Chaos erupted in the ballroom. Half the guests were dancing to a fervent tune, the other half were engaged in a petty brawl of hair pulling and dress snagging as each woman tried to reach Hawthorn. No one seemed to notice the man had retreated to a balcony, upon which he overlooked the scene with a smile wide enough to swallow the rising moon.
Scowling, Hazel rolled up her sleeves, cast a Dissolving spell, and clapped her hands together. Luckily, her magic had no constraints in warlocks’ homes.
Hawthorn’s glamour faded, revealing a middle-aged man with mousey-brown hair that had begun to silver at the temples. Ironically, he was still handsome in the dignified way reserved for older men. But he no longer had the smooth, flawless skin and the shiny, flowing hair that wafted around his face.
Hazel thought he looked better without the glamour, but she must have been the only one, for the music stopped and a hush fell over the room as everyone turned to look at him.
Hawthorn grinned at the attention. But then, looking at his hands, his face fell.
Murmurs rippled through the room. The guests started to shuffle out the door.
“Wait!” Hawthorn said, but no one paid him any mind. He gripped the balcony banister as his face reddened. “Merrick! Don’t let them leave!”
The butler walked over to a gong sitting on a narrow table and struck it with a mallet.
Everyone froze, and the room quieted.
Merrick drew himself up tall and in a resounding voice said, “Dinner is served!”
A few women clapped their hands while others emitted various oohs and aahs. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about leaving and allowed Merrick to herd them through a door into a dining hall.
Hazel, however, hadn’t forgotten a thing. She pushed her way through the crowd until she found Holly just as she was about to step into the dining room. Hazel grabbed her arm and yanked her back, and Holly emitted a startled yowl.
Holly pulled free and rubbed her arm. “That hurt, you know.”
“We’re leaving,” Hazel said.
“But I don’t want to leave.” Holly’s voice turned wistful. “Have you ever seen anything so grand? All the masks and the painted ceilings. Why don’t we have painted ceilings?” She sighed. “When we get home, I’m going to paint them.”
“You can’t paint thatch,” Hazel snapped, then clenched her jaw and took a breath. “Never mind. We need to leave. We shouldn’t have come here. All this trickery. Should have expected as much from warlocks. Can’t be trusted, the lot of them.”
“But—” Holly began, though she was cut off again as Hazel grabbed her arm and pulled her into the hallway.
Hemlock stood in the little alcove with the masks. “Well done, dissolving Hawthorn’s glamour. Always a pleasure to have a witch in the house.” He smiled and gave a small bow.
Hazel glared at him. “I didn’t do it for your amusement.”
Hemlock smiled even more. “I know, which only makes it all the more amusing.”
She made a disgusted sound, yanked her mask off along with Holly’s, and pulled her sister to the door.
Holly sniffed as she gazed at her cat mask lying on the floor. “But… I don’t want to leave.”
“The night is still young,” Hemlock said. “I hope you’ll stay a little longer.”
Hazel whirled around. “And why on earth would I do that? So you can make a mockery of me and my sister? So we can be fools for your amusement?”
“No,” Hemlock said. “Because I knew your father, and word has it you’ve been looking for him.”
Hazel narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
“Your belief is not required, I’m afraid. It remains true, all the same.”
“Then where is he? If you know him, tell me where he is.”
He shook his head. “I said I knew Ash, not where he is. Yet knowing a man is a starting point, don’t you think? I might know more of his habits and inclinations than you do. How much do you know of your father? The foods he likes to eat or the places he likes to frequent?”
Hazel tensed. Her father was little more than a vague memory—a hazy recollection of a man who had once been in her life but who now only lived in the shadows of her mind.
“I’ll admit,” Hemlock said, “that what I know of him is woefully inadequate. I haven’t seen him since I was a very young man, and so what I do know of him perhaps is no longer true. But I’d like to think I can help you find the path. If you’re interested, that is.”
“Why would you help me? What do you want?”
Hemlock smiled and shook his head. “I don’t want anything. I am embarrassed that my brother’s antics have inconvenienced you, and this is my way of making amends.”
