Page 26 of The Curse of Indy Moore
While my aunt and I took to packing, Charlotte made snacks, typically my job. I offered to do it, but Charlotte waved me off. Maude and Susannah played under the table with Miss Beamy using one of their string toys. In my room, Aunt Agnes and I didn’t speak as I tugged the crates out from under my bed, alongside a tattered suitcase.
My whole life fit in a single package. So small, a child carried that suitcase from the room she and her mom called home at a boarding house to the countryside without breaking a sweat. Even if I had more, I didn’t believe I would have taken any with me. I would have left items behind, like a promise to myself that I would return, or that Mom may return to find it and me.
The doll, however, was left unintentionally, and I remained apologetic to the potential future owners.
Aunt Agnes grabbed clothes to fold, sniffling all the while. I worried it would be too cruel to promise I would come home safely. Mr. Hawthorne said he would try to help, but that didn’t mean he would succeed, no matter how confidently heacted. Carline felt otherworldly. Pushing her into a fire did little more than irritate her. She commanded the forest to guide me toward her, or perhaps transported me entirely. She created a vision without uttering a word. That was power itself, magic in the most frightening of forms.
To make everything worse, Aunt Agnes had more on her plate because of my absence. These helping hands Otis spoke of were unlikely to fill the void left ever since Uncle Fern died. I’ve tried to make up for their unfortunate fate of having to take me in, but there was always something, and I was left standing on the sidelines, wondering why I was there and how I could fix everything.
“You really need more clothes, honey.” She pinched a shirt between her fingers, so patched I couldn’t remember what pieces were left of the original. “This looks more like a blanket than a shirt.”
“It’s comfortable.” I settled my clothes into the suitcase. “I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry I can’t be here to help. You’re stressed enough as is.”
“For leaving?” Aunt Agnes’s lips set into a grim line. “Indy, you should not be worrying about work or anything happening here. You need to focus on this curse, on getting yourself free from this demon. That is all that matters. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“But nothing.” Aunt Agnes took me by the shoulders. I was a head taller than her and most of the other women in Westshire, but I somehow felt so small in her arms. “We will make do. Don’t worry about us.”
“It’s hard not to.” My life revolved around them. Every possibility, every chance, every action of every day led to them.
Aunt Agnes kissed my cheek. “We will be thinking of you, too, always. Make sure to write, keep us updated, and please, take care of yourself, and come home safe.”
“I will try.” That was the most I could offer, not quite a promise, more of a hope.
The heft of the suitcase in my palm felt familiar, bringing about a pain that never healed. Tears fell, but Aunt Agnes believed them to be because of our goodbye. They partially were, but I simply didn’t want to shy away from the resurgence of an old sorrow. I had a journey ahead of me, same as I did the first time I held this suitcase.That little girl had been so lost, so confused on the trajectory her life took that she was silent in despair for months. I couldn’t be that girl again. I couldn’t drown in that sorrow; otherwise, I would never breach the surface.
In the kitchen, Slate perched on the back of a chair. I hadn’t seen him follow us. He must have slipped in through the front door when we first arrived and stolen a spoon from the tavern. The spoon dangled from his beak, the little thief, keeping him preoccupied while Maude ran a finger over his feathers. Miss Beamy chased a string that Susannah ran around the kitchen table with. The old girl stopped to catch her breath before a knock sounded at the door. Mr. Hawthorne arrived right on time.
“I love you,” Aunt Agnes said.
“I love you too,” I replied, hand shaking as I opened the door.
There, in the threshold, I received the first true glimpse of Ivory House hovering above Westshire. Having seen the castle through its own window hadn’t shown its true merit. The construct truly was miraculous, impossible for my mind to fathom. The house itself sat on an island, where the land beneath was perfectly smoothed like the bottom of a sphere. Ivory House was its own entity, mismatched and stitched together like a quilt of leftover fabric, as chaotic as the interior, and yet unbearably charming. The spires ranged in sizes from short and stout to tall and thin, and the walls, while all stone, were different shades. Mr. Hawthorne couldn’t decide on an aesthetic, so chose all of them. Said man leaned against the cottage, waiting, and stood taller at the sight of us.
“How did you make such a castle?” I asked.
“I have been cursed by an excessive set of skills,” he answered.
“I do not believe I have met one as egotistical as you.”
“I would hope so, as I do not want to be stripped of such an illustrious title.”
He said no more concerning the creation of the Ivory House. Perhaps artificers didn’t enjoy sharing their secrets. After all, there was only one Ivory House, so popularized that I heard about it in the middle of nowhere. No other had anything like it, and that certainly must add to Mr. Hawthorne’s renown. How else couldsomeone explain where he got the money necessary for all the unfortunate items stowed away inside the castle?
“I’ve told the villagers everything I could. Ysabel has offered to be the center of information, so any news I have, I will send to her, as well as your family,” Mr. Hawthorne explained. “May I come in?”
“Yes, of course. I must thank you again for all this help,” my aunt said when reaching for his hand to shake. “Without you, we all would be in much more trouble.”
“Think nothing of it. As an artificer of our great kingdom, it is my honor to defend the people against these nasty demons.”
He said he wanted nothing to do with demons. The man should have been a stage actor rather than an artificer with those acting chops.
Mr. Hawthorne slipped a hand into the interior of his cloak. He retrieved a scepter unlike Francesca’s. Occasionally, I saw artificers in Cavehallow conducting work. Each had a differently designed scepter. Francesca’s was elaborate, pink in hue with a string of pearls dangling from the back. The scepter was made to stand out, as I expected Mr. Hawthorne’s to be. Instead, I would never have thought the item was a scepter, deep blue and tipped in silver, simple as could be, certainly nothing like its user.
My aunt and I kept a distance while Mr. Hawthorne ran a hand along the front wall. Charlotte watched from the table, where she munched on a bread roll. Slate wandered on the counter, attempting to decipher how to fit one of our forks in his beak. Even the twins gave Miss Beamy a moment to lie on her back and catch her breath to watch Mr. Hawthorne’s work.
Digging in his cloak pocket, he inquired, “Would you mind a carved rune? I could use chalk, but a carving lasts longer.”
