Page 7 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

Well, I would argue I wouldn’t throw my naked self into a closet, but I had been quite panicked last night, so perhaps I had a momentary lapse of judgement.

“Devils be!” A rough voice shouted from outside the room. “Whatever happened here, did we hit another flock of migrant birds?”

“Not exactly,” Miss Beamy replied.

I kept my eyes on the door, uncertain of how I felt about Miss Beamy marking our location to this Otis man she mentioned.

I didn’t know who he was, why I was there, what happened, and if he had anything to do with it.

The last stranger sent wolves after me and tried to steal my soul, so I was understandably less than eager to meet anyone new.

“You couldn’t possibly have done this while chasing Slate again, right, Beamy?” the stranger asked.

“First, Slate is the one who makes a mess, not I. Second, Slate is not here, and last,” a man stepped through the threshold as Miss Beamy finished, “She is the one at fault.”

Otis stood in the doorway, a kind face surrounded by a thick peppered beard.

Though he stood on the shorter side, his frame filled the threshold.

A leather satchel hung off his arm, and he adjusted a pair of squared glasses on his crooked brown nose.

Like Carline, he didn’t scream demon in that pale green petticoat one size too small, but I was proven wrong before.

Walking further into the room, his cane cast aside the broken porcelain. “Hello there,” he said. “Miss Beamy, do you care to explain what this young stranger is doing in our home?”

“Ask Ivy. It let her in, and she made the mess.”

“I didn’t mean to, or rather, I don’t know if I did. I apologize for the intrusion,” I said skeptically.

“Ivy wouldn’t let anyone in who intended to do us harm.

It knows a person’s heart well.” Otis bent slightly in a bow.

His wooden right leg, constructed of birch wood, creaked from the angle.

“Let us start with a proper introduction. I am Otis Thatcher, retired botanist professor of Trinity Schoolhouse, and now a traveling science artificer.”

I hesitated to reply, thinking of Carline, a demon hiding behind a kind facade, waiting for an unfortunate soul to let their guard down.

However, an artificer like Mr. Thatcher could potentially explain why a demon came to our woodlands and how to be rid of her.

Artificers were of magic, a world I had never been privy to.

Once, they were believed to be demons themselves, long ago when the world feared them and their magic.

Though that had been disproven, I would argue most artificers were demonic in nature with their less-than-friendly demeanors, but Mr. Thatcher could prove useful in protecting Westshire from Carline’s terror.

If he wasn’t, well, I had learned I was rather impressive at running.

“I am Indy Moore, a very confused farm girl,” I replied.

“A pleasure, Miss Moore.” Mr. Thatcher dropped a hand into his satchel to retrieve a circular container. “Would you like a salve for those wounds? They don’t seem bad, but one can never be too careful with infections.”

“Very true. Thank you, sir.” I accepted the salve to breathe in the scent. It smelled right enough, so I took a small amount to rub on my neck and head.

Mr. Thatcher gestured behind him. “Shall we take this conversation to the kitchen? I imagine we have a lot to discuss, and I would much rather conduct this conversation over a warm meal. ”

My appetite hadn’t returned, and considering the last meal I accepted from a stranger, I was not eager to repeat the dilemma. However, I would prefer to get out of this room, where he blocked the only exit.

Nodding, I returned the salve and set to follow the older man.

We walked the claustrophobic halls running thin and cutting sharply around corners.

The owner of Ivory House, this Mr. Thatcher chap, couldn’t determine what aesthetic he preferred for his home.

Nothing matched. The paintings had no particular style or placement, hanging at crooked angles or upside down entirely.

Wallpaper and crown molding switched in every hall from elaborate spiraled or floral designs to simple stripes.

Each door stood at a slightly different height or shape in colors that never matched the carpet runners.

Those same doors hung open to reveal cluttered rooms one dared not enter, lest they risk drowning in an avalanche of scarfs or hats or little knick knacks.

Windows changed shape, some oval, squared, circular, or full of stained glass to cast us in shades of rainbow.

The chaos of Ivory House spilled into the halls, literally in some cases.

A room of stuffed animals attempted to seek freedom by tumbling out of an open doorway.

