Mortimer slouched a little in his chair, gazing out the window. His expression was slack, his eyes ringed with dark bags. He flexed his fingers in his gloves, resolving to suffer through the churning in his stomach and the rest of his class in hermetic silence. The class—his Philosophy and Ideals 200-level course—ended around 2:30PM, and then he had half an hour to kill before he had to make his way downtown to the shop on Holly Street.
When Mortimer had learned the shop itself was called Little Curses, he couldn’t stop the scoff that worked its way out of his throat. “You’d think they curse people just to get business,” he’d said, and Elijah had simply shaken his head as Rakesh chewed him out for “being a dirty pessimist, which is bad, and being one out loud, which is worse.”
Despite his pessimism, he’d let Rakesh make an appointment for him, wordlessly passing on the responsibility so he could have a bit more time to process exactly what was going on. Mortimer had been raised on tales of folks in exactly his predicament: people with minor curses placed on them for a myriad of sins, be they covetousness, vanity, pride, disobedience, or other such little-loved traits. And every time, those heroes, with their sudden ugliness or disfigurement or inability to do something they once could, would have to journey into the wilds and change themselves in order to be free of the curse.
Mortimer always interpreted those curses as more metaphorical things than his parents believed. He always presumed those curses were actually people erroneously building their entire identities around silly things like beauty or talent, and their journeys were intended to show them that the self, and by extension, self-worth, were vastly different than what one could present as or create. But, as his professor was even now explaining, the clock ticking ever closer to 2:30, the self, and what truly constitutes the self, is not entirely agreed upon. Some believe it’s memories that make up a self—experiences and reactions to experiences. But others argue the self is inherent, untouched by outside influence. Others still argue that the self is unknowable, and misidentified with alarming regularity.
The class discussion drew Mortimer further into his own head. He didn’t have a clue who he was, so by his own logic, he should never have been cursed, because curses happened to people who believed they knew everything, including themselves, and whose perception of the world was narrow and resistant to change. But he liked to think he was open to new ideas, embracing the ever-changing nature of the world. And he had no misconceptions about who he was or what made him special, because he had no idea about either of those things anyway. So, presuming curses were real, and he actually hadn’t been struck by some heretofore unknown-yet-fatal disease whose symptoms were brought along by touching, something about him must be… well, wrong, and something out there, or someone, thought he needed to be taught a hard lesson in order to change. And if that wasn’t the most discouraging thing to realize about all this, he wasn’t sure what was.
“Excuse me?”
Mortimer blinked, sitting up quickly despite the protests in his back and neck. A beautiful woman with long, honey-blonde hair and round brown eyes stood in front of him, wearing a too-big patchwork sweater and wringing the strap of her leather bag in her hands.
“Hi,” Mortimer said, trying not to worry about how the bags under his eyes and his messy hair must have appeared to her.
“Hi,” she replied. “You know Rakesh, right? Rakesh Singh?”
He nodded. “I’m one of his roommates, yeah.”
She smiled. “I’m Penelope Tucker.” She held out a hand, and Mortimer shook it, still a little dazed by her sudden appearance dashing him from his reverie. “I was wondering if you knew if he’d be in his room tonight. I have something I have to return to him, but I haven’t been able to catch him.”
“I’ll see him later today,” Mortimer said. “I’ll let him know you want to see him?”
Penelope smiled. “Perfect,” she said.
From behind her, two arms entwined around her waist, and a bookish man with smoky brown eyes and freckles dotting his dark skin peered over Penelope’s shoulder, resting his chin next to her neck. “Afternoon,” he said in a quiet, thoughtful voice, and Mortimer nodded to him, his lips quirking a bit in a smile.
“This is my boyfriend, Marcus Eames,” Penelope said. “Marcus, this is one of Rakesh’s roommates, Mortimer…” She trailed off, peering at him sheepishly.
“Mortimer Dryden,” he said. “Please don’t ask about how ridiculous my name is.”
“I’ll try not to,” Marcus said, an almost imperceptible smile breaking his features.
Mortimer relaxed into his seat a little, his earlier melancholy fading into the background of his mind as they chatted. “How do you know Rakesh?” Mortimer asked.
“We went to Ellesworth High together,” Penelope replied. “I’ve known Rakesh since I think we were… what, twelve? And Marcus moved here when he was fifteen. We’ve been friends forever.”
“Did you all plan to go to Port Waide together?” Mortimer asked.
