Page 84 of The Curse of Indy Moore
The question came without thought of the consequences. “I wouldn’t be getting in the way?”
He flinched. I wouldn’t deny his reaction felt good.
He shoved a fork full of food in his mouth and swallowed loud enough to hear. Swirling the fork around, his lips pursed into a pout only he could pull off. “I should not have said that. You’ve never been a hindrance, and I apologize for implying otherwise.”
But the sudden darkening of his eyes said enough: he wouldn’t apologize or speak more about Miss Beamy. The silence goaded me to make the attempt, even when I knew speaking sense to one refusing to listen would lead nowhere. An argument would ensue, another one, and now more than ever, we had to work together.
“What is it you wanted to ask?” He spoke in my stead, holding open a path of return to our normal.
I accepted that opening. “Earlier, you used magic without a scepter, and at the beach as well. How did you do that?”
“All artificers can do so.” He took another loud crunch.
“Then why use scepters?”
“Because enchantments last as long as a rune does.” With the prongs of the fork stuck to his bottom lip, he muttered, “Once I’m done… would you care for a demonstration?”
I never thought a day would come where I would be like all the folk in Westshire, utterly captivated by the thought of magic. Francesca never performed magic without a scepter, and I never saw anyone else do it, either. If he offered, I saw no reason to decline, so I nodded and sat at the island. While he ate, I twiddled my thumbs, wondering what to say, but we ended up saying nothing. He finished his meal and set the bowl in the sink before gesturing for me to follow.
Mr. Hawthorne went outside. He never bothered checking if I followed. We walked silently through the trees to an open area. Slate joined us, landing on a nearby tree branch to watch.
Mr. Hawthorne held up a hand and said, “Keep there a moment.”
I did as instructed.
“Without a scepter, any artificer can conduct magic. However…” He pointed a finger ahead of him and rapidly drew a rune. The silver magic poured from his finger to make the rune visible in the air before a spear of ice burst forth to pierce a tree trunk. Slate shrieked from his branch and fluttered to the ground to peck at the front.
“That magic lasts as long as the rune is present. Now…” He knelt to run his hand through the grass. He dug in the dirt to retrieve a rock the size of his palm. “This is what I can do with my scepter.”
Reaching into his shirt pocket, he retrieved his scepter equipped with chalk. He wrote the same rune onto the rock. Standing, he pointed the rock with the rune facing in the same direction. Slate flew to another branch, watching expectantly. His magic coalesced into the rune, where a dozen spears of ice appeared and ripped the tree apart. He pointed the rock at another target to repeat the same process, then stopped.
“Scepters are a tool no different than a fisherman’s pole or a blacksmith’s hammer. The power comes through us, but the scepter gives us the opportunity to make our enchantments more permanent.” He tossed the rock up and down while Slate found further amusement in the broken ice shards in the grass. “That’s why the enchantment on your cottage will remain until that rune is damaged. If it is never damaged, then the enchantment will never falter.”
“And that’s why the baron in Westshire had Miss Francesca visit every year to refashion the enchantments,” I said.
“Precisely. He likely has enchantments that can be destroyed by weather and age, so it’s safest to rework them.” Mr. Hawthorne licked his thumb and ran it over the chalk marks. He pointed the rock at another tree and nothing happened, proving that one ruined line ruined it all.
“Would you like to try?” he asked.
“Magic?” I laughed and took a step back. “I’m no artificer.”
“That doesn’t matter.” He nodded for me to come closer.
If Baxter were here, he’d say not to trust him. If this happened a week ago, I wouldn’t trust him. Much had changed.
I approached, letting Mr. Hawthorne settle his chest against my back. His long fingers interlocked with mine, save our pointer fingers.
“Move with me,” he said, his breath hot against my neck. He guided my arm to create a rune, where magic washed over my hand like water. Neither cool or hot, merely a gentle pressure that made my toes curl and heart leap.
The rune flashed silver before forming a glowing orb of golden light that split into ten and spiraled above us in a dance. Mr. Hawthorne repeated the rune, spinning us little by little, until the golden light overtook the world around us. We stood at the center, basking in the magic, the warmth building within my chest until I could hardly breathe.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he whispered, and my breath caught, swearing I felt his lips against my cheek.
“Yes,” I replied, relieved that my sounding so awestruck could be explained by what we did, rather than the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about how close we were. Mr. Hawthorne practically cradled me against his chest, where I feared I would stay for far too long if I didn’t escape now.
I knew what would ruin the moment, and a part of me didn’t want that. The words caught on my lips that yearned to move ever so slightly to the side, where I may feel Mr. Hawthorne’s skin against them.
Shutting my eyes, I forced myself to say, “Beamy told me that she was originally Luther’s cat, and that he isn’t here anymore.”
