Page 44 of The Curse of Indy Moore
The armor returned, a tension to his shoulders and his smile too sweet. “They didn’t wantmeto have the case.”
The door opened. A kindly woman entered with plump cheeks and a bright pinstriped dress. She sat at the table, introducing herself as Kimberly, our intermediary. I wished she had been a moment later, as I wanted to ask Mr. Hawthorne more about what he meant.
Based on what the council members said, I concluded it had to do with his schooling, but I couldn’t understand why that mattered. Magic was magic. An artificer was an artificer, or so I thought. Time and time again, the world of magic proved itself even more complicated than I thought.
Kimberly went over the paperwork, explaining the conduction of the experiment. Mr. Hawthorne could do nothing without my written permission. Much to his chagrin, Kimberly wasn’t as impressed by Mr. Hawthorne’s recording device as hehoped. The man pouted while whispering grand promises to the little golden device that, one day, it would make headlines.
If I changed my mind, the contract would be void, and they provided contact information should anything go awry, so on and so forth. It was dull, albeit informative. After signing a dozen papers, Kimberly retrieved a scepter from her bag. Francesa’s had been as vibrant as herself. Mr. Hawthorne’s had been blue and plain, but Kimberly’s was softer, an off-white hue with faint yellow floral designs. Kimberly scribbled a rune at the top of the page. With a flash of silver, the stack duplicated. She gave me the original copy.
“Please keep this copy. Should you need a safe place for storage, we sell locked boxes at the receptionist's desk, and don’t worry, these can never be duplicated again.” Then she set her attention on Mr. Hawthorne. “Congratulations, your research has been approved. Your copy will remain here in Wyvern Spire. Have a nice day.”
After standing, Kimberly struggled momentarily to open the door. Sweating, she squeezed into the hall, where voices grew louder.
“Vultures, the lot of them. If they ruin even a hair on my head, I will curse someone.” Mr. Hawthorne stood, dusting himself off and adjusting his jacket. “Prepare yourself.”
“For what?” I asked.
He grasped the handle and opened the door into mayhem. Artificers filled the hall, their smiles enthusiastic or painfully forced. Word traveled fast, likely through magical means. Mr. Hawthorne pushed through the throng of bodies that made us their epicenter. I followed closely, flinching from their loud voices that even Mr. Hawthorne’s enchantment couldn’t dull entirely.
“Mr. Hawthorne, I simply must speak with you!” one cried.
“A project such as this could do wonders for our research. Would you not allow us to make a couple of suggestions?” asked another.
“I do not need your suggestions,” Mr. Hawthorne spat, no longer sharing the charismatic persona but one as scornful as the looks peeking through the crowd. “I know where to go and who to talk to, so begone. Ouch, watch where you are stepping. I just had these shoes shined!”
“But Mr. Hawthorne, please!”
“I’ll have you know, whoever ruins my attire in any manner shall be expected to compensate me at double the rate!”
Their voices became too many to decipher. They created a vortex of bodies shifting about with Mr. Hawthorne and I as the eye of the storm. The world of academia proved more lethal than a stampede. I’d take angry heifers over curious artificers any day of the week!
A man shoved against me, sending me to my knees, where a pair of heels cracked against my fingers. I hardly got out a yelp before a pair of firm hands caught me from under the arms to pull me to my feet. The crowd stopped. Their yapping ceased. Mr. Hawthorne loomed, his shadow fierce and eyes black, though that anger wasn’t pointed at me. His attention burned upon the stunned artificers.
The man who caused the collision offered an apologetic grin. “My apologies, Miss Moore. I merely wanted to chat.”
“If you would like a chat, we could take this outside for a duel, where I will eagerly put upon you ten times the affliction as you have done to Miss Moore. What do you say to that?” Mr. Hawthorne’s eyes crinkled from his fiercely unpleasant grin.
The artificers took a step back in unison.
Mr. Hawthorne held out an arm. “After you.”
“Thank you.” I hurried away from the crowd, relieved that Mr. Hawthorne kept behind me, throwing a glare at any who tried to get too close. Their attention burned against my back, hotter than iron, their scowls pointed, and their words spat between clenched teeth upon realizing our minds were made up.
“They do not seem to like you,” I said.
“You are very observant,” he replied.
“Simply because you attended Trinity Schoolhouse?”
He stepped in front of me, returning to the calm demeanor he shared earlier in the council room. “We are officially colleagues, and I expect us to conduct ourselvesappropriately. I will ask only for information that pertains to your case, and you will speak to me concerning working matters.”
“That seems a tad unfair, considering my case is rather personal. I should know who will be digging through my life,” I countered.
“Someone who can help you is digging through your life. That is all you need to know.” He approached the receptionist counter, where Mercy returned to their reading until he dropped coins on the counter. “One lock box.”
“I did not ask for one.” I rushed to scoop the coins back into his hand.
He swatted me aside and pushed them toward Mercy, who retrieved a lock box from beneath the desk. They held out their hands for my papers, which I reluctantly handed over.
