Page 16 of The Curse of Indy Moore
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.
5
Where Indy Contemplates Violence
Thesunroseona ruined room. A crack splintered across the window, refracting the dawn light. The closet door hung on a single hinge, the bottom half torn to splinters. Inside, clothes were strewn about, stretching like a river into the room. There weren’t even clothes to shield me for nothing remained that could be salvaged, either ripped or damp.
Testing the door handle, I found it locked. Claw marks marred the door. My fingers fell against them where my nails fit in the grooves, but as I pulled my hand down, those grooves expanded, replaced by a tear no human could do.
“What is happening to me?” I whispered, sliding to the floor, where I hugged my legs to my bare chest.
No memories of the evening meant no denying the horrifying truth: I caused this destruction, and I had done so again. How? Why? Would I lose myself every night? If I was capable of this in my sleep, what more could I do if left unchecked?Why was this happening? This had to be part of Carline’s curse, but what did it mean, and what more would happen?
“Good morning, Miss Moore.” Mr. Hawthorne knocked on the door. He brought with him a scent of coffee, black with no sweetness. “How is our little rapscallion feeling?”
“Concerned,” I replied, then stiffened when the doorknob twisted. “Do not open the door. I am not decent.”
“Oh.” Mr. Hawthorne snickered. “Would you like assistance?”
“Will you charge me for said assistance?”
“You are a petty one. I like it, but let me elaborate.” The door clicked.
I launched across the room to dive into the ruined materials that did little to cover my skin. My heart skipped at the thought of Mr. Hawthorne seeing me, how he might compare me to the dozens of others he had no doubt seen through his life. As an artificer of his renown—and unfortunately good looks—he certainly had an endless list of conquests. But he did not enter. His hand swung in, wielding a wide-skirted red dress.
Of course, the dress was red, reminding me of Carline, the dress in the mirror, the creepy masked dancers, and the horror of that night following me.
“A dress for the damsel in distress,” he said, the garment swaying from the light turning of his wrist.
“You should have said you had a dress rather than make a strange, potentially lewd remark.” I snatched the garment and shoved the door closed.
Mr. Hawthorne yelped on the other side. “Careful, you about ruined my nails, and I just had them done yesterday.”
Of course he did.
“Why do you have this dress? In fact, why do you have so many clothes?” I asked while tugging on the garment.
“I like to be prepared for random wolf-like girls stripping themselves in my home,” he replied mockingly.
“Be serious.”
“There was a lovely woman here once who stripped herself of that particular dress.”