Mr. Thatcher stepped over the mountainous fluff, so accustomed that he needn’t look at his feet to determine where to step.

“I do apologize for the mess. We were not expecting guests. Where are you from, Miss Moore?”

He sounded kind enough, mildly concerned. Miss Beamy trotted in front of us, acting as if she led the way. Neither showed signs of changing, of being disguised as demons or under Carline’s influence, but I remained wary and observant.

Dolly wasn’t out there, either. I hoped I hadn’t dropped her in the woods, or she was torn to shreds among the junk in that room.

“I am from Cavehallow,” I replied. Not entirely a lie, but I didn’t know who or what he was yet, so I would rather not say the exact location of my home.

“Strange, I don’t recall us meaning to pass there,” he said.

Mr. Thatcher opened a door leading to the kitchen.

A long island took up the center of the room, where kitchenware filled the open shelving beneath and four chairs sat on either side.

Herbs dangled from racks, and spices filled the exposed shelves along the walls.

The open window let in a calming breeze that rustled the pale blue drapes.

Vines laid across the windowsill, their purple flowers bright and charming.

The stove sat against the far wall, the pots suspended from a rack above the island.

With the walls painted a pale yellow and the floor tiled in the same pale blue as the drapes, the kitchen had a warm and welcoming aura that beckoned people to relax and take a seat.

Unlike the rest of the house, one could use the kitchen.

Mr. Thatcher dropped his satchel on the island and snatched a skillet.

The cupboards opened of their own accord.

Two tea cups painted with paw prints hovered toward the table, where they gently landed.

The cat talked, the house flew, and the cups floated.

I couldn’t imagine this day getting any more strange.

“You may wash your hands in the sink,” he said while opening the fridge to grab a carton of eggs. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Dippy, please,” I said.

Mr. Thatcher cracked the eggs and dropped them into the skillet.

The skillet shook back and forth above the stove while I cleaned my hands in the sink.

My hands were coated in mud up to the elbows, as were my feet.

I must have lost my shoes while running.

The boots were worn, so they may have even ripped apart in my haste.

“So, tell me how you got to Ivory House. Start from the beginning, if you please,” Mr. Thatcher said from the stove.

I sat at the island, keeping my hands below the table. I grasped the handle of a pot in one hand, just in case. “It’s complicated,” I answered.

“I imagine it is,” he replied patiently.

Ivory House had shown no sign of Carline and her wolves.

Mr. Thatcher didn’t press on matters, and Miss Beamy was nonchalant, laying on the table with the comfort of a well-loved and proud cat.

If anyone could assist me against Carline, who could force her out of The Misty Woodlands, it would be an artificer.

Magic against magic, as much as I loathed to admit it.

Uncle Fern shared of the last war against Arestat, when he was drafted at 15 and witnessed the power of artificers.

Their war machines tore through troops on both sides, and a single artificer could cast a field into flames, leaving nothing but ash.

They were trouble. They were dangerous. And I needed that if I were to protect myself and all of Westshire from Carline.

“Your discomfort is warranted, Miss Moore,” said Mr. Thatcher, careful in his dictation, like one coddling a toddler. “I, myself, am quite confused on how you managed to get here at all.”

I struggled to think of last night, how I could have possibly made it into a flying home. “I… fear I cannot recall.”

“I am not surprised considering the state of you. Ivy let you in for a reason, and I am guessing it was to save you from trouble.”

“You speak as if the house can make its own decisions,” I said, glancing about at said house, half expecting the floorboards to warp into a row of pointed teeth.

The artificers in Cavehallow used their enchantments to attract customers.

One boutique in town had a mannequin dance outside her shop wearing whatever delightful gown she recently constructed.

A hat maker enchanted his products to circle in the windows, allowing customers to browse his collection from the street.

Francesca had shown us magic, too, but never anything like this.

She made the chairs levitate, repaired broken glass in an instant, and made instruments play on their own.

That was a miracle in our eyes, so I wasn’t sure I believed that one artificer constructed a castle of this magnitude and power. A demon, however, certainly could.

“It is,” Mr. Thatcher replied, like that should have been obvious.

