Page 41 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“Carline may discomfort you, but we cannot pass up this opportunity. Should she appear again, engage with her. The more she speaks, the more we will learn about her, about why she chose you specifically, and how she has gotten this curse dug into your psyche. Though she is ancient, I fear we will not have as much documentation as we both hope. She is a known recluse, and that will make our study of her even more difficult,” Mr. Hawthorne said, either not catching my avoidance or choosing not to speak on it.
The thought of her kept me in a constant state of panic, and that panic came through my trembling voice. “How can I do that? What should I say? How do we know if we’re safe?”
“Her appearances are an illusion. What she’s doing is similar to dreamwalking, a way artificers can pass into someone’s mind, though she can do more than see your memories. She’s capable of causing you to hallucinate her entirely. She is messing with your mind and yours alone, though I suspect she is intelligent enough to guess that you are seeking help from an artificer. However, she wouldn’t risk coming to the city or even my home. Demons are hungry but not foolhardy, so interact in the ways that you can.”
“That will not be easy.”
“Easy is never fun,” he replied.
“Forgive me for not caring about fun at the present moment.”
Mr. Hawthorne’s grip on my arm tightened. The question he asked had the same cadence as when one spoke of the weather, yet it struck me cold. “Do you care about sharing details concerning her deal at the present moment?”
I knew he would ask again. That didn’t make hearing it easier, nor looking at him. Though he kept his gaze ahead, a chill took over his eyes. Unlike earlier, when he spoke animatedly and gave a sense of pride, here he became a suffocating silence, all consuming.
“I am not here to judge you. You need not fear any response from me,” he said.
I wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear, if anything. When I spoke of her offer, if he said I should have accepted, then I would feel like a fool. If he said it was foolish to consider, I would feel like a fool. Regardless, it would be humiliating, but silence, I could potentially deal with that.
Above us, Slate flew overhead carrying that scarf he watched earlier. He rounded the corner that brought us to our destination. Wyvern Spire stood as many. A series of eight wide towers congregated to circle around a courtyard. The structures were made of white limestone that glistened more than a royal gem. At the center, a garden grew, where artificers sat with their books and meals and peculiar contraptions, such as a mechanical dog that wobbled on two legs and bubbles large enough to float in, as one artificer did, content to float and read simultaneously.
Mr. Hawthorne kept walking, regardless of my lack of an answer. We traversed beneath the tower’s shadows. With them came a sense of realization: we were truly doing this. I was about to enter Wyvern Spire. We were one step closer to breaking this damned curse, although we couldn’t do it without my answer.
“Five years,” I whispered, my hold on Mr. Hawthorne tight enough to make my fingers ache. “She would grant my family the life of leisure they deserved. We would live happily and luxuriously for five years, then I’d pass in my sleep, my soul for her and that life for my family. Forever.”
I expected ridicule, laughter, disbelief at my ignorance, but Mr. Hawthorne said nothing. He kept his word, as Otis kept his. They were quite different from Francesca, than the artificers in town who curled their lips when my dirty shoes passed their shops.
Passing the garden, artificers offered polite greetings. They recognized Mr. Hawthorne as those at the transit hall had. However, we made it through withoutissue. Each tower had domed doors identical in appearance. Mr. Hawthorne guided us to the sixth.
The interior had the essence of an esteemed structure centuries old. The craftsmanship spoke for itself with intricate carvings of scepters along the ceiling, appearing as an elaborate design if one didn’t take the time to inspect it. Iron chandeliers, likely as old as the castle itself, hung from those ceilings, remaining lit by candles rather than bulbs. They cast the interior in a hazy golden light that made it feel as if we fell back in time.
At least until we approached the front desk, where a purple-robed receptionist waited, hood up and nose in a romance book, based on the cover. The receptionist felt no need to hide the half-naked caricatures and didn’t acknowledge visitors until Mr. Hawthorne tapped the desk and declared, “Rooke Hawthorne, here to submit my research project.”
The receptionist tucked a bookmark snuggly between the pages then tapped a rune on their desk. A giant drawer erupted from the desk one person high. The shock had me leaning against Mr. Hawthorne then pulling away upon realizing my mistake. The receptionist snagged a paper from the stack and the drawer dropped without a single paper fluttering in the breeze.
“You are exceptionally late,” said the receptionist.
“I have been waiting for an intriguing project, Mercy,” Mr. Hawthorne said, resulting in the receptionist settling their dreadfully pale-gray gaze on me. “Miss Moore has suffered a curse under Mother Wolf and requires assistance in breaking that curse. Miss Moore, may I introduce Mercy; they are the key to the spire. Should you need or want anything, you ask them.”
“Ever the flatterer,” they said, then cast those gray eyes, brightening to a pale-blue hue, on me. “You have found an intriguing project, and it is perfectly timed. Her Royal Majesty is present for a meeting with the Eldari Council. She would love to hear of this.”
The sovereign?
I looked at Mr. Hawthorne to spare us, but he chortled. “Well, we wouldn’t want to upset our beloved sovereign, would we?”
12
Where Indy Faces the Lioness
Mercy’schairlegscameto life, once firm wood and now as nimble as my own. The chair arms folded inward to form a bar that kept Mercy safely tucked against the back. They led us down the curved hall that followed the spherical shape of the exterior. I half expected the interior to have an entirely different shape, but apparently the artificers hadn’t gone so far as to enchant the spire yet.
Doors towered on either side of us, uncanny in their heights. Plaques adorned each, containing names of artificers and a rune beneath that I guessed had to do with their area of study or perhaps their title. Any doors that were opened led to a lounge-like study area. I didn’t have the time to see more than that.
“Must we meet the sovereign?” I asked, my voice little more than a nervous squeak.
We were meant to acquire permission for Mr. Hawthorne’s work, not attend a meeting far above my station, where the sovereign herself would attend. Thanks toMr. Hawthorne, I had nice attire, but that didn’t make me ready to see her. She was always nothing more than a picture hanging near town hall or in a schoolbook, and I would prefer she remained that way.
“Mercy is correct to assume that Her Royal Majesty will be pleased to meet you, and I would rather not hear complaints from the High Artificer should I refuse, so yes, we must meet her,” he replied, hands slid into his trouser pockets.
