Page 18 of The Curse of Indy Moore
My hands fell to my skirt, tugging restlessly at the fabric. “I’m sorry, but can we not discuss this further? If I am cursed to go through this every night, then I am a threat to everyone in Westshire.”
“What do you expect of me, Miss Moore? To be your knight in shining armor?” he replied.
“You claimed you are the best artificer the world has ever seen, or are you lying? You can’t even break a curse, can you?”
“Still trying to challenge my ego?” Mr. Hawthorne pressed a delicate hand to his chest and fell dramatically against the wall with the other hand draped over his forehead. “Oh, stars! How could I live with myself knowing a random girl from Westshire thinks me weak? I may just die!”
“If you refuse to help, you must know someone who can. At least give me someone to contact. Otherwise…” I may be forced to do exactly what Carline wanted, run back into her clawed fingers.
Mournful laughter erupted from my chest. I should have taken Carline’s deal, let my aunt and cousins live a life of opulence. I would too, for five years, and that would be more than my worth. That was how I would make up for being a burden never meant for them.
But I feared eternity with Carline, with what it meant to last beyond death and be under the control of another, to think about my family and anyone I have ever known moving on without me, forgetting me, and never bothering to wonder what became of me.
I would be trapped and utterly alone.
Mr. Hawthorne stood tall and cocked an elegant brow. “Will I be compensated for sharing this information?”
I was about to compensate the bastard with a fist in his mouth when he suddenly sighed. “Well, I suppose there is a way youcouldcompensate me.”
“Rooke Hawthorne!” Mr. Thatcher bellowed.
Mr. Hawthorne stiffened, as if the sound of his name from Mr. Thatcher’s lips was an ill omen.
“Must you treat this poor girl so horribly? Miss Moore is begging for your help.” Mr. Thatcher stalked toward us, his forehead creased, and a freshly cleaned Dolly in hand. I had forgotten about her, and my heart soared with momentary relief.
“I am certainly not treating her poorly. I’m merely being hesitant because she has been cursed by Mother Wolf. If there is anything to be done—and that is a mighty big if—then it will be horrendous work at best and deadly at worst,” Mr. Hawthorne said, proving he knew more than he let on.
“Mother Wolf,” I repeated, resisting the urge to shove or shake him, whichever may get the information out expeditiously and bring me the most relief. “You know of this demon, then?”
“I have read about a demon of the woods in control of wolves, though I am happy to say I haven’t made her acquaintance and wouldn’t like to, especially if she is turning people into wolves, of all creatures. If I were to be any animal, it would be a cat. They are majestic and sleek, such as myself,” he replied far too seriously, like he considered the option a thousand times.
Mr. Thatcher handed Dolly over. I crushed her against my chest, grateful for this, and how he countered. “You don’t need to meet her to help, and you know it. Do you not have a research paper due soon, Grand Artificer?”
Mr. Hawthorne sucked on his lips like he tasted something sour.
“The Eldari Council will not be lenient on a third missed report. If you wish to keep your title, you need to find a topic of research, and why not her?” Mr. Thatcher used his cane to gesture at me. “They will be more than impressed to meet one cursed by Mother Wolf still in human form. I bet they will even look past the deadline being next week.”
Mr. Hawthorne tugged on the collar of his shirt. When next he looked at me, hunger festered in his eyes. Like our initial meeting, he didn’t see a person but a specimen to pick apart piece by piece.
“You needn’t get so snappy with me. I was about to make the same suggestion,” Mr. Hawthorne claimed, then deflated considerably. “Though I had forgotten the report was due next week. I should keep a calendar.”
“You do, but it is worthless if you never look at it,” said Mr. Thatcher pointedly. “I’ve been trying to speak to you about this since yesterday. Where were you hiding?”
“If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a good hiding space.”
Mr. Thatcher stomped his cane. “You are far too old to be hiding from your superiors. I fear I have done nothing but apologize to you, Miss Moore. I swear, neither of us is normally this impolite.”
“That is debatable in my case,” Mr. Hawthorne said under his breath.
“No, I… Thank you. I appreciate that you are… willing to help me,” I said, although it held little conviction.
They became the only option. Mr. Hawthorne wasn’t different from anyone else, seeing me as lesser because of the lack of coins I had to my name. Like Miss Francesca, he was the type to parade himself through the tavern once a year to enjoy the fascination and adoration from those he deemed lesser. If I had money, he would have accepted my case in a heartbeat. Instead, I had to be an experiment, a report he could hand to his superiors that would add to his name.
“I will help under conditions,” Mr. Hawthorne ordered, one finger raised. “You will stay at Ivory House during these tests and go nowhere outside these walls without my permission.”
“My aunt cannot work the farm alone, and I have a secondary job. We cannot afford to lose that,” I countered.
“We can make an enchantment for helping hands. That should be allowed, considering that by helping us, we are hindering your work,” Mr. Thatcher suggested, leaning in to explain. “Mannequins, when properly enchanted, can do twice as much labor as a person. We have plenty around the house. It wouldn’t take long at all.”
