Page 39 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“Impressive,” said Mr. Hawthorne. “You kept in your breakfast. Most get sick on the first try.”
“Must you be so immature?” Otis asked, keeping a firm hold on my hand. Mr. Hawthorne released me, and Otis gently rubbed my back. “I fear this feeling was inevitable. Transportation takes its toll on us, but it will pass.”
“It is,” I said gratefully. My stomach settled, as did my feet. The firm ground gave a sense of safety, and with it, clarity.
We were not in a garden any longer. Endless scents infiltrated my nostrils, each more abrasive than the last. Then there was the noise, screeching, hollering, dogs barking, cats yowling, clicking heels, bickering, constant life that bombarded me. I held a hand over my hat, hoping it would silence the sounds splicing apart my nerves.
“Does anything trouble you?” Otis asked.
“It’s too loud,” I answered, squinting as if that would ease my headache.
Mr. Hawthorne whipped out his scepter. “Ah, we should have considered this earlier. Hold still, Miss Moore.”
He walked behind me to inscribe runes on the hat.Upon completion, the sounds dulled. The scents I could deal with easily enough.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much.” I took a relieved breath and admired the world around us now that I could. A domed arena, the top constructed of clear glass, revealed a clouded sky above. Otis guided me out of the alcove, egg-shaped with the same runes from the garden carved into the stone floor.
There were dozens upon dozens of alcoves covering the walls three stories high, flashing with that silvery light, tendrils reaching out of the coves to beckon the next artificer. People departed clutching briefcases and papers, their heels clicking on the floor toward one of the four exits on the bottom floor. The entire building was constructed of the same material: an off-gray stone. The stairwells followed the curve of the walls, and the railings were carved with spheres. At the center of the bottom floor, a golden geometrical shape expanded outward.
“Welcome to Mayford’s Transit Hall, created by Hope Mayford, a brilliant artificer who founded summoning circles, thus leading to the construction of this hall,” Mr. Hawthorne declared, sounding awestruck. “Fascinating. Her work is like poetry, true beauty within her inscriptions. I’d give anything to have met her.”
“Any artificer can use this?” I asked, observing the many artificers coming and going. One could scarcely keep track, and none of the exits had security. “Is this not unsafe?”
“Only licensed artificers of the Sidore Kingdom have access to Mayford’s Transit Hall. Inscriptions are updated regularly and sent to artificers to ensure there are no unwelcome guests.” Otis’s hand remained on my back, soothing as a father’s touch. “I shall take my leave. We will meet later in the Grand Tempest Archives. Until then.”
Otis tipped his hat, then vanished with a rush unlike him. Slate followed, dipping out of the hall into the sun rays. I soon learned why when a series of artificers called, practically in unison, “Mr. Hawthorne!”
“Mx. Ranger, how are you?” Mr. Hawthorne laughed like he heard a joke and shook the hand of an artificer draped in silks clutching a leather bag.
Behind them, another artificer rushed to offer a hello. Mr. Hawthorne hardly took three steps before stopping, chatting away about subjects ranging from theweather to projects artificers sought his assistance on. He garnered attention, as he so clearly wanted, leaving me to meander at his back, desperate to reach the exit. At the rate we were moving, Mr. Hawthorne would greet every resident artificer of Eldari.
A clock suspended from the center of the dome, four-sided like a spinning top, tolled, signaling the strike of noon. Questions of whether we could get what we needed done in time overwhelmed me, leaving a lingering sensation of irritation. That irritation was rightfully pointed at Mr. Hawthorne, who took to blabbering on with Mrs. Whitmore, an elderly woman waving around a notebook of scribbles, or rather, inscription work, as Mr. Hawthorne was most taken by it.
We at least made it outside, where a grand park full of lush gardens and winding pathways surrounded us. Families sat out on picnic blankets, enjoying the autumn day. Unlike Westshire, the capital had a warmer air, even into the fall season. A band played nearby, the tune upbeat and garnering the attention of locals, who took to dancing before dropping coins into the singer's outstretched hat.
The magnolia trees remained in bloom this far south, making one believe to be in a forest rather than a city. Slate took to waiting in one, fixated on a scarf trailing along behind a young woman waltzing through the park. Through the gorgeous pink petals were glimpses of bricked buildings and balconies, and above them were steeples so high, they challenged the sky. The castle steeples congregated together, topped in a shade of deep blue, like the ocean I could now smell. Salt and brine—nothing I’d ever smelled before—wafting through the trees on a cool breeze. I wondered where the port was, if we would see the boats and their many colored sails, but alas, I remained at Mr. Hawthorne’s side, waiting for his lips to seal.
“While I am currently indisposed, Mrs. Whitmore, please allow me to recommend another artificer to visit your estate. Should you be displeased with her, I will come as swiftly as I can,” said Mr. Hawthorne with the elderly woman’s hand carefully grasped in his.
“I trust your judgement, Mr. Hawthorne, and I look forward to receiving your letter of recommendation.” She retrieved the journal Mr. Hawthorne offered andgave as much of a curtsy as her old back could manage then wandered off, presenting an opportunity to latch onto Mr. Hawthorne’s arm.
He gawked. “My, my, Miss Moore, how bold of you. If you wish to be close, you need only ask, though I am flattered by your insistence.”
“I wish only for us to leave. Perhaps we could use one of your inscriptions if it will let us escape this hall before another drags you off.” I stomped along the path, quickening when another called for him. He hadn’t heard—finally focused on me rather than his adoring fans.
“Jealousy is unbecoming of you,” he said.
“The only jealousy I have is toward those who need not suffer a day with you. Now, may we speak? I have something to share concerning my curse, which is what we should focus on rather than your many acquaintances.”
“My acquaintances,” he snorted. “Do you know who Mrs. Whitmore is?”
“Why, yes, of course, I visit Eldari every summer, didn’t you know?”
He then turned a sharp corner. I would have tripped if he didn’t keep a firm hold on my arm. Others walked the park, and a couple took to cuddling on a bench. Children played tag through the trees, and a woman flew her kite, shrieking when the string tangled in the trees.
“She is the widower of Mr. Whitmore, and not long before her, I spoke to a Mr. Silman and Mx. Ranger. All three have heavily lined pockets that so adore a charming chat with an equally charming gentleman, who will soon request they use those heavily lined pockets to fund the building of a new school for artificers such as myself,” he explained.