“Not initially,” Marcus replied, and Mortimer’s eyes snagged on the game Penelope and Marcus were playing on her stomach, each trying their best to put their hand on top of the other’s and keep it there. He tried to keep his smile to himself. “I’m majoring in History and Language Interpretation and Translation, and Port Waide has always been a liberal arts area. Since Rakesh wanted to major in Musical Theater and Penny wanted to major in English Lit, this seemed like the perfect place for all of us to go. Plus we got scholarships for being local. Penny’s here on a full ride.”
Penelope blushed and smacked Marcus’s hand. “Shut up,” she murmured.
Mortimer grinned. “Congratulations,” he said, and Penelope elbowed Marcus, who let out a soft “oof.”
“Thank you,” Penelope said.
“I’m allowed to be proud of your accomplishments,” Marcus said.
“Yes, but it’s rude to talk about money in front of other people,” Penelope replied. To Mortimer, she said, “I’m really sorry. Uh, can you let Rakesh know I want to see him?”
Mortimer nodded, catching a glance up at the clock. 2:42. He had to be at Little Curses by 3:15. “I will,” Mortimer replied. “Listen, I gotta go, but it was great meeting you two.”
“We’ll see you around,” Marcus said, releasing Penelope so the two could steer their way toward the door.
Mortimer gathered up his textbook and notebook, tossing them into his bag and bolting for the door. He’d miss the bus downtown, but if he hurried, he’d be able to make it to the shop with a bit of time to spare.
As he ran across campus, for once envying the skateboarders who always seemed at ease gliding across the sidewalks, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing momentarily at the screen—Bus left. E and I are on it. You okay?—before quickening his pace.
Slowly, Point Waide shifted downhill, the town clustering tighter within itself as it grew closer to the ocean. The old brickwork buildings sat like lean turrets, tall and thin, toppling into each other like drunk friends staggering down the road. The roofs were patchwork tableaus of reds, greens, yellows, and grays, dotting their way down toward the ocean. Port Waide was by no means small, but it sprawled in such a way that every bit of it felt like its own hamlet.
Mortimer hadn’t had much time to really get to know Port Waide since this whole… thing happened. The town flew by him as he jogged, and he tried his best to take it in as he ran past: historic street lamps upgraded from oil to electricity, gardens fading into their dormant states as summer gently flew south for the winter, cars rumbling over old cobblestone streets diveted by car wheels and wagon wheels alike. There was a sort of majesty in this place, a beauty in its simplicity that gave it an air Mortimer would be hard-pressed to call “magical,” but for which he could find no other word.
As he crested the small bump in Holly Street, Mortimer could catch the familiar silhouette of Elijah’s long coat, and the bright pink of Rakesh’s “Yass Queen” sweatshirt. The weather was finally cooling, so Rakesh’s colorful array of sweatshirts and jackets was coming out, like the plumage of a vibrant bird.
Looking both ways, Mortimer jogged across the crosswalk between Holly and Matheson, slowing to a walk just before Elijah and Rakesh.
Rakesh glanced at his phone. “Geez, Mort,” he chided, “it’s only three-oh-four. You could’ve, like, actually walked some of the way.”
Mortimer noticed his heavy breathing, the slight sweat accumulating in the nooks and crannies of his body, and blushed as he swiped his sleeve across his forehead. No doubt his insane curls were in a state, too. This curse breaker person was going to think he was desperate. “I missed the bus,” he panted. “I didn’t want to keep you guys waiting too long.”
“There you go again, acting like your existence is an inconvenience,” Rakesh mumbled. He reached out to Mortimer, hesitating for a moment before patting his clothed shoulder with a jubilant smile. Something in Mortimer’s chest tightened, but he smiled in return.
Elijah rummaged through his bag, finally pulling out a water bottle and handing it to Mortimer. Mortimer thanked him quietly, sipping as slowly as he could in some vague attempt to not appear winded or deranged.
As he drank, Mortimer took in the shop. If the GPS hadn’t told them the shop’s address, he would never have known this was a place where curses were broken. The brick facade was old, the color of the clay worn to an ashen brown with time, weather, and patience. The front of the entire building was covered in ever-expanding ivy (and his mother’s voice echoed, unbidden, in his head: ivy is for ambition, expansion, a drive to become more than you already are), twirling ever upward, gaining purchase on everything it possibly could. The door was an earthy nut-brown behemoth carved with intricate leaf and vine patterns, with a heavy frame protecting it, holding it in place. In the window, what appeared to be a small array of knick-knacks, sundries, curios, and other trinkets with no discernable connection were arranged on a multi-tiered table. A small sign on the door was the only indication that the shop had any particular purpose at all:
LITTLE CURSES
Open Mondays through Saturdays, 9AM to 4PM
For Curses Major or Minor, We Aspire to Help
“Should we go in?” Mortimer asked, glancing over at Elijah.
