Page 26 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)
Where Indy Sees Beneath the Veil
The Grand Tempest Archives was a behemoth that many would misunderstand as the castle itself.
The top constructed of glass, similar to the transit hall, shined like a beacon.
Visitors were little more than ants beneath the monolith’s shadow.
Fountains on either side of the causeway formed an arch of water, reflecting the sun’s rays to create dazzling colors.
Double doors inscribed by runes laid open, welcoming all inside.
Three spiral staircases led to higher levels.
Desks filled the first floor, where whispers from the front desk between the spirals occasionally broke the silence.
The circular structure allowed everyone to peer into the halls above where the facade arched, revealing rows of endless shelves.
Inside this cathedral of knowledge, all I could smell was paper and ink.
Mr. Hawthorne took to the staircases, ascending to the third floor. I left him to his own devices. He knew where to go. I wouldn’t be much help, and considering what happened earlier, he may need the time alone. Even the charmer had serious moments and deserved their privacy.
In his absence, I inspected the structure that stood tall enough to make my neck ache.
Cavehallow had a library that I perceived as grand, but after coming here, I suddenly thought it was so small.
Some songs the traveling bards shared spoke of how The Grand Tempest Archives had a copy of every piece of literature ever written.
I thought the tales to be exaggerated, but they may have been entirely accurate.
I wandered toward a row on the first floor, knowing I’d find nothing of importance, but it would be interesting to look. I grabbed a book to flip through the pages, made immediately dizzy by the various runes that I didn’t understand.
Artificers and researchers of all types would find the archives a paradise.
For someone like me, the shelves were nice to gawk over and ponder how they kept track of so many books and customers.
The library must have various enchantments to ensure the safety of their collections and patrons.
Perhaps the books put themselves away, like the teacups at Ivory House.
A chill ran down my spine. The hair on the back of my neck stood.
I pivoted, searching the aisle for what caused the foreboding sensation.
My ears twitched beneath the hat. There was a low growl, claws clicking on marble.
I retreated, my fingers running over the bookshelf, prepared to launch one should a monster round the corner.
I peered into the hall, where the lamplight flickered.
“Miss Moore.”
I jumped. A woman approached at my back dressed in a simple yet elegant dress, airy in its design with long tassels of lavender falling from her ochre shoulders.
Her braided black hair sat in an updo atop her head, intertwined with beads the same shade as her attire.
She was lovely, elegant in a way that made one short of breath.
Her heels clicked, and a cart rolled by behind me, the wheels groaning.
A growl and claws. How silly of me. I was being paranoid.
The stranger settled in front of me. She presented a delicate hand, her wrists and fingers thin, nails freshly painted. “My name is Rosalind Thatcher, High Artificer and Her Royal Majesty’s Grand General. ”
This had to be a poor joke. She was the one person Mr. Hawthorne and Otis agreed I should not meet.
Yet there she stood, and I was alone among the shelves, unsure of where my companions were.
Calling out wouldn’t be appropriate, considering our location and the vastness of the room, so I forced an amicable smile and hoped for the best.
I took her hand to shake, wondering about what kind of power she held.
To be the right hand of our sovereign, to likely have battled in the same wars that made a name for her, Rosalind Thatcher was no doubt one of the strongest people in the kingdom, and she shook the hand of a peasant girl from Westshire.
She probably didn’t like that. I wasn’t too fond of the idea, either.
“It is an honor to meet you, High Artificer,” I said anyway.
The last thing I needed was another powerful woman coming after me. I wouldn’t be so upset about it if they were more romantically inclined, but murderous wasn’t my area of interest.
“I am pleased you have traveled safely to the capital in your condition. Your appearance caused quite an uproar in our meeting,” she said.
I hadn’t taken notice of her at the meeting. I focused too much on the sovereign, but that had me curious why she waited to speak with me here. Did she follow us?
“And the sovereign has shown great interest in you. Being invited to the Moonlit Ball is quite the feat. Only the most illustrious of families attend. I do hope you are well enough to come. It will be an incredible experience.” Her smile was small, hardly visible, polite in every sense of the word, and yet, my blood ran cold.
