Page 14 of The Curse of Indy Moore
Mr. Hawthorne groaned, his head thrown back like I asked him to take on the world.
I may as well ask nicely, if only to prove that wouldn’t work, either.
“This curse, do you at least know what it is? It has to be more than…” I gestured toward my new set of ears, the ones flicking from nerves. That would get annoying quickly.
“I am good, but I fear no one is that good,” he replied. “Let me give you a brief introduction to demons. They are the most idiosyncratic creatures this world has and may ever see. Only time and study can reveal all the truths of your curse, and the answer remains no.”
“I asked nothing of you.”
“You are thinking of hiring me, but I assure you,” he tossed his hair dramatically, “You cannot afford me.”
Mr. Hawthorne ended the conversation by rounding the corner. I grabbed the broom, half tempted to beat the answers out of him. Unfortunately, my rational mind knew that an artificer could easily take down an angry girl wielding a mop.
I was trapped in the Ivory House with no idea if my family was safe. A demon cursed me, but rather than ensuring my family’s safety, I had to clean. I angrily swept the glass from the floor to toss into a bag following me around. I hadn’t noticed at first and found the bag’s presence creepy. The mop took to trailing behind me, also waiting to be used, with Slate still perched and watchful.
“Artificers,” I grumbled, feeling irritated with Mr. Hawthorne, even if he didn’t owe me anything.
He was right. I couldn’t afford his services, and no one wanted to be involved with demons. I was cursed and didn’t know what the curse entailed. Mr. Hawthorne said time would tell, but how much time did I have? Was the curse deadly? And what if the letter didn’t reach my aunt in time? She and the girls could be in trouble because of me.
A door creaked open. Nothing came out of the room, but the door waved back and forth after I didn’t move.
“Hello?”
No one answered. Mr. Thatcher said the house was sentient in a way, but I wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed and wasn’t too keen on finding out. I had dealt with enough magic in the last twenty-four hours. From then on, I hoped to never encounter more.
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 agreenhouse. 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.