“We weren’t inconvenienced,” Holly said but clamped her mouth shut when Hazel glared at her.
Hazel didn’t want his help. This was a family matter, and she’d rather not enlist the help of a warlock she barely knew and didn’t trust. And yet her refusal caught in her throat. So far, she hadn’t been able to find her father on her own. Despite her determination to find a way to set her mother’s soul free, Hazel didn’t know what to do—she was out of options. So she just stood there, not wanting to accept yet unable to refuse.
Hemlock cleared his throat. “Such decisions need not be made at once. Perhaps we should join the others in the dining hall. A good meal always helps clear the thoughts, or so they say anyway.”
Holly squeaked as she hopped up and down while clapping her hands. “Oh yes, please. That would be delightful. Right, Hazel?”
She might not be able to accept Hemlock’s help, but she could, at least, accept an invitation to dinner. “Very well.”
Red-faced servants carried massive bowls and platters of food into the dining room through a swinging door. From beyond the door came shouts and cries, the clanging of pots, then the brittle sound of shattering glass. A few more servants bolted into the dining room, placed their trays onto a sideboard, and hurried away in the opposite direction.
Hawthorn, once again glamoured, sat at the head of an impossibly long table. There must have been nearly fifty women sitting around it. He smiled at his guests. “Do forgive the ruckus, but I assure you the meal will be worth it.” He snapped his fingers.
When nothing happened, he turned to the butler standing near one of the sideboards and raised his eyebrows.
Merrick coughed but remained still.
Hawthorn gave a nervous laugh. “That would be now, Merrick.” When the butler remained still, Hawthorn cast another worried glance to his guests and then, to Merrick, hissed, “Please!”
“Very good, sir,” Merrick said.
Hawthorn smoothed his hair and put on another smile. His gaze fell on Hemlock, Hazel, and Holly lingering near the door, and he waved a hand. “Come now, brother. We are not animals who eat our meals while standing. Come and sit, as is proper.”
Hemlock muttered something under his breath. Then he turned towards Hazel and extended an arm. “Shall we?”
Hazel adjusted the dragon mask that once again covered her face. The thing was ridiculously heavy. But before she could answer, Holly bounced forward and said, “Yes, we shall!”
She scooted past Hazel and Hemlock to one of the chairs closest to Hawthorn. It was occupied by a woman in a purple dress wearing a parrot mask. Holly reached into her pocket and pulled out a little pinecone. She rolled it between her fingertips and lifted her hand.
“Holly, don’t you dare!” Hazel said.
The room quieted as everyone turned to look at her, and Hazel’s face flushed behind her mask. Judging by the color of Holly’s neck, her sister did the same.
“But… Hazel!” Holly mewled.
Hazel marched to an empty seat at the other end of the table and sat down. Hemlock sat next to her, taking his position at the end of the table opposite Hawthorn. Holly, putting the pinecone back in her pocket, slumped into a chair across from Hazel.
Merrick and a few young men in black-and-purple l
ivery made their way around the table, presenting various dishes to the guests. One tray held a collection of herring stuffed with pickled radishes and leeks. Hazel and Hemlock took one herring each, but Holly shook her head and waved the servant away.
Judging by the food, the theme of the evening was “stuffed.” There were stuffed pheasants and stuffed parcels of ham, cakes filled with cream, and melons carved into jewelry boxes filled with an array of colorful fruits. There were stuffed gourds and stuffed lettuce leaves, walnut shells filled with tiny diced vegetables, and vegetables filled with finely chopped nuts.
Hazel tried to be polite and take a little of everything presented to her, but there seemed to be no end to the food and she refused to heap her plate like a glutton. Holly, however, had no such reservations. She took everything that she fancied, which was mostly the fruit, nut, and vegetable dishes. She seemed particularly fond of the mushrooms carved into the likeness of pinecones and grabbed hold of the servant’s sleeve before he walked off so she could help herself to another serving.
