Page 47 of The Curse of Indy Moore
She stood, proper and quiet, completely composed, and her eyes never left his. There was a moment where one may speak, where Rosalind’s ruby red lips parted andOtis stood taller in preparation. Then she faced me, polite as can be, while retrieving a card from her dress pocket. Pinched between her fingers, she held the card out. I tentatively accepted while knowing I would toss it the moment she was gone.
“Should you have further questions or change your mind, you may send a letter here.” Rosalind nodded. “Good day to you.”
“Good day, High Artificer,” Otis and I said in unison, watching Rosalind’s back until she vanished from our view.
Though gone, her frigid atmosphere lingered.
Otis sat at my side, no less discomforted. “Here I am again, wanting to apologize to you, this time for my sister’s poor behavior and extremist beliefs.”
I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You shouldn’t apologize for her, but this has confused me. Does magic follow some bloodlines or not?”
“That is the wondrous truth about magic, Indy. Magic cannot be tamed, bought, or coerced. It grows where it wishes, how it wishes, and no royal or peasant can change that.” He gave a proud smile and laid a hand on his satchel, where his scepter likely presided. “Those in positions of power want the populace to believe otherwise. They claim their blood is pure, that they are capable of more, but there has been no proof, so they prune the weeds as frequently as they can, but ultimately, magic will always be against them.”
He looked after Rosalind, his gaze distant. He laid a book on the table, gripping the edges tightly enough to make the leather creak beneath his fingers.
“Thatcher is a name known to all artificers. My family always prided themselves on our bloodline. When my parents were alive, they were proud of their three artificers and conveniently forgot to mention the other four children they had who still live in the shadows,” he whispered.
“That is terrible,” I said, then thought otherwise. “I did not mean any offense by it—to your parents, I mean.”
“I hope you did. They were rotten to their core,” he interjected bitterly. He took a slow breath, eyes shut and bottom lip trembling. Much as his sister had done, theemotions vanished in an instant. “In short, no, magic has nothing to do with your lineage. You may be born with or without it, nothing more.”
That somehow made it feel even more mysterious. Magic truly seemed to have a mind of its own.
Otis flipped open his book. “If I may make a request, do not mention Rosalind or Lone Oak Academy to Rooke. Preferably, forget this interaction took place.”
“I wasn’t planning on telling him.”
As it was obvious what the others meant by saying Mr. Hawthorne wasn’t capable of handling my case. He wasn’t from a noble bloodline, although that evidently didn’t matter, but they made it matter out of their greed for power and recognition. He didn’t go to Lone Oak Academy, which shouldn’t matter, either. But Otis was his teacher. Rosalind must not have taken well to his career choice.
“Trinity Schoolhouse is considered a lesser establishment for the artificers born of poverty,” I summarized bitterly.
“It is.” Otis flipped a page so hard, the paper nearly caught. He carefully smoothed it out. “There are multiple artificer academies, but Trinity Schoolhouse has always been the cheapest, a way for the nobles to claim they are helping the so-called less fortunate by offering a more affordable academy that, you can imagine, isn’t well-handled or considered of much use here. Most who graduate from Trinity Schoolhouse do not make it far.”
Meaning Mr. Hawthorne had been through a lot to reach his station and questioned every step of the way. That ego of his made more sense.
“Why did you work there, then? I imagine your family wasn’t okay with that, if they shared the same belief as your sister,” I asked.
His shoulders slouched, and he looked to the glass dome, where the sun caught on the glass. “I grew tired of walking the path expected of me.” The feeling passed, and he set his usual smile on me. “Why don’t you find Rooke? He can lose himself in these halls, and we wouldn’t want to be here too late.”
I didn’t have the heart to ask what he meant, so I didn’t. “I’ll go look for him.”
14
Where Indy Defiles a Library
Otis’sattempttopointme in the right direction failed. The third floor contained works of demonology, and there were aisles upon aisles of them. I passed through the shelves, one after the other, with no Mr. Hawthorne in sight.
Returning to Otis would be best because Mr. Hawthorne may have already done so. If not, I would rather be near Otis than force the two of them to search the archives for me. And I could avoid another unwelcome run-in. The tension from Rosalind had been enough. I reached my quota of discomfort for the day, arguably the year.
I took my time walking the aisles in a final search attempt and to satiate my curiosity. Here and there, I retrieved a book to flip through the pages, perturbed by the depictions of demons that flayed one’s skin, then baffled by demons that sang crying babies to sleep orguided lost children home.
Mr. Hawthorne hadn’t exaggeratedenoughhow eccentric demons were. All the tales spun them as darkness itself, a convoluted mess of a creature meant to devour all on its path. The books said otherwise. Though there absolutely were those made of such horror, I could hardly look at the depictions of them.
Demons were, in a way, not any different from us, capable of cruelty and kindness. If only a demon of kindness cursed me to have the best luck in the world. Instead, I got a wolf woman that wanted to turn me into a dog and keep me on as a pet.
I set the last book I picked up on the shelf, intending to hurry downstairs, when a shadow passed at the end of the hall. The librarian had been around earlier. He was likely putting away more books, but when I reached the end of the aisle, it was not squeaking wheels or a muttering librarian I heard. It was a growl.
I had heard a growl earlier. It was nothing. My mind was playing tricks on me. It likely was again.