But Elijah merely looked at him as if he was observing something. “Do you really want to?” he asked. “I know you said you’d let us do this for you, and you’d try it, but I don’t want to pressure you into doing something just because we said you should.”
Mortimer shivered in a cool breeze that ambled by. Even with the cold, Mortimer was acutely aware of the rough material of his gloves.
He shrugged, trying to seem aloof. “What do I have to lose from this? If it is a curse—and I’m still not convinced it is—and they’re able to help, great. And if it isn’t, or if they can’t help, then nothing’s changed.”
Elijah looked at him for a moment longer, his expression serious with concentration, before he nodded.
Rakesh clapped both of them on their shoulders. “I for one can’t wait to see what this place looks like on the inside,” he said, his grin tinted with a hint of mischief. He opened the door, ushering Elijah and Mortimer inside.
A happy bell jingled as the door closed behind them. Immediately, Mortimer was struck by a nostalgic smell. In the woods by his parents’ home, a small creek flowed, and all the stones surrounding it were covered in moss. When it rained, or when late summer mornings would break with dew still gathered on the ground, there was a peculiar smell that Mortimer always took solace in, and smelling it here reminded him of home.
Next to him, Rakesh breathed in deeply and let out a happy sigh. “Smells great in here,” he said, and Elijah nodded.
“We’ll have to ask what candle they’re using,” Elijah replied.
The inside of the shop looked nice, if a bit too “witchy” for Mortimer’s liking. Those unrelated objects in the window accentuated the overall feel of the room. The hardwood floors, which creaked under every step, were lovingly draped in rugs of all shapes and sizes, all of them in warm colors. The windows, besides the display window in the front, were draped with thick, mustard-yellow curtains, and the walls were nutmeg brown, dotted occasionally with paintings, wall lamps, and, oddly enough, taxidermied bugs. Interspersed around the room, hanging plants in an assortment of holders brightened up the atmosphere. A long counter, also decorated with autumnal objects, stood between this front room and a door leading further into the shop.
And, situated behind the counter, was a person. They leaned against the counter, their bright red hair falling over their left shoulder in a long, loosely-woven braid. Freckles dotted across their cheeks, spilling down their neck and into their cardigan. They watched Mortimer, Elijah, and Rakesh, hand on their chin and a soft smile splitting their features.
“Good afternoon, all,” they said. “Welcome to Little Curses. I’m Quinlan, but you can call me Q. They-them pronouns, please!”
Elijah smiled. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, ever polite. “I’m Elijah Wakefield. We made an appointment with the, uh, curse breaker for Mortimer Dryden.” Elijah gestured to him, and Mortimer stepped forward a little, feeling out of his depth.
Q turned to him with a quirked brow and a grin. “Welcome, Mortimer,” they said. “You doing okay?”
Mortimer blinked owlishly. “Uh, sure,” he said, shuffling on his feet. “I’m fine.”
Q looked at him with sympathy Mortimer wasn’t sure he’d done anything to earn. “Curses can be scary sometimes,” Q said. “I may just be the secretary here, but I want you to know that if there’s anything I can do for you, just say the word. Some people go through curses by themselves, and I’m very glad that you have friends around to help.” Q smiled at Elijah, then at Rakesh, before, quite suddenly, their face went blank. Their eyes widened, caught on something over Mortimer’s shoulder, and their mouth was agape but they uttered no sound. The three of them turned, but whatever Q was seeing, they could not perceive.
“Q?” Rakesh asked, stepping closer and reaching for them, and as if the movement broke the equilibrium, Q snapped their head to look at Rakesh, their breathing frantic and heavy. They grabbed Rakesh by the shoulders and hauled him bodily to the counter, their eyes wide yet unfocused, darting frantically among every feature on Rakesh’s face. Mortimer surged forward, burying his hands in the thick of Rakesh’s sweatshirt to pull him away from Q, but Q was speaking, and Mortimer seized to a sudden halt.
“Don’t take it back,” Q said, not threatening but urgent, with all the weight of something that must be said now, or it would be far too late.
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