Page 73 of The Curse of Indy Moore
He raised his hands defensively. “I do apologize. I can’t help speaking the truth.” Then he settled his elbows on the table. “May I ask a personal query, then?”
“I suppose you can.”
“There’s a story with your wrist, too.” He pointed, and I realized I was rubbing mine again. “Care to tell?”
The story wasn’t one I hid. My aunt knew of it, and I told previous partners when we had heartfelt discussions. Had Mr. Hawthorne asked earlier, when I didn’t know that he understood what it was like growing up with nothing, the story would have been more difficult to share. But now I wondered if he understood, if he had a tale or two that was similar. I hoped he didn’t. I wish no one did.
My appetite dwindled, and I pushed the food around my plate. “When the Swell Fever hit the poor populace of Cavehallow, my mother was one of the first victims. She tried working through it, but ultimately couldn’t get out of bed. I also worked at the warehouse and took extra hours, so I narrowly paid the bills and let my mother believe I was eating well. She needed the food more than me and was too sick to realize otherwise, but I was eleven and starving.”
I recalled that day so vividly. We were well into winter. After the first snow, we wouldn’t see the ground until spring. Cavehallow painted in white was eerily beautiful. Ice accentuated the buildings, giving them a natural glow. The streets had an ethereal feel to them, pathways carved through a granite city. However, the cold was harsh and the food scarce. Vendors lost focus after sitting out in the cold, breathing warmth into their hands while offering fresh drinks.
“I thought a vendor was distracted, so I took bread from their table, but they caught me before I bolted and called for a guard. They were willing to take my hand for the transgression. No one cared. They went about their days, and I escaped because I had a needle in my skirt that I jabbed in the guard’s hand,” I said while staring at my wrist that I swore held a mark from that day, like the shadow of that guard's sword branded itself into my skin.
“I don’t know, that has always stuck with me, the way they looked at me, like they wanted any excuse to hurt me,” I finished softly.
The vendor owned the storefront at his back. The guard patrolled that street everyday, spending more time drinking and lounging about than working. Neither of them suffered, their faces plump and bellies full. That day, I learned how much the world hated people like me. I was lesser because of the lack of coins in my pocket, and they were willing to hurt me—no, they wanted to hurt me. I knew then that I would never be like them. I would appreciate what I had and never want for more.
“When was the last time anyone has taken care of you?” Mr. Hawthorne whispered. During my rant, he leaned forward to leave little more than a breath between us.
“Where did that come from?” My eyes refused to leave his, although I knew they should, that I had to.
“By all I have heard from you, there have been countless moments where you’ve cared for others, but the same isn’t done for you.”
“I’m a grown woman. I don’t need to be taken care of.”
“Everyone needs to be taken care of every now and again.” He stood and presented his hand. “So allow me to care for you today, Miss Moore.”
My heart stuttered, and I nearly took his hand, forcing it to fall into my lap instead. “Is that not too much to ask of a colleague?”
“We are welcome to debate that on our way to town.”
“I doubt the debate will change your mind.”
He smiled. “You have come to know me well.”
His hand remained, an offering I feared to take because he, too, knew me well. Far better than most, even myself in a way, and that frightened me. Little by little, he deciphered my puzzle, laid me bare and fearfully exposed. I knew not how to feel, if I should be thankful he did his job so tremendously or worried that I was so obvious.
“Well?” he encouraged.
I accepted his hand for a day of the unknown. We agreed to meet at the summoning circle in thirty minutes. Most of that time I spent deciding between which dress to wear, but then the closet door opened. Inside, a new dress appeared, the same shade of yellow as what Mr. Hawthorne wore earlier. When I brought it out and the sun hit the skirt, it shimmered as if inlaid with thousands of crystals.
“Gaudy,” I laughed, staring at my reflection, where I laid the dress on my chest to wonder how well we would look side by side until I realized what I just thought.
“Idiot! Stop. Stop that. You have far more pressing matters then…” Then caring about a man, about a future.
I threw on the yellow dress anyway because… I wouldn’t stand there wondering what dress I looked best in. It didn’t matter what Mr. Hawthorne thought of me or if we matched or if we would look good together. None of that mattered.
We shouldn’t be heading out. My life was on the line. He should be in the study, and I should be… keeping busy, doing anything to be distracted. But I couldn’t stop myself from putting on my hat because this was a distraction, too, and I had to trust all of them to save me.
I ran out the bedroom door, ignoring a far too smug Miss Beamy sitting in the hall, who must have been around Mr. Hawthorne when he enchanted this dress because she called out, “That is such a wonderful color on you, Indy! My boy will so love it.”
Outside, Mr. Hawthorne waited at the summoning circle in that white suit with the yellow blouse and shoes to match. He had a shine about him, as if he captured the sun itself in his stitching. The cloth hugged his long legs and broad shoulders, forcing everyone to pass him a longing glance. At least, I told myself that to feel better about admiring him. Slate sat on his shoulder. The two mirrored each other while watching my approach.
When we stood face to face, his hands in mine, our eyes locked, and I forgot to breathe. I could hardly bear the connection, more intimate than ever before, for reasons I wasn’t sure I was ready to accept.
“What a lovely dress,” he said, making my heart do far too many flips to be healthy.
“Thanks. It’s new.”
