Page 11 of The Curse of Indy Moore
Mr. Thatcher gestured behind him. “Shall we take this conversation to the kitchen? I imagine we have a lot to discuss, and I would much rather conduct this conversation over a warm meal.”
My appetite hadn’t returned, and considering the last meal I accepted from a stranger, I was not eager to repeat the dilemma. However, I would prefer to get out of this room, where he blocked the only exit.
Nodding, I returned the salve and set to follow the older man. We walked the claustrophobic halls running thin and cutting sharply around corners. The owner of Ivory House, this Mr. Thatcher chap, couldn’t determine what aesthetic he preferred for his home. Nothing matched. The paintings had no particular style or placement, hanging at crooked angles or upside down entirely. Wallpaper and crown molding switched in every hall from elaborate spiraled or floral designs to simple stripes.
Each door stood at a slightly different height or shape in colors that never matched the carpet runners. Those same doors hung open to reveal cluttered rooms one dared not enter, lest they risk drowning in an avalanche of scarfs or hats or little knick knacks. Windows changed shape, some oval, squared, circular, or full of stained glass to cast us in shades of rainbow.
The chaos of Ivory House spilled into the halls, literally in some cases. A room of stuffed animals attempted to seek freedom by tumbling out of an open doorway. Mr. Thatcher stepped over the mountainous fluff, so accustomed that he needn’t look at his feet to determine where to step. “I do apologize for the mess. We were not expecting guests. Where are you from, Miss Moore?”
He sounded kind enough, mildly concerned. Miss Beamy trotted in front of us, acting as if she led the way. Neither showed signs of changing, of being disguised as demons or under Carline’s influence, but I remained wary and observant.
Dolly wasn’t out there, either. I hoped I hadn’t dropped her in the woods, or she was torn to shreds among the junk in that room.
“I am from Cavehallow,” I replied. Not entirely a lie, but I didn’t know who or what he was yet, so I would rather not say the exact location of my home.
“Strange, I don’t recall us meaning to pass there,” he said.
Mr. Thatcher opened a door leading to the kitchen. A long island took up the center of the room, where kitchenware filled the open shelving beneath and four chairs sat on either side. Herbs dangled from racks, and spices filled the exposedshelves along the walls. The open window let in a calming breeze that rustled the pale blue drapes. Vines laid across the windowsill, their purple flowers bright and charming. The stove sat against the far wall, the pots suspended from a rack above the island. With the walls painted a pale yellow and the floor tiled in the same pale blue as the drapes, the kitchen had a warm and welcoming aura that beckoned people to relax and take a seat.
Unlike the rest of the house, one could use the kitchen. Mr. Thatcher dropped his satchel on the island and snatched a skillet. The cupboards opened of their own accord. Two tea cups painted with paw prints hovered toward the table, where they gently landed. The cat talked, the house flew, and the cups floated. I couldn’t imagine this day getting any more strange.
“You may wash your hands in the sink,” he said while opening the fridge to grab a carton of eggs. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Dippy, please,” I said.
Mr. Thatcher cracked the eggs and dropped them into the skillet. The skillet shook back and forth above the stove while I cleaned my hands in the sink. My hands were coated in mud up to the elbows, as were my feet. I must have lost my shoes while running. The boots were worn, so they may have even ripped apart in my haste.
“So, tell me how you got to Ivory House. Start from the beginning, if you please,” Mr. Thatcher said from the stove.
I sat at the island, keeping my hands below the table. I grasped the handle of a pot in one hand, just in case. “It’s complicated,” I answered.
“I imagine it is,” he replied patiently.
Ivory House had shown no sign of Carline and her wolves. Mr. Thatcher didn’t press on matters, and Miss Beamy was nonchalant, laying on the table with the comfort of a well-loved and proud cat. If anyone could assist me against Carline, who could force her out of The Misty Woodlands, it would be an artificer. Magic against magic, as much as I loathed to admit it.
Uncle Fern shared of the last war against Arestat, when he was drafted at 15 and witnessed the power of artificers. Their war machines tore through troops on bothsides, and a single artificer could cast a field into flames, leaving nothing but ash. They were trouble. They were dangerous. And I needed that if I were to protect myself and all of Westshire from Carline.
“Your discomfort is warranted, Miss Moore,” said Mr. Thatcher, careful in his dictation, like one coddling a toddler. “I, myself, am quite confused on how you managed to get here at all.”
I struggled to think of last night, how I could have possibly made it into a flying home. “I… fear I cannot recall.”
“I am not surprised considering the state of you. Ivy let you in for a reason, and I am guessing it was to save you from trouble.”
“You speak as if the house can make its own decisions,” I said, glancing about at said house, half expecting the floorboards to warp into a row of pointed teeth.
The artificers in Cavehallow used their enchantments to attract customers. One boutique in town had a mannequin dance outside her shop wearing whatever delightful gown she recently constructed. A hat maker enchanted his products to circle in the windows, allowing customers to browse his collection from the street. Francesca had shown us magic, too, but never anything like this. She made the chairs levitate, repaired broken glass in an instant, and made instruments play on their own. That was a miracle in our eyes, so I wasn’t sure I believed that one artificer constructed a castle of this magnitude and power. A demon, however, certainly could.
“It is,” Mr. Thatcher replied, like that should have been obvious.
“The house is… sentient?”
“In a manner.”
“Oh.”
How upset would that house be that I—supposedly—destroyed a room? Could it feel the destruction? Did the house have feelings? I had so many questions.
The skillet sizzled when Mr. Thatcher set it aside. He approached carefully to lean over the island, where he laid a tentative hand on mine, prepared to be pushedaway. “I understand this must be a lot for you, but I promise, you are safe. Please, tell me what transpired, and we may work out these troubles.”
