Page 45 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“I will pay you back,” I muttered, to which Mr. Hawthorne ignored me.
Mercy dropped the papers in the box that looked like nothing more than a metal container without a keyhole, save the rune on the top. They retrieved a needle and demanded, “Your hand, Miss Moore.”
“What is the needle for?” I asked.
“A drop of blood for the enchantment. The lock box will open for you only.”
They pricked my finger and dropped the blood on the box; the rune shined brightly, and my blood disappeared.
“Thank you for visiting Wyvern Spire. I hope your research goes well.” Mercy handed the box over.
Mr. Hawthorne was already heading for the door. I wished Mercy a good day and scurried after him. Slate waited on a tree limb outside with his stolen goods. During our visit, he had acquired a small bow that I hope he didn’t snatch off a child’s head. The bird fluttered over once we left Wyvern Spire to land on Mr. Hawthorne’s shoulder, where he shuffled away at my movement, perhaps believing I wanted to take his prettiest. Instead, I smiled and pet his feathers, which he allowed, under heavy surveillance.
“Where are we going now?” I asked, seeing as Mr. Hawthorne clearly didn’t plan to tell me otherwise.
“The Grand Tempest Archives. They will have the materials we need. You may seek out Otis and wait with him.”
That was likely his way of saying he was too irritated to stick around. Considering how rude the others were being, I let him have that and kept silent on our walk.
13
Where Indy Sees Beneath the Veil
TheGrandTempestArchiveswas a behemoth that many would misunderstand as the castle itself. The top constructed of glass, similar to the transit hall, shined like a beacon. Visitors were little more than ants beneath the monolith’s shadow. Fountains on either side of the causeway formed an arch of water, reflecting the sun’s rays to create dazzling colors.
Double doors inscribed by runes laid open, welcoming all inside. Three spiral staircases led to higher levels. Desks filled the first floor, where whispers from the front desk between the spirals occasionally broke the silence. The circular structure allowed everyone to peer into the halls above where the facade arched, revealing rows of endless shelves. Inside this cathedral of knowledge, all I could smell was paper and ink.
Mr. Hawthorne took to the staircases, ascending to the third floor. I left him to his own devices. He knew where to go. I wouldn’t be much help, and consideringwhat happened earlier, he may need the time alone. Even the charmer had serious moments and deserved their privacy.
In his absence, I inspected the structure that stood tall enough to make my neck ache. Cavehallow had a library that I perceived as grand, but after coming here, I suddenly thought it was so small. Some songs the traveling bards shared spoke of how The Grand Tempest Archives had a copy of every piece of literature ever written. I thought the tales to be exaggerated, but they may have been entirely accurate.
I wandered toward a row on the first floor, knowing I’d find nothing of importance, but it would be interesting to look. I grabbed a book to flip through the pages, made immediately dizzy by the various runes that I didn’t understand.
Artificers and researchers of all types would find the archives a paradise. For someone like me, the shelves were nice to gawk over and ponder how they kept track of so many books and customers. The library must have various enchantments to ensure the safety of their collections and patrons. Perhaps the books put themselves away, like the teacups at Ivory House.
A chill ran down my spine. The hair on the back of my neck stood. I pivoted, searching the aisle for what caused the foreboding sensation. My ears twitched beneath the hat. There was a low growl, claws clicking on marble. I retreated, my fingers running over the bookshelf, prepared to launch one should a monster round the corner. I peered into the hall, where the lamplight flickered.
“Miss Moore.”
I jumped. A woman approached at my back dressed in a simple yet elegant dress, airy in its design with long tassels of lavender falling from her ochre shoulders. Her braided black hair sat in an updo atop her head, intertwined with beads the same shade as her attire. She was lovely, elegant in a way that made one short of breath. Her heels clicked, and a cart rolled by behind me, the wheels groaning.
A growl and claws. How silly of me. I was being paranoid.
The stranger settled in front of me. She presented a delicate hand, her wrists and fingers thin, nails freshly painted. “My name is Rosalind Thatcher, High Artificer and Her Royal Majesty’s Grand General.”
This had to be a poor joke. She was the one person Mr. Hawthorne and Otis agreed I should not meet. Yet there she stood, and I was alone among the shelves, unsure of where my companions were. Calling out wouldn’t be appropriate, considering our location and the vastness of the room, so I forced an amicable smile and hoped for the best.
I took her hand to shake, wondering about what kind of power she held. To be the right hand of our sovereign, to likely have battled in the same wars that made a name for her, Rosalind Thatcher was no doubt one of the strongest people in the kingdom, and she shook the hand of a peasant girl from Westshire. She probably didn’t like that. I wasn’t too fond of the idea, either.
“It is an honor to meet you, High Artificer,” I said anyway.
The last thing I needed was another powerful woman coming after me. I wouldn’t be so upset about it if they were more romantically inclined, but murderous wasn’t my area of interest.
“I am pleased you have traveled safely to the capital in your condition. Your appearance caused quite an uproar in our meeting,” she said.
I hadn’t taken notice of her at the meeting. I focused too much on the sovereign, but that had me curious why she waited to speak with me here. Did she follow us?
“And the sovereign has shown great interest in you. Being invited to the Moonlit Ball is quite the feat. Only the most illustrious of families attend. I do hope you are well enough to come. It will be an incredible experience.” Her smile was small, hardly visible, polite in every sense of the word, and yet, my blood ran cold.
