Page 13 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“I am.” The stranger gave a mocking bow. “Rooke Hawthorne, Grand Science Artificer of Wyvern Spire and creator of Ivory House. In short, Miss Moore, I am the most talented artificer this world has ever seen.”
The most confident, although he must have merit to enchant a castle that the kingdom knew by name. An artificer of his renown could reveal the truth of this curse. A pair of dog ears couldn’t be the worst of it.
However, I couldn’t afford his services. There wouldn’t be a point to ask, either. Artificers worked for two reasons: themselves and the highest bidder. They were greed incarnate and showed no mercy to anyone they perceived as beneath them. Miss Francesca turned her nose at anyone who dared ask her for anything, always saying we couldn’t afford her. In Cavehallow, most artificer merchants sold to the highest of society and gave us the scraps, if we were so lucky.
I had nothing. In his eyes, I would be less than dirt. However, based on his attire, as eye-catching as possible, and his introduction, it was safe to assume he thought highly of himself. If I challenged him, he may be urged to give an answer or two.
Meeting his haughty nature with an amicable smile, I asked, “Is that so? Then prove it. One of your talents must surely be capable of curing me of this curse.”
Mr. Hawthorne snickered. “Are you attempting to bait me, Miss Moore?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir. I merely do not understand the world of magic and demons, so I assumed the talented artificer that you are could help, or can’t you?”
“I can.” He settled a hand on the small of my back, the touch so gentle, one might think he found me fragile or was disgusted by my presence. “But I won’t. Unfortunately for you, I have nothing to prove, and I have no interest in dealing with demons.”
“Because they frighten you,” I tried.
“Only a fool wouldn’t be frightened, and do I look a fool to you? Of course not.”
“Rooke, should you not at least hear her out?” said Mr. Thatcher.
“Absolutely not. We’re both too busy, simply far too busy to deal with such troublesome and deadly matters. I, for one, quite like living. I can’t say the same for you,” Mr. Hawthorne urged me out of the kitchen, leaning in to share, “Deals with plants, he does, poisonous, venomous, carnivorous—it’s a miracle he hasn’t lost his head. Now,” he retreated to comb a strand of hair behind his ear, “Ivy will circle back to your home. Which is where?”
I didn’t reply, attempting to conjure an acceptable excuse to convince him.
“I suggest you accept my charity; otherwise, I imagine you will have a long walk home,” he said, still smiling but in the most unfriendly of manners. Typical artificer.
“Westshire,” I answered through clenched teeth.
The halls of Ivory House swerved in abnormal fashions, windows opening to rooms rather than outside, and steps leading nowhere. Mr. Hawthorne’s even stranger taste laid bare in each room, incapable of allowing any space to breathe. He was the type who couldn’t walk into a store without making a purchase.
“Marvelous. The journey will take us until nightfall, which gives you more than enough time to work,” he said.
Around the bend, we met destruction. Mud coated the walls. Frames laid broken on the floor. The rug existed as little more than torn thread, similar to the catastrophe within the room I woke up in. We hadn’t passed the mess on the way to the kitchen, so Mr. Thatcher must have taken us on another route. I couldn’t possibly comprehend the layout of this maze-like structure.
“I do not know why you destroyed my home, but you will mend what has been broken. Why, once you are done, I will have to see what has been ruined and make a stop in town for replacements,” he proclaimed.
“Are you not sure you don’t already have everything you could possibly need? Your home is rather… overfilled,” I said.
“Nonsense! I have plenty of room, and what is the point of an empty room? That is rather sad, I would say.” Mr. Hawthorne snapped his fingers. A gaggle of cleaning supplies meandered down the hall to form a crescent shape around us.
“Your weapons of war,” he declared, then smirked when the bird from earlier landed on the top of the mop handle. “And your supervisor. Slate will keep an eye on your progress. There is a closet in the adjacent room with more supplies, should you require them. Good luck, Miss Moore.”
Now wasn’t the time for cleaning. I needed to get home and tell my aunt what happened. She and the girls had to know I was missing by then, if not earlier in the night after Susannah realized I hadn’t returned with Dolly. If they went into the woods to search, Carline was there. She knew who my family was without me uttering a word. She could have them!
“Can’t the best artificer this world has ever seen magic the mess away?” I called in a voice more frantic than I wished.
“Yes, but it’s principal. You made the mess, so you clean it up.” His back faced me, the tails of his jacket billowing as he walked away.
“What about my family? I didn’t return home last night. My aunt must be worried sick, and I need to warn everyone about the demon that cursed me.”
Mr. Hawthorne stopped. He wore a bitter expression, disinterested, instilling an icy fear within me. He said nothing for a moment that spread eerily long. “What is your aunt’s name?” he finally asked.
“Agnes Shepherd,” I answered in a strangled breath.
“I will send a letter. It will reach her in under an hour. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes, but if I may ask something else.”
