Page 46 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“Yes, I also hope I’m well, or better yet, cured by then.”
Rosalind nodded toward the sitting area. “Would you give me a moment of your time?”
I wanted to run, to hide, to defend myself, though she gave me no reason to feel that way. I wasn’t sure what the consequences would be if I said no, and I didn’twant to find out.
“Of course.”
She gestured toward a table. There weren’t any patrons nearby. One could argue she didn’t want to disturb anyone with our conversation, but I felt she didn’t want us to be caught, that she hoped Mr. Hawthorne wouldn’t notice us. That put me further on edge.
Was she there to convince me to accept another artificer to take my case, even after what the sovereign said?
Rosalind took a seat. I sat across from her. Balls of light hovered by the ceiling, circled by nearly translucent crescent shapes. At any moment, they looked like they could drop, but never did. Even artificer chandeliers had to be outlandish and strange.
“Your condition is rare. I am sure you have realized that,” Rosalind started, her hands carefully steepled. “There are more demons out there than most believe, but those such as Mother Wolf are far and few between. She is older than most and thus more powerful. She doesn’t take victims often, either. Living in mountainous regions, I haven’t heard of any disappearing in her lands for over a decade.”
That made me feel worse. Somehow, I garnered the attention of a demon less interested in cursing than others. What kind of bad luck is that?
“My point being, Mother Wolf is not to be trifled with. You need an experienced artificer to handle your case,” she said, without patronizing, and yet, it was there, hovering beneath her words. Toward me or Mr. Hawthorne, I was not entirely sure, maybe both.
“And you, like the others today, do not believe Mr. Hawthorne is experienced enough to handle my case?” I asked.
The sovereign wasn’t an artificer, but she agreed with my decision, and I expected others to respect that. I suppose they were, in their way, but Rosalind was trying to do the one thing she could: convince me.
“You are in a dilemma, and Mr. Hawthorne stretched out his hand first, so I do not fault you for wishing to hold onto him, but yes, I am saying there are artificers far more outstanding than him,” she replied simply.
“And yet he is the only artificer I have ever heard of to make a place like Ivory House.”
I didn’t know why I was defending him. He was still an artificer interested in my case that could bring further recognition to his name. Like them, he saw a worthy experiment, but he wasn’t utterly unkind. I thought of earlier, how he swiftly came to my aid, and before that when I told him about Carline’s offer. He promised silence and gave exactly that. When he wanted to be, Mr. Hawthorne could be more than kind.
Most importantly, I hated the way Rosalind spoke of him, how she sat tall and watched beneath her long lashes. There was a sense of drowning superiority. She carried herself the way Francesca did, the way the artificers in Cavehallow did. Had she met me under different circumstances, she wouldn’t have given me the time of day, perhaps would have even sneered at me. She perceived herself better than both of us; thus, that put Mr. Hawthorne and I on the same side.
Her voice never rose or lowered. She spoke precisely and with little emotion. “He is magnificent in his imagination and inscriptions, but he’s no demonologist, nor does he have the most proper education.”
I knew what she meant but challenged her anyway. “Meaning?”
“Lone Oak Academy.” Her lips curled into a smile unlike earlier, prouder, more regal. “That is the most renowned artificer institute in all the northern kingdoms. The best of the best study there.”
“Such as yourself,” I interjected, as she no doubt saw herself as the best. Considering her station, she may be, her and the rest of her family. If she made it that high in life, Otis no doubt had power beyond my imagining, too.
“Precisely,” she said with a slight nod. “Lone Oak has taught the most talented and successful magical bloodlines, unlike Mr. Hawthorne.”
My jaw ached from the harsh grinding of my teeth. “And yet, the kingdom is the most enchanted by the Ivory House, made by him. It seems he has done more than enough to prove himself, yet people keep bringing up his schooling. I find that so odd.”
I didn’t regret it, even when Rosalind squinted alongside her weak smile.
“I imagine you would. Our world is foreign to you, but I assure you I am saying this with your best intentions in mind. Mr. Hawthorne has an undeniable talent. I wouldn’t dare deny that. He has done so much for the kingdom, and we appreciate his numerous achievements. Her Majesty wouldn’t have let you work with him at all, otherwise. However, he is not a demonologist. He doesn’t have that skill set. When it comes to curses, time is of the essence. You can’t afford to be led astray even for a moment,” she explained in a softer voice, reminding me of Carline. “At least consider speaking to some of our demonologists while you’re here. I know a great deal of them, and they will set aside time for you. They’re from families with powerful lineages.”
“Spreading more lies, Rosalind?” Otis marched over, his cane tapping hard against the floor. His typically smiling mouth had fallen into a pinched scowl that Rosalind may not mirror, but her eyes took on an unwelcoming hue.
Rosalind showed the briefest hint of irritation, overshadowed by a congenial smile. “Lies?” she repeated. “I do not know what you mean, nor should you have the audacity to say such a thing to your High Artificer.”
“You will always be my sister above all else.” Otis stood beside me, his presence welcome as I realized how tense I had become.
My hands fisted in my lap, leaving crescent imprints of my nails against my palms. With his calming scent that I had come to recognize as fresh earth, I settled and flexed my fingers. They were starting to tingle.
“There is no proof that magic follows bloodlines, for magic knows not loyalty or pride. You are born to it, or you are not, and we know that better than anyone,” Otis said darkly.
Rosalind sneered, losing all sense of propriety for a moment of blistering anger. A wrinkle formed in her brow, deep and dark and warning of a storm. That storm never came. It was little more than clouds upon the horizon, washed away by a breeze.
