Page 33 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“And a successful one.” He put a gentle pressure on our connection. “Trust in Rooke. I know he can be a handful, but he is good at what he does.”
I didn’t doubt that he was capable in his way. We stood in the proof of his abilities, but that didn’t mean he could defeat a demon’s curse. Mr. Hawthorne admitted this was not his area of expertise, and I never heard of any tale where one cursed made it out alive. While tales were exaggerated and spun into lessons or entertainment, they were inspired by truth, and the truth was, demons were dangerous and deadly.
Otis led us further through the halls, opening the occasional door, only to slam it shut, as if the mess embarrassed him. The cleaner rooms I could see were the formal dining area, a lounge, then the music room. Charlotte would love it. Every instrument I could think of, plus a hundred more, adorned the facade. The music room was bigger than a cathedral, an entire wall made of windows to view the garden beyond, and adjacent to that were scrolls upon scrolls of sheet music.
“If my cousin could see this, she would never leave.” I laughed while running my fingers over a nearby violin. It hurt to think that I wouldn’t see Charlotte for some time, all of them.
“Once you’re better, we will have to bring her here for a visit,” Otis declared.
“Can you play?”
“The piano, yes, but I fear my skills may be rusty, and my fingers are not as agile as they once were.”
“What of Mr. Hawthorne?”
“He has made his attempts.” Otis clutched the lining of his petticoat and gritted his teeth. “I am relieved he has ceased them. You are lucky not to have arrived when he took up the flute. I feared for our health.”
I giggled at the thought, then took another gander at the room. This, like the other rooms, had so much stuff everywhere, yet Mr. Hawthorne didn’t play. I understood him having a piano for Otis, but once he realized music wasn’t his forte, why did he keep it all?
“Has he always been like this, keeping everything and anything in sight?” I asked.
“All this is rather daunting, isn’t it? I’ve been here a few years and have become accustomed to it, I suppose. As for Rooke, he buys what he wants when he wants.”
“How incredible for him,” I mocked.
Otis frowned; the crow lines around his eyes deepened. He settled his hands along the lapels of his jacket. “Yes, he has accomplished much to get where he is. I do hope you will not think too poorly of him. Those born to so little can grow up to want more.”
My fingers traced the edge of the piano. “Mr. Hawthorne was not born to a family of artificers?”
“No, he was the first of his family with the affinity.”
“I see.”
We were always told magic passed through the family. Those of great bloodlines rose to power because they were born to it. The sovereign’s family had a rare few artificers, and they certainly surrounded themselves with more. Many artificers became noble houses due to their lineage, if I remembered my little schooling correctly. But if Mr. Hawthorne didn’t come from that, it would explain such a haughty attitude and his need to show off his accomplishments, except how did he have magic at all?
Mr. Hawthorne was more of an enigma today than he was yesterday. I never understood the need, the want to show off, to have more than was necessary. Greed made one ill, poisoned them with a desire that couldn’t be quenched. When greed stole one’s heart, they became less a person and more a monster. Their eyes glazed over, and they saw nothing as it was, but what it could be: an opportunity, a potential deal to be struck, a hand to steal from, and if you stood against them, you would meet a grisly fate.
I rubbed my wrist thinking how I never wanted to be like that. I would never become that.
“Let us take to the gardens,” Otis suggested. “They are quite lovely, and I think you will appreciate them. They may feel more like home.”
“Yes, that sounds lovely.”
We went to the gardens, where Otis had planted a variety of species, like his greenhouse. Their vibrant colors stood stark against the forest and the lush grass. A stone bench had been erected near a pond full of fish. Goldfish, I believed, based ontheir vibrant orange scales. Miss Beamy sat on the ledge, eyes wide and butt wiggling. She broke the surface with her paw, hissing when the fish scattered. From out there, I admired the house, noting that parts on the left-hand side, the bottom portion of the castle resembled more of an old cottage, not so dissimilar from the one I lived in.
“That’s where Ivory House started.” Otis took to sitting on the bench and retrieved a sketchbook from his satchel. He pointed at the cottage using a shading pencil. “The cottage had been Rooke’s family home. Once he made a name for himself, he bought a larger home and kept the cottage as his workshop. Then he carefully maneuvered the two together. The workmanship that took, dear me, I couldn’t explain if I tried.”
“He doesn’t use it as a workshop now. His office was on the second floor,” I said. And in our travels, I had seen nowhere that resembled a cottage interior.
Otis drew while he talked. “It’s closed off from the rest of the house. It’s old, and he didn’t make many changes to it, just added on.”
I walked over to the cottage portion, where the windows were clouded over by dust. Wiping the outside did nothing. The interior remained unknown, so I took to traversing the garden, inspecting the flowers that sang through my senses. This curse brought on an abnormal sense of smell. Ivory House, while in desperate need of a deep cleansing, had a pleasant aroma, likely thanks to the surrounding garden.
A splash from the pond had me wandering over to observe Miss Beamy’s desperate fishing attempts. She swatted at fish, growling and chirping. One she caught in her paws, but the fish squirmed and fell back into the water. The water rippled with a hint of gold. Miss Beamy crawled along the edge in search of new prey. I knelt to get a closer look at the golden fish, but it wasn’t a fish. Carline stared back at me, her expression calm and eyes brilliant gold.
“Miss Moore.”
I shrieked, causing the fish Miss Beamy stalked to jump and splash. Carline’s reflection disappeared among the ripples. A mirage, a trick of the eyes from my rattled mind. She couldn’t spare even my thoughts. I turned, half expecting to see her in the trees, but all I was met with was a frowning and mildly damp Mr. Hawthorne.