Conversation around the table turned to a murmur as the guests tried to eat around their masks. Those with half masks that covered only their eyes carried on most of the dinnertime conversation. Those with full masks tried to gracefully navigate food behind their facial coverings and pretend they were making a good job of it.
It was all so ridiculous. Hazel wanted nothing to do with such folly and removed her mask. Gasps rippled around the room; several guests dropped their forks onto their plates with unceremonious clangs.
Hawthorn closed his eyes and covered his mouth with an embroidered linen napkin. “Merrick!” he cried.
Merrick hustled over to Hazel and grabbed her by the arm. “You will come with us,” he said.
“What on earth for?”
“Propriety, madam, and your dismissal of it.”
“Propriety can stuff it. I’m sure there’s a cabbage leaf here somewhere for that.”
Hawthorn covered his eyes while, with his other hand, he waved at the air. “Is she gone yet?”
“I’m right here, you perfumed oaf,” Hazel said, not quite shouting but loud enough for her voice to carry across the sizeable table.
A few women covered their mouths as they gasped. The woman in the green dress and dragonfly mask fell out of her chair as she fainted.
Holly watched the whole affair while munching on a stuffed fig, dribbling crumbs of toasted bread and nuts.
Hemlock tried to hide a smile behind his wine glass.
“Does this amuse you?” Hazel said, annoyed.
“I am afraid that it does. Greatly.”
She stood up. “I am not here for your amusement.”
Merrick took the opportunity of her standing and pulled her towards the door.
A rage filled Hazel. She would not be silenced, not among these self-important buffoons. She yanked her arm out of Merrick’s grasp and, before he could grab hold of her again, marched towards the table and pulled off the mask of the first woman she came to.
“Tansy, how nice to see you,” Hazel said.
Tansy’s cheeks bloomed red, and she reached for the mask. Hazel threw it across the room, sending Tansy to scuttle after it.
Hazel moved on to the next woman and yanked off her mask as well, and the next one. One masked woman got up and tried to run from the room, but Holly tackled her and pulled off her mask and held it up like a trophy.
The other women seemed frozen by Hazel’s advance, blinking at each other from behind their masks before Hazel tore it off of them. No one seemed to know what to do in the face of such impropriety. Merrick remained by the door, his arms pulled close to his body as his features twisted in abject horror.
Hazel came to Hawthorn. “You,” she growled.
“Merrick?” he said, still covering his eyes with his hand. “What’s happening?”
Hazel pulled off his mask. He clutched at it, trying to bring it back to his face, but Hazel refused to let go. She rapped him on the skull with a knuckle, and Hawthorn cried out and let go of the mask as he put a hand to his head.
“You… you struck me,” he said. “Am I bleeding? Merrick! Am I bleeding?” He pulled his hand away and blinked at his fingers, seemingly confused at the absence of blood. He returned his hand to his head and repeated the process.
“I barely touched you,” Hazel said.
With his hand affixed to his head, Hawthorn rose from his chair and thrust a finger at her. “How dare you come here with your… your brutish ways. Merrick, escort her out.” He checked his fingers again.
“I’ll escort her,” Hemlock said, rising from his chair.
Hazel glared at him, but her fury had faded, and she no longer wanted anything more to do with these people. “Come on, Holly.”
Holly clutched the stolen mask to her chest and, walking to the table, grabbed a handful of figs and stuffed them into a pocket. Then she and Hazel followed Hemlock out.
Yet instead of leading them towards the hallway and to the front door, he crossed the ballroom and opened a different door that led into a library. He motioned for them to step inside. Hazel hesitated, but Holly, munching on a fig, walked right in.
Hemlock removed his mask, revealing a man roughly in his thirties. His features were plain, lacking the refinement of his brother. Yet there was a strength in the lines of his jaw and a level clarity in his gaze that put Hazel at ease despite herself.
He removed the glasses from his mask and put them on. “Please, I only want to talk.”
Hazel’s mouth worked soundlessly as she tried to find the words to refuse him. But she couldn’t. If he was telling the truth in knowing about her father, then she needed to find out what that was.
She let out a breath and followed Holly into the library.
