Page 2 of The Curse of Indy Moore
Baxter cursed when the chair floated. The further the chair rose, the tighter my chest became. By the time I reached Gary with his soup, Baxter’s head knocked against the ceiling. I wanted to ask if he was alright and offer him a cold rag, but bit back the urge. Baxter shouted when the chair turned. He caught the seat of the chair before it flipped. The tavern laughed at his flailing legs.
“There is no reason to be frightened. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” Francesca said dreamily.
Baxter took a gander below, then at her, and he let go. He fell into his group of friends, mead flying and chairs toppling. No one ever thought about the cleaning lady, did they?
One of the larger farm hands tugged the chair down for Francesca to run her hand across the back. The silver light flickered beneath her palm, then vanished. Without the enchantment, the chair fell. The crowd roared with applause, a dozen of them asking for her to do the trick again. She was more than happy to oblige,resulting in three others floating to the ceiling while I begrudgingly mopped the messes. Including the spill by Baxter.
I didn’t want him to see me, although he knew I was here. For nearly a decade, I took a shift at the tavern after tending to the farm. That was how we met. Baxter hadn’t been born in Westshire, so a fresh face garnered attention, and I was foolish enough to believe he would forever fill the space I cut out for him in my heart.
I mopped around the tables. Baxter remained with his group of friends, the lot of them gawking at Francesca, who enchanted a woman’s cloak to glow like a firefly. At some point, Baxter caught sight of me. He smiled. That was what attracted me first, the dimples in his rosy cheeks. He had a confidence about him, shoulders high and back straight, that sparked a sense of confidence within me, too. As if his presence was enough to make me proud.
Baxter stood with his hands clasped around his empty mug. “I didn’t know you were working tonight.”
“I work here every night,” I replied, confused that he spoke to me.
I hadn’t seen the breakup coming, although I never did. Baxter hadn’t been my first partner. However, I was always the one left wondering if I was born to walk the path of life alone.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Fine,” I half said, half asked.
He scoffed, as if he should be the irritated party in this scenario. “You’re not going to ask me how I’m doing?”
My mopping hastened. “No, I’m confused why you’re asking me, actually.”
“Because it’s polite.”
“If so, I would prefer it if you weren’t polite.”
Baxter threw his head back in a disbelieving laugh, the same he gave after I haggled anyone for a cheaper price on everything. Initially, he said he liked a girl who understood the work put into earning a living. He understood I didn’t come from much and spending frivolously wasn’t an option. But that appreciation festered intoannoyance as he sat across from me, red-faced and scowling, like my presence was more than enough to humiliate him.
“You’re as lifeless as ever,” he said.
Hot shame bristled behind my cheeks. I dropped the mop into the bucket, where the water had browned. “Are we done here? I have work to do.”
“Yeah. Have a nice night, Indy.” He tipped his mug. I didn’t want pity, but he shared that pity, observing me like he couldn’t believe I wished to leave, then went to the counter for a refill.
I took the opportunity to clean around his table, then ensured I didn’t go near him for the rest of the night. Though that didn’t matter, because I couldn’t get our breakup out of my head.
“I don’t see our relationship heading anywhere,”he said with his hands stashed in his pocket.“You’re a nice girl, but you’re a little boring, honestly.”
I hadn’t known how to respond to that, so I didn’t. I refused to cry, because crying never fixed an aching heart and my cousins would ask what was wrong. They would want to help, and I wouldn’t be able to tell them what happened because I was ashamed.
As the night grew later, Francesca retired to her room, although not before calling out, “Serving lass, accompany me, won’t you?”
She may have asked nicely, but it was not a request.
I set aside the mop to follow Francesca to her room, where she complained, as always.
“Every year I visit, and every year this room is more grotesque than ever. What do you call that?” Francesca pointed at the bed.
“A mattress,” I replied.
Francesca kicked the bed. The mattress creaked. “This is trash,” she said with her heel on the edge of the bed. “It’s an insult to be here at all.”
Then why aren’t you staying at the baron’s estate,I resisted the urge to ask.
Ysabel and I spent quite a few evenings theorizing. The baron was a disgusting bastard, so he probably flirted with a beauty like Francesca, or she preferred puttingup with our trashy inn if it meant being surrounded by compliments all night. Regardless, this happened every year, and I simply had to wait it out.
