaning against the table, I asked, “Do artificers often argue over who conducts research?”

“Yes. The better your research is, the more funding you get, the more money and prestige you earn,” he replied.

“So I’m your golden goose?”

“I have enough golden geese under my repertoire; otherwise, Her Majesty wouldn’t let me take this case regardless of what you said.”

“I imagine many in that room are the same, but they wanted this case.”

The armor returned, a tension to his shoulders and his smile too sweet. “They didn’t want me to have the case.”

The door opened. A kindly woman entered with plump cheeks and a bright pinstriped dress. She sat at the table, introducing herself as Kimberly, our intermediary. I wished she had been a moment later, as I wanted to ask Mr. Hawthorne more about what he meant.

Based on what the council members said, I concluded it had to do with his schooling, but I couldn’t understand why that mattered. Magic was magic. An artificer was an artificer, or so I thought. Time and time again, the world of magic proved itself even more complicated than I thought.

Kimberly went over the paperwork, explaining the conduction of the experiment.

Mr. Hawthorne could do nothing without my written permission.

Much to his chagrin, Kimberly wasn’t as impressed by Mr. Hawthorne’s recording device as he hoped.

The man pouted while whispering grand promises to the little golden device that, one day, it would make headlines.

If I changed my mind, the contract would be void, and they provided contact information should anything go awry, so on and so forth.

It was dull, albeit informative. After signing a dozen papers, Kimberly retrieved a scepter from her bag.

Francesa’s had been as vibrant as herself.

Mr. Hawthorne’s had been blue and plain, but Kimberly’s was softer, an off-white hue with faint yellow floral designs.

Kimberly scribbled a rune at the top of the page.

With a flash of silver, the stack duplicated. She gave me the original copy.

“Please keep this copy. Should you need a safe place for storage, we sell locked boxes at the receptionist's desk, and don’t worry, these can never be duplicated again.” Then she set her attention on Mr. Hawthorne.

“Congratulations, your research has been approved. Your copy will remain here in Wyvern Spire. Have a nice day.”

After standing, Kimberly struggled momentarily to open the door. Sweating, she squeezed into the hall, where voices grew louder.

“Vultures, the lot of them. If they ruin even a hair on my head, I will curse someone.” Mr. Hawthorne stood, dusting himself off and adjusting his jacket. “Prepare yourself.”

“For what?” I asked.

He grasped the handle and opened the door into mayhem.

Artificers filled the hall, their smiles enthusiastic or painfully forced.

Word traveled fast, likely through magical means.

Mr. Hawthorne pushed through the throng of bodies that made us their epicenter.

I followed closely, flinching from their loud voices that even Mr. Hawthorne’s enchantment couldn’t dull entirely.

“Mr. Hawthorne, I simply must speak with you!” one cried.

“A project such as this could do wonders for our research. Would you not allow us to make a couple of suggestions?” asked another.

“I do not need your suggestions,” Mr. Hawthorne spat, no longer sharing the charismatic persona but one as scornful as the looks peeking through the crowd. “ I know where to go and who to talk to, so begone. Ouch, watch where you are stepping. I just had these shoes shined!”

“But Mr. Hawthorne, please!”

“I’ll have you know, whoever ruins my attire in any manner shall be expected to compensate me at double the rate!”

Their voices became too many to decipher. They created a vortex of bodies shifting about with Mr. Hawthorne and I as the eye of the storm. The world of academia proved more lethal than a stampede. I’d take angry heifers over curious artificers any day of the week!

A man shoved against me, sending me to my knees, where a pair of heels cracked against my fingers.

I hardly got out a yelp before a pair of firm hands caught me from under the arms to pull me to my feet.

The crowd stopped. Their yapping ceased.

Mr. Hawthorne loomed, his shadow fierce and eyes black, though that anger wasn’t pointed at me.

His attention burned upon the stunned artificers.

The man who caused the collision offered an apologetic grin. “My apologies, Miss Moore. I merely wanted to chat.”

“If you would like a chat, we could take this outside for a duel, where I will eagerly put upon you ten times the affliction as you have done to Miss Moore. What do you say to that?” Mr. Hawthorne’s eyes crinkled from his fiercely unpleasant grin.

The artificers took a step back in unison.

Mr. Hawthorne held out an arm. “After you.”

“Thank you.” I hurried away from the crowd, relieved that Mr. Hawthorne kept behind me, throwing a glare at any who tried to get too close.

Their attention burned against my back, hotter than iron, their scowls pointed, and their words spat between clenched teeth upon realizing our minds were made up.

“They do not seem to like you,” I said.

“You are very observant,” he replied.

“Simply because you attended Trinity Schoolhouse?”

He stepped in front of me, returning to the calm demeanor he shared earlier in the council room. “We are officially colleagues, and I expect us to conduct ourselves appropriately. I will ask only for information that pertains to your case, and you will speak to me concerning working matters.”

“That seems a tad unfair, considering my case is rather personal. I should know who will be digging through my life,” I countered.

“Someone who can help you is digging through your life. That is all you need to know.” He approached the receptionist counter, where Mercy returned to their reading until he dropped coins on the counter. “One lock box.”

“I did not ask for one.” I rushed to scoop the coins back into his hand.

He swatted me aside and pushed them toward Mercy, who retrieved a lock box from beneath the desk. They held out their hands for my papers, which I reluctantly handed over.

“I will pay you back,” I muttered, to which Mr. Hawthorne ignored me.

Mercy dropped the papers in the box that looked like nothing more than a metal container without a keyhole, save the rune on the top. They retrieved a needle and demanded, “Your hand, Miss Moore.”

“What is the needle for?” I asked.

“A drop of blood for the enchantment. The lock box will open for you only.”

They pricked my finger and dropped the blood on the box; the rune shined brightly, and my blood disappeared.

“Thank you for visiting Wyvern Spire. I hope your research goes well.” Mercy handed the box over.

Mr. Hawthorne was already heading for the door.

I wished Mercy a good day and scurried after him.

Slate waited on a tree limb outside with his stolen goods.

During our visit, he had acquired a small bow that I hope he didn’t snatch off a child’s head.

The bird fluttered over once we left Wyvern Spire to land on Mr. Hawthorne’s shoulder, where he shuffled away at my movement, perhaps believing I wanted to take his prettiest. Instead, I smiled and pet his feathers, which he allowed, under heavy surveillance.

“Where are we going now?” I asked, seeing as Mr. Hawthorne clearly didn’t plan to tell me otherwise .

“The Grand Tempest Archives. They will have the materials we need. You may seek out Otis and wait with him.”

That was likely his way of saying he was too irritated to stick around. Considering how rude the others were being, I let him have that and kept silent on our walk.