Shelves of books lined the walls in a snug room furnished with a green upholstered sofa and matching armchair, which flanked a polished elmwood tea table. Holly perused the books, running a finger along the spines as she munched on her figs. Hemlock cast her nervous glances, no doubt worried she might ruin the books with her sticky fingers, but he said nothing. Instead, he pulled on a tasseled cord dangling from the ceiling next to the fireplace. He motioned for Hazel to sit down. So, grabbing hold of her skirts, she settled into the armchair, and Hemlock sat on the sofa.
A young man in livery walked in.
“Ah, James,” Hemlock said. “Could you bring us some tea?” He glanced at Holly, now rummaging through her pockets as she searched for more figs. “And perhaps some sandwiches or snacks of some sort. Whatever you can muster up is fine.”
James glanced at Hazel and then Holly. Holly, seeing his attention on her, brightened and took a step towards him. He cleared his throat and said, “Very good, sir,” then backed out the door. Holly, pouting, slumped onto the sofa next to Hemlock.
Hemlock adjusted his glasses. “I’m sure you have many questions.”
Hazel did, but she wasn’t sure where to start. “How do you know my father?”
“Our father,” Holly said.
“Well,” Hemlock began, sounding thoughtful, “we’re warlocks. Much like witches, warlocks congregate from time to time. Perhaps even more so than witches do. Witches seem to be more forgiving of the solitaries, the ones that wish to practice their magic alone. Warlocks do as well but are… stricter in not wanting to let individuals remain solitary for too long. As such, your father’s disappearance is a noticeable one among all of us.”
“Where did he go?” Hazel said.
Hemlock shook his head. “As I said before, I don’t know.”
“Then why are we here?”
James walked into the room, carrying a tray, and Hazel leaned back into her chair and put a hand over her eyes. Remain calm, Hazel. All will become clear. James placed the tray on the table and left the room.
Hemlock poured amber-colored tea into the accompanying cups. There was also a plate heaped with dainty sandwiches. Holly took three, stuffing one into her mouth as she took t
he cup that Hemlock offered her.
“Good grief, Holly,” Hazel said. “Try to show some restraint.”
Holly screwed up her face as she chewed. “Why? The sandwiches are there to be eaten; it’d be rude not to have any. Right, Hemlock?”
Hemlock smiled. “Of course.”
She flashed Hazel a smug grin before dipping one of her sandwiches into the tea and taking a bite.
Hazel swallowed a few sharp words along with some tea. It tasted bitter.
“Sugar?” Hemlock said, offering her a bowl of little white cubes.
Sugar would be nice, but she didn’t want to be in any kind of agreement with Hemlock. “No, thank you.”
He dropped a cube into his own tea and stirred with a little silver spoon. He seemed lost in thought, and so Hazel quietly sipped her tea as she waited for him to speak. Whatever she did, she shouldn’t be the one to speak first.
“So how do you know our father?” Holly said, grabbing another sandwich. “You didn’t really explain it all that well.”
Hazel closed her eyes. Holly had the tact of a mud-covered dog.
Hemlock adjusted his glasses. “Ah, yes, of course. As I was saying, we warlocks gather somewhat regularly, and before he disappeared, Ash was a regular among our Conclaves.”
Ash. Hazel knew it was her father’s name, yet somehow it still seemed strange hearing it spoken like that. To Hemlock, Ash wasn’t a father or a husband, he was just another man. To Hazel, her father was little more than a muffled voice behind a closed door or the immaculate handwriting of an old letter.
“Conclaves?” Holly said. “What are those like?”
Hemlock sipped some tea. “I imagine they are similar to your own meetings among witches.”
“I doubt it. What are they like?”
Hemlock gave a tight smile. “We aren’t really supposed to discuss it.”
Holly slumped, her face crestfallen.
“As you were saying,” Hazel said, annoyed at Holly’s distraction.
Hemlock glanced between the two women, looking more and more like a trapped animal. “Ash had… ideas, some of which were less than… ah… popular among other warlocks.”
Hazel and Holly Page 4