Page 19 of The Curse of Indy Moore
Like the mannequin I saw outside the boutique in Cavehallow,I wondered.
“You will do the enchantments then, since it was your suggestion,” Mr. Hawthorne said, then pinned me with his stare. “And you will be locked up every night for our protection, as well as your own. You must tell me every detail of what happened with Mother Wolf, especially the details you wish to keep secret the most. I will not find a cure if you lie to me. Do you understand?”
It’s as if he read my heart, knowing full well I would try to hide the humiliating truth. He waited for confirmation, hands on his hips and eyes narrowed in warning. Mr. Hawthorne had a report due, but if I didn’t do as he said, he would cast me aside without hesitation.
“I understand,” I muttered.
If humiliating myself spared us, then I would do anything. And the sooner Mr. Hawthorne discovered a solution, the better. I was uncertain about these helping hands Mr. Thatcher spoke of, if Aunt Agnes could do without me, but I couldn’t risk them.
“Before we start, can I visit my family? You said we are in Westshire,” I asked. Susannah needed her doll, and I so desperately wanted to see them, hopeful they hadn’t searched for me and praying that Carline didn’t have them.
“Absolutely,” Mr. Thatcher replied.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Hawthorne laughed.
“You can pack a few of your belongings and explain to your family what’s happening.”
“Have I no say in this?” Mr. Hawthorne whined.
Mr. Thatcher spoke as if he wasn’t there. “They deserve to know and hear from you in person.”
Mr. Hawthorne gawked, pouted, then threw his arms in the air. “This is my house! The nerve of you. Urgh, fine, we leave now.”
“We?” I asked.
“We do not know what more this curse can do, and you can’t spend half the day there.” He stalked down the hall with more attitude than a scolded teen. “We are now colleagues, Miss Moore, and as colleagues, I expect us to work together professionally. This shall be done expeditiously, so you may vacate my home before destroying it. Now, throw on some shoes. There should be a surviving pair in the closet, unless you ate them, too. Oh, my shoes!”
Mr. Hawthorne turned the corner, his voice continuing to carry in a shrill whine. “She has ruined my home and my shoes, and Otis is taking her side. This is abhorrent, unfair, utterly preposterous! The betrayal!”
Mr. Thatcher said nothing, keeping his smile on me. Mr. Hawthorne’s tantrums must be regular if they didn't warrant a twitch from Mr. Thatcher.
Who have I agreed to work with?
Facing the room, I didn’t want to think about what I may have eaten as a wolf and what that meant for my stomach. At least there was a pair of boots in the closet without bite marks or dried drool. I slipped them on, then followed Mr. Thatcher through the winding halls. He wore the same green petticoat as yesterday with adarker shade of green trousers. He felt like a garden personified, equally comforting, too.
I didn’t expect him to come through for me, but he had. “Thank you for convincing him,” I said.
“I’m sorry I had to.” Mr. Thatcher adjusted his jacket. “That boy, I thought I taught him better.”
“Were you his teacher, then?” He mentioned working for a school, although I couldn’t recall the title.
“I was. Rooke is the most brilliant pupil I’ve ever taught, but he has his quirks.”
Quirks was putting it lightly. The more I saw of Ivory House, the more obvious it became that Mr. Hawthorne couldn’t keep his sticky fingers off what he wanted, and those wants were many. One might argue he had an eclectic taste, but that couldn’t encapsulate the scope of his dwelling. Every space had been utilized, in the worst way, causing a sense of suffocation, of drowning among all that he had. There wasn’t an interest he didn’t partake in, nor an object he didn’t find fascinating enough to display.
One room had nothing but wood-carved statuettes. Another was full of paper mache, then there were fabrics hanging off a sewing machine and mannequins, perhaps the ones Mr. Thatcher spoke of, dangling lifelessly among the rubble. If he had a room of porcelain dolls though, I would be forced to leave. They were frightening creations with their dead eyes always watching. An older woman who lived in the boarding house with Mother and me offered one to me, although it was missing a leg, and I swore it moved at night. She ended up stashed under the bed and, oh, I never got her. She might still be there, haunting the next inhabitants.
Mr. Thatcher led me to a foyer, where Miss Beamy, Slate, and Mr. Hawthorne waited. He had tugged on a cloak to match his trousers, simple but defined. A pocket watch dangled from his pants pocket while Slate watched from his shoulder. He tapped the watch and said, “Tick tock, we don’t have all day.”
Unfortunately not. My time was now limited by the sun, so long as the light touched me, I was myself. The moon belonged to the wolf.
“Be careful, and don’t let him frighten you.” Mr. Thatcher leaned in to whisper, “He’s actually a big softie.”
“I know someone like that. Thank you again, Mr. Thatcher.”
“Please, call me Otis.”
I hesitated to reply, unsure if I wanted to open myself anymore to these artificers than I had to. However, Mr. Thatcher—Otis had such a kindly way about him it somehow felt offensive not to respond, “Only if you call me Indy.”