“Yes, I also hope I’m well, or better yet, cured by then.”
Rosalind nodded toward the sitting area. “Would you give me a moment of your time?”
I wanted to run, to hide, to defend myself, though she gave me no reason to feel that way. I wasn’t sure what the consequences would be if I said no, and I didn’t want to find out.
“Of course.”
She gestured toward a table. There weren’t any patrons nearby. One could argue she didn’t want to disturb anyone with our conversation, but I felt she didn’t want us to be caught, that she hoped Mr. Hawthorne wouldn’t notice us. That put me further on edge.
Was she there to convince me to accept another artificer to take my case, even after what the sovereign said?
Rosalind took a seat. I sat across from her. Balls of light hovered by the ceiling, circled by nearly translucent crescent shapes. At any moment, they looked like they could drop, but never did. Even artificer chandeliers had to be outlandish and strange.
“Your condition is rare. I am sure you have realized that,” Rosalind started, her hands carefully steepled.
“There are more demons out there than most believe, but those such as Mother Wolf are far and few between. She is older than most and thus more powerful. She doesn’t take victims often, either.
Living in mountainous regions, I haven’t heard of any disappearing in her lands for over a decade. ”
That made me feel worse. Somehow, I garnered the attention of a demon less interested in cursing than others. What kind of bad luck is that?
“My point being, Mother Wolf is not to be trifled with. You need an experienced artificer to handle your case,” she said, without patronizing, and yet, it was there, hovering beneath her words. Toward me or Mr. Hawthorne, I was not entirely sure, maybe both.
“And you, like the others today, do not believe Mr. Hawthorne is experienced enough to handle my case?” I asked.
The sovereign wasn’t an artificer, but she agreed with my decision, and I expected others to respect that. I suppose they were, in their way, but Rosalind was trying to do the one thing she could: convince me.
“You are in a dilemma, and Mr. Hawthorne stretched out his hand first, so I do not fault you for wishing to hold onto him, but yes, I am saying there are artificers far more outstanding than him,” she replied simply .
“And yet he is the only artificer I have ever heard of to make a place like Ivory House.”
I didn’t know why I was defending him. He was still an artificer interested in my case that could bring further recognition to his name.
Like them, he saw a worthy experiment, but he wasn’t utterly unkind.
I thought of earlier, how he swiftly came to my aid, and before that when I told him about Carline’s offer.
He promised silence and gave exactly that.
When he wanted to be, Mr. Hawthorne could be more than kind.
Most importantly, I hated the way Rosalind spoke of him, how she sat tall and watched beneath her long lashes.
There was a sense of drowning superiority.
She carried herself the way Francesca did, the way the artificers in Cavehallow did.
Had she met me under different circumstances, she wouldn’t have given me the time of day, perhaps would have even sneered at me.
She perceived herself better than both of us; thus, that put Mr. Hawthorne and I on the same side.
Her voice never rose or lowered. She spoke precisely and with little emotion. “He is magnificent in his imagination and inscriptions, but he’s no demonologist, nor does he have the most proper education.”
I knew what she meant but challenged her anyway. “Meaning?”
“Lone Oak Academy.” Her lips curled into a smile unlike earlier, prouder, more regal. “That is the most renowned artificer institute in all the northern kingdoms. The best of the best study there.”
“Such as yourself,” I interjected, as she no doubt saw herself as the best. Considering her station, she may be, her and the rest of her family. If she made it that high in life, Otis no doubt had power beyond my imagining, too.
“Precisely,” she said with a slight nod. “Lone Oak has taught the most talented and successful magical bloodlines, unlike Mr. Hawthorne.”
My jaw ached from the harsh grinding of my teeth. “And yet, the kingdom is the most enchanted by the Ivory House, made by him. It seems he has done more than enough to prove himself, yet people keep bringing up his schooling. I find that so odd. ”
I didn’t regret it, even when Rosalind squinted alongside her weak smile.