Page 9 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

The door kept swinging. I tiptoed to the threshold and gripped the broom handle in case I needed to swing.

Covered in mud, Dolly laid on the carpet surrounded by an arrangement of globes, ornately decorated glass ornaments, oddly shaped lamps, and an arrangement of mirrors.

They hung from the walls or were displayed on counters for invisible onlookers.

The strange sight would have had me asking a thousand questions if not for Dolly. Instead, I had one.

“How did you get here?” I cradled the doll. She needed a good wash but, otherwise, survived the ordeal unscathed.

Slate cawed, and I cursed when the bird landed on my shoulder. He pecked at her, trying to tug her out of my grasp.

“Hey, stop that.” I hugged Dolly to my chest and gave the bird a narrowed glare. If I didn’t know any better, he did the same. “I’m beginning to suspect you’re a little thief who dragged her off.”

Slate flew off. Maybe the bird wasn’t at fault, but regardless, Ivory House led me to her, and I appreciated that. Then, a book on glass making laid near an ornamental mirror caught my attention. The book sparked a thought; artificers studied their crafts.

Though I had no magical lineage, I knew that the capabilities of artificers were vast and required years of study.

Certainly, the home of one would have a great deal of books, potentially a library with a study or two on demons.

I couldn’t be certain I would understand any of the text, but if I found one with noted artificers, I could research them in Cavehallow.

Though that took me back to the biggest issue: payment .

An old wound opened, seeping a memory of my parents bickering over finances.

They argued late when they thought I slept, becoming so enraged that their whispered voices became shouts.

I pretended not to hear them, but I could never forget Father’s frustration and disappointment at being stuck in an old, drafty loft with little more than the clothes on our backs and the hunger that kept us constant company.

Shame filled me for being so incapable, for not being able to deal with this problem on my own, knowing deep down that there was, ultimately, nothing I could do. No matter how much I searched, the truth remained that I had nothing to my name, and artificers wouldn’t accept a charity case.

But that didn’t stop me from searching, if only to prevent myself from falling into despair.

There had to be hope, a possibility to cling to; otherwise, I would wither like the last leaf in autumn.

Then, I glanced outside. Flowers threatened to overtake the house, their petals vibrant and blowing in the breeze.

Mr. Thatcher said he was a botanist. Out of the two, he seemed to care more about my dilemma. If care was a word in any artificer’s vocabulary.

“Ivy?” I called to the supposedly sentient house.

It led me to Dolly, I think, so hopefully, it would help me a second time.

Although that didn’t stop me from feeling ridiculous, standing there speaking to the ceiling.

“If I caused you any harm, or, uh, if the destruction of the house bothered you in any way, I greatly apologize. It was not my intent to cause you any distress.”

Although I couldn’t remember doing it, but I’d rather befriend the sentient house than anger it.

“I was wondering, could you lead me to Mr. Thatcher? I wish to ask him a couple of questions.”

The carpet shuddered. I stumbled off the torn thing.

The rug rippled a second time, and Slate flew off in the same direction.

I trailed along the rippling rug leading to a fork in the path.

A hall swerved to the left and another to the right.

The doors on the left swung open and closed in perfect unison while Slate pecked at them.

The farther I walked, the warmer the hall became, until a final door opened into a greenhouse.

The heat put a thin coat of sweat on my brow, but the scent was utterly divine.

“Thank you,” I said. The greenhouse door shut behind me.

Extraordinary plants dangled from pots hooked to the ceiling or curled around iron table legs.

Most were unrecognizable, spotted, striped, swirled like paint in water rushing down a drain.

A series of them moved, their long-limbed vines swaying in the nonexistent breeze.

Slate landed on one pot to dig in the soil.

My supervisor wasn’t very interested in supervising.

I rushed past the plants, curious but hesitant about their true nature.

This was the greenhouse of an artificer, and I couldn’t imagine what lived there.

Hopefully nothing interested in putting me on their menu.

Mr. Hawthorne mentioned carnivorous plants.

I survived the wolves and would feel like a total buffoon if I died to a plant.

Imagine visiting a cemetery and reading “eaten by carnivorous plant” on a headstone.

I tiptoed by the potentially deadly arrangements, wondering if Mr. Thatcher purchased them or enchanted them.

Artificers weren’t meant to enchant living things, or so I thought.

They enchanted objects because the side effects to a living organism were too difficult to predict.

Miss Francesca shared a story about a man who tried to regrow a lost finger.

He succeeded, technically, except he grew a hundred more all across his body.

Another artificer, who had been arrested in Cavehallow, performed illegal enchantments on the desperate, resulting in them rotting from within.

For whatever reason, living organisms and magic did not go together.

I couldn’t imagine any of these plants existing without magic. Hopefully, I hadn’t walked into an illegal greenhouse. I had done enough running for my life in the last day.

Though the dome was constructed of glass, I couldn’t see outside.

The humidity of the room left the panes coated in condensation, refracting the morning light in a dazzling array.

A stone pathway swerved in multiple directions, cutting through the jungle.

I stopped at each turn to inspect my surroundings until I found Mr. Thatcher at the far end of the greenhouse.

He leaned over a desk cluttered with papers.

He adjusted his glasses while muttering to himself and fed a grape to the plant with a drooping petal slick with saliva.

Potentially. I did not plan to get close enough to test my theory.

“Mr. Thatcher?”

“My feathers!” Mr. Thatcher clutched a notebook to his heaving chest. “Miss Moore, my apologies. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I fear that is inevitable for one such as myself. I get lost in my work rather frequently.” He laughed, then set the notebook aside. “I hope Rooke isn’t pushing you too hard. You must have had quite the fright.”