“The house is… sentient?”

“In a manner.”

“Oh.”

How upset would that house be that I—supposedly—destroyed a room? Could it feel the destruction? Did the house have feelings? I had so many questions.

The skillet sizzled when Mr. Thatcher set it aside.

He approached carefully to lean over the island, where he laid a tentative hand on mine, prepared to be pushed away.

“I understand this must be a lot for you, but I promise, you are safe. Please, tell me what transpired, and we may work out these troubles.”

I needed help, as much as I didn’t want to admit it.

Dealing with a leaky roof or a sick cow was easy.

I had done so a hundred times, always capable of fixing the problem after years of learning from my aunt and uncle.

An enjoyment came from dealing with problems without burdening others, with being capable of standing entirely on my own.

But magic, demons, sentient castles, these were uncontrollable and strange, problems I didn’t know how to deal with, and so, I was forced to be a burden.

To an artificer of all people, ones who saw anyone without magic as lesser than they could ever be.

They sneered at people like me in town, those who couldn’t afford their services and were considered a waste of time.

That dress I bought had been from an artificer’s boutique, and she had followed me like a guard followed a known thief.

I didn’t trust him to care, but there weren’t any other options so long as I was trapped in a castle in the sky.

I went into an explanation of how the forest changed, the abrupt storm, the wolves, and finally meeting Carline.

He listened intently while I carefully spared a handful of details, such as Carline’s offer and my feelings pertaining to it.

By the end, Mr. Thatcher had already brought us our breakfast. “Crossing paths with a demon and escaping. You are in quite the dilemma.”

The appetite I didn’t previously have reared its ugly head.

He made eggs sprinkled with a strong chili powder that seared my nostrils along with sizzling bacon and toast slathered in jelly.

As delicious as it seemed, I thought of Carline, how she sat across from me, knowing I fell for her trap.

But fear didn’t trump hunger as I dug into the meal that soothed my aching stomach.

Mr. Thatcher took a slow drink. “And the curse works quickly.”

“Curse?” I repeated with half a piece of toast and egg sticking out of my mouth.

He donned a lopsided smile. “Your ears.”

“What’s wrong with…” They weren’t there .

I shrieked and dug through my hair. Mr. Thatcher pointed up, that lopsided smile of his stretched to a painful degree. My fingers shifted through the knots of my hair to touch fur.

“My ears!” I rose swiftly enough to knock the chair out from under me. Fluffy dog-like ears twitched atop my head. Tugging on them led only to pain. “Is this a poor joke?”

“I fear not.” Mr. Thatcher reached into his satchel to present a pocket mirror. I flipped it open to gawk at the reflection. A pair of dog ears sprouted from my head, each the same hue as my brown hair.

“Poor thing.” Missy Beamy sat on the table, shaking her head. “To have those ears, what a shame. If only you were blessed to be a cat instead.”

“Neither option is good.” I slammed the mirror on the table.

Why was this happening? Why me? One horrible mishap after the other.

My life flickered behind my eyelids like the old picture movies at festivals.

The memories faded, but the pain was real.

Father not looking back as he abandoned us for a new, better life.

An officer towering over me, donning a devilish grin.

Mother sick in bed, gaunt and gray. The cut on Uncle Fern’s leg festered with disease.

Wolves in the forest, and Carline at my back.

Had I done wrong in a past life? Had I been cursed since the moment I took my first breath? Was that why I couldn’t hold on to a relationship, let alone move forward in my life in any capacity?

“What is all this commotion about?” an unfamiliar voice called out.

“You will see in a moment. We’re in the kitchen,” said Mr. Thatcher.

A stare burned against my back. I didn’t want to meet anyone else. I didn’t want to be there. More than ever, I wanted to go home, curl up in a ball, and cry, even when I knew tears would do nothing.

“A cursed girl in my home? What a treat.” A hand fell on my shoulder as Carline had done. I swung out, but a man caught my wrist. “That is no way to greet your host,” he said, voice smoother than silk, one made to charm.

“She is called Indy Moore, simple as can be,” Miss Beamy said, unimpressed.

“Miss Moore,” the man repeated airily. “Welcome to my home.”