Page 29 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“Thank you,” he said. “Lucinda doesn’t suit you.”
“Which is why I go by Indy.”
“How did that nickname come about?”
“Is my answer pertinent to my case?”
“It could be,” he replied, though that grin said otherwise.
“I would rather not talk about it.”
He settled his hands atop the desk, reminding me of Carline when she realized she caught me. I felt the same way under his attention, caught by a predator waiting for the prey to slip up. He watched, intent, focused, the heat of him palpable enough to dry my lips. It was his eyes that caught me, such an enchanting green, threatening to devour. He waited for me to begin, so I did, from the start. He remained silent during the retelling, speaking only for clarification, specifically about the wolves.
“Did they speak?” he asked, puzzling me.
“What? No. They howled. They acted as wolves would,” I replied, wishing not to think of them at all. The mere thought encouraged the sensation of fear, the mist coiling around me, shielding them from view, but not me from theirs. I should have known early on that a demon was at play, or some form of magic.
“They didn’t, by the sounds of it,” he countered. His pen scribbled furiously. “They were intelligent enough to guide you to their master. That is rather troublesome.”
“Wasn’t that Carline controlling them?” I asked.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. We cannot make assumptions and must always ask questions.” Mr. Hawthorne’s pen noted this on the page.
He requested details about Carline herself, what she looked like, sounded like, any abilities she may have shown, and the feelings she invoked. Recalling the memory of her sent a chill down my spine, and my ears flattened. It was strange to feel them react, then we went onto the cottage, what it looked like, smelled like, and the specifics of the interior.
At the mention of the dresses and jewels, I expected Mr. Hawthorne to make a crude remark. He did no such thing, but asked, “Were you interested in them, the dresses and jewels?”
His words came back to me: no lying. I twisted my skirt in my hands until my knuckles shrieked. The truth felt childish, selfish, humiliating even, and that truth burned the back of my throat. I grabbed the cup of tea the pot poured for us earlier. The steam had long since faded, yet it felt too much for my tongue.
I swallowed hard and set the cup aside to give a muttered answer. “Yes. They were beautiful. I’ve worn nothing like them… although I have thought about it. I’ve wanted to, occasionally.”
“Would you say, then, that it felt like Carline put them there to test you?”
“Absolutely.” I detailed the moments from the mirror, my reflection, and the dance behind me.
“A masquerade ball,” he said, and the pen underlined the words. “Does that mean anything to you?”
More hesitation on my part, coaxed on by Mr. Hawthorne’s telling stare. He had the look of someone you wouldn’t like the consequences of lying to. But it was worse admitting that to him, someone who lived the life that would have a masquerade ball or two. To him, my feelings must mean nothing, must be so very little in his eyes that saw a world beyond my abilities.
“Yes,” I admitted. “As a child, I walked home from work with my mother. We passed carriages carrying nobles to a masquerade ball. I was dazzled by them. I always wondered what it would be like to attend one.”
“So Carline understood your desires well,” he said.
“It wasn’t a desire I have lingered on. That was from childhood. How could she have known that? And why pick that, of all things?”
“Demons seek what they want, the similarity I mentioned earlier, the emotion that makes them feral, and they use what they think they can to convince their prey to accept their terms. Continue,” he replied.
I recounted my escape, how Carline followed me through the forest, and the door I thought I saw in the field. “Could the house truly have made a door appear out of nowhere?”
“If Ivy sensed you were in trouble, there could be ways the house got you here,” he replied nonchalantly.
“Aren’t you interested to know if your house is capable of letting in strangers whenever it pleases? Perhaps the day will come when it grows tired of you stuffing it full of things and may let in a band of thieves.”
“Then they will regret doing so. Believe it or not, Miss Moore, but I am not one you wish to trifle with.” Mr. Hawthorne scanned his pile of notes concerning my firsthand account. He circled or underlined what he perceived to be pertinent information. “You need to tell me of any changes you feel as well. The ears are a start, but there may be more.”
I barely contained my groan. “Like what?”
“My worry is your change. The longer you have a curse, the worse it gets, so there may be a chance that you will shift during the day.”