I held the broom close to my chest in case any of the plants decided to take a swipe at me. “Not at all. I’m cleaning the mess I supposedly made. I don’t know where he went, but I hoped to ask something of you.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“Mr. Hawthorne said we will reach my home before nightfall. He also said my curse requires study to understand, but is there anything you can tell me? I must know what is happening to me and if I may be a danger to my family,” I asked, hating the desperation in my voice that so reminded me of Mom, her coughing fits as she begged the warehouse manager for extra shifts, then haggling the little coins we had for medicine that did not work.

Mr. Thatcher pressed his lips into a grim line. “Is it right for me to assume Rooke told you little to nothing?”

“Only that it would take time to discover what my curse is. I fear I do not have the coin to pay either of you, but any information you are willing to give, I would most appreciate it.”

“Please don’t worry yourself over payment.

Well, technically, we are forbidden to work free of charge, but that can be dealt with.

” Mr. Thatcher settled his palm against his temple as if to massage a headache.

“That boy. I expected him to speak with you, but let me apologize once again. Rooke has such poor behavior at times. I will speak with him. ”

A spark of hope clung to the edges of my mind. I wasn’t entirely sure of trusting it. “Do you believe you can convince him to help me?”

“Yes, I…” Mr. Thatcher grinned mischievously. “I have an idea that will work wonderfully.”

“Are you for certain? If not, I would be most appreciative if you were to point me toward the library, if Ivory House has one. I can conduct research on my own.”

“Nonsense. Demonic texts are a hassle for artificers such as myself to get through. You wouldn’t be able to decipher it, and I hope you take no offense to that. It is rough work,” he explained with a wave of his hand. “Leave this to me.”

People rarely followed through with their promises. Artificers didn’t make promises. They were like demons in that regard. They wanted a deal, except instead of a soul, they wanted coins.

Relying on another, on practically a stranger, put me out of my element. If I could fix this curse myself, I would. I wanted to because the only person I could rely on was myself, but this was no time to grow arrogant. My family was at stake.

“Thank you,” I said, even while lacking faith in Mr. Thatcher’s plan and Mr. Hawthorne’s abilities. “I should get back to work, then.”

Mr. Thatcher returned to his plants, and I returned to my cleaning.

Ivory House led me through the halls in the same manner as before, save one stop to prevent a collision. Slate fluttered by with Miss Beamy shrieking after it, “I will sink my teeth into your feathered throat, you vile creature!”

When the crow wandered off, I couldn’t tell. Slate rounded a corner, and Miss Beamy wheezed after him. That got a laugh out of me before I returned to the room I woke in, which suffered the most damage.

Mr. Hawthorne didn’t state all he wanted done, but I was not one to leave work half-finished. Even if irritated.

I sat Dolly in the hall, rolled up my sleeves, and took to removing the wallpaper.

The parchment couldn’t be salvaged, nor the carpet—thankfully, he needed an interior decorator—so that was ripped up.

The floor required a good scrub next. After a little more than a minute, my head buzzed.

Whatever product Mr. Hawthorne used must be top quality.

I had never felt so ill from a scent, but I pushed through by thinking of home.

The worst accidents in the woodlands had been a snake bite, where the poor girl was rushed to Cavehallow for the antivenom.

Thankfully, she recovered. Twice since I had lived there, priests of Arestat came to Westshire in their burgundy robes.

The first preached of destruction, retribution, and fiery wrath for a month before authorities captured him.

I never learned what became of him. The second was smart enough to leave after a week, though the authorities visited to ask about his whereabouts.

Neither of the priests were violent, but they were never short on cruel words, especially toward women.

In terms of violence, there were the occasional ruffians believing themselves frightful enough to steal a coin or two from lone riders.

Once Cavehallow was alerted, they sent authorities to monitor the roads, as the city used the woodlands to secure goods to and from the outlying villages.

Without the trade route, people would have to go around, which took a minimum of three days.

If soldiers were sent to fend off Carline, would they be capable of it?

She couldn’t stay in the woodlands. I had to uncover why a demon went there in the first place.

Where had Carline been before, and why did she move?

Demons lived where trouble struck. That’s how they got what they wanted.

My town suffered poverty and hardship, but I never saw it as a place a demon would thrive.

I groaned after dumping the washcloth on the windowsill. My stomach turned queasy. I rested against the pane, savoring the sensation of cool glass on my aching forehead. Outside, pale pinks and purples painted the sky from the setting sun.

“We’ll reach Westshire any minute now. How is that cleaning coming along?” Mr. Hawthorne leaned against the doorway, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His eyes roved over the ruined furniture and ripped-up carpet stacked in the corner. “You don’t happen to have carpentry skills, do you?”

“Unfortunately, no, but I am sure this is no problem for you. As you can see, I am done.” I pushed myself off the wall, intending to put the cleaning supplies away, but nausea overcame me .

I buckled over, a burning sensation tore through my veins. My knees hit the floor.

“Miss Moore?” He approached tentatively.

I grasped the windowsill, fingers paled by the sun’s setting light. I didn’t feel right, as if my bones had gone soft, threatening to decompose within my skin.

“Stop,” I whimpered, head pounding worse than before. “It’s loud.”

“What is?”

My heart, his breaths, the creaking of the house, everything amplified until my sight blurred.

I had never felt pain such as that, a need to break free from my skin, like a hatchling trapped in their shell, suffocating on their own birth.

Mr. Hawthorne’s eyes widened, and he retreated to the threshold.

The last thing I remembered was lunging at him as he threw the door shut.