Page 43 of The Curse of Indy Moore
I wouldn’t work with anyone so ignorant.
“Before I leave, Your Majesty, I would hope to put in my own thoughts, considering I am the one cursed. I should hope my opinion holds considerable weight,” I said, hating that my voice shook slightly, but frankly, I had faced worse.
The sovereign had a fierceness to her. She carried the weight of a ruler, and I didn’t doubt her capabilities. However, she was no Carline, a literal force of naturethreatening to change my life entirely without so much as a struggle. If I could fight against Carline, I could stand my ground here.
“Go on,” the sovereign encouraged.
“You may discuss my situation, if you’d like, but I won’t consent to working with anyone unless Mr. Hawthorne is the head of my project.”
The temperature of the room rose considerably. The anger of the council members washed over me in a wave of frustration. They grumbled and shifted, muttering under their breath. I needn’t hear them to guess what they said. The sovereign made no show of annoyance, but her brother did. He scowled, deep and cold, sending a spiteful look at Mr. Hawthorne. To his credit, he maintained a contrived smile that furthered my assessment that he would have done well as a stage actor.
“Even if there is someone better suited to the work?” asked the sovereign.
“I imagine that the best artificers of our kingdom can work together. My cousins are barely seven and can clean the kitchen together, so I’d expect much better cooperation here. I am open to everyone’s help, of course, but Mr. Hawthorne helped me in my time of need and has done enough to tell me I would feel most comfortable under his charge,” I replied.
“You flatter me,” Mr. Hawthorne said, sounding smug. He wouldn’t let me live that down, but I would face the teasing if it meant doing the right thing.
The room waited for the sovereign’s response with bated breath, a series of eyes dark even beneath the high sun’s light. They wanted the information I could give them, to potentially make a name for themselves, or improve upon what they already had. Greedy as ever. Maybe artificers really never changed. Born to power, yet they continuously reached for more, even if that meant stepping over their own people.
“Then you shall remain with him and he will receive any and all help he may require. I expect to be kept updated on your research and her condition. If she is well enough, I want the two of you to attend the Moonlit Ball,” the sovereign said, and what she said was final. None dared argue against her, even her brother, who lowered his head in reluctant acceptance.
“Of course, Your Majesty. We are flattered to receive the invitation,” Mr. Hawthorne replied, bowing low, and I mirrored him, although I was unsure about the invitation. A ball sounded far too out of my depths.
“I wish both of you luck. May you find the answers needed to protect her.”
The sovereign left the room, and the artificers followed. Most gave Mr. Hawthorne disdainful looks. None gave me more than a passing glance. They wouldn’t risk angering me; otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to help and thus put their name on the front page of Mr. Hawthorne’s work. In that regard, I had some semblance of power in this unfamiliar place.
Once the room emptied, Mercy came next to us. “This way to the meeting room. An intermediary will go over the consent forms with you. She’ll be with you momentarily.”
Mercy guided us down the hall to another room. Inside, a table sat at the center surrounded by four chairs, two to each side. A drawer sat beneath the arched window looking over the courtyard, and paintings lined the walls depicting cozy countryside scenery. Mr. Hawthorne retrieved a hefty folder from the drawer, as well as pen and paper, to drop on the table.
“That is the contract, I presume?” I asked, intimidated. I didn’t expect to understand much of it.
Nodding, Mr. Hawthorne took his seat. “Do not hesitate to ask for explanations. The intermediary will be here to provide answers and ensure you understand what we’re doing.”
He faced me, his gaze unreadable, then settled his attention on the table. “You were impressive earlier, Miss Moore. Few stand up to the sovereign.”
“If that is your way of saying thank you, I won’t accept it. I prefer hearing the words themselves,” I teased.
“Thank you.” His blunt appreciation put me at a loss. I didn’t think he could thank someone without complimenting himself in the process.
I played with the hat’s knotted string under my chin. “Being serious doesn’t suit you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind in case there is another miracle where you have to defend my honor.”
“A miracle, indeed, as I would never want to be put in such a position again. I fear it has made me quite ill already.”
He smiled, and so did I. The stress from earlier dissipated, replaced by a—dare I admit it—comfortable atmosphere. He leaned back against the chair, less proper and stiff, making me realize he had been upset earlier. Mr. Hawthorne didn’t voice it, but he wore armor that slipped off once we were alone.
Leaning against the table, I asked, “Do artificers often argue over who conducts research?”
“Yes. The better your research is, the more funding you get, the more money and prestige you earn,” he replied.
“So I’m your golden goose?”
“I have enough golden geese under my repertoire; otherwise, Her Majesty wouldn’t let me take this case regardless of what you said.”
“I imagine many in that room are the same, but they wanted this case.”
