The guards moved towards her, but Hazel put herself between them and Holly.
“Nobody is doing anything in my house without my permission. Now, you two will tell me what’s going on, or I’ll turn the both of you into potted plants.”
Holly gasped. “But that’s what I do,” she whispered.
Garret pointed a finger at her. “Your sister there is a thieving shrew. She needs to account for her crime.”
“And just how, exactly, did she gain access to the house?” Hazel said. “You two stand guard at the gate, do you not?”
Sid shuffled his feet and cast Garret a nervous glance, but Garret just grew angry. He jabbed a finger towards Hazel. “I imagine with her witching ways.”
“She turned herself into mist!” Sid said.
Garret closed his eyes and tightened his jaw. He turned towards Sid. “What mist?”
Sid shrank within himself a little. “I saw it… all pale and… misty.”
Garret punched him in the shoulder, and Sid staggered back. “You’re an idiot.” To Hazel, he said, “She confessed to the crime; that’s all we need to know.”
Hazel scowled at the guards. “Am I the only one here who will acknowledge the gnome hiding under the couch cushions?”
“Hazel, no,” Holly whispered.
“The same gnome that was carrying the bag of stolen goods that’s still lying at your feet. Why doesn’t he need to account for anything?”
Garret’s sour expression faded, and he seemed less sure of himself. “She confessed,” he murmured.
Hazel made a disgusted sound and walked over to the couch, threw off the cushions, and grabbed Tum by the collar of his shirt and lifted him up.
Tum screeched and howled as he flailed his arms and legs. “Hands off! Grabber!”
Hazel thrust Tum at Garret, and Tum grabbed hold of Garret’s uniform and scrabbled up his chest and towards his head.
Garret cried out and backed away, swatting at Tum. “Get it off me!”
But Tum wouldn’t budge. He planted a hand on Garret’s nose and hoisted himself up. With his feet on Garret’s shoulder, Tum hurled himself to the ground, grabbed a couple of spoons off the floor, then ran out the door.
Garret bent over and rested his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Then, looking at Hazel, he said, “You’ll pay for that.”
Hemlock stepped forward. “My, what an exciting afternoon. Thankfully, it’s all over and done with.”
“But, sir—” Garret said.
Hemlock clapped him on the back and smiled. “Fine work today, Garret. You too, Sid. Hawthorn and I can take over from here. You two return home. Can’t leave the gate unattended too long, now can we?”
Garret squared his shoulders, his face impassive. “No, sir.” To Sid, he said, “Come on,” and then walked out the door.
Sid hesitated a moment as he glanced at Hawthorn. But the warlock just glowered and clutched the bear closer to his chest. Sid cleared his throat and followed Garret out.
After they had gone, Hazel slammed the door shut and locked it. She rounded on Holly. “What on earth were you thinking? Robbing Hemlock and Hawthorn? After they showed us hospitality? Have you no sense of decency?”
Holly wrung her fingers as she kept her gaze on the floor. “But Tum said…”
“And what exactly did that filthy little beast say to make you think it was a good idea? I’d love to know.”
Holly looked up at her, at Hawthorn, then returned her gaze to the floor. “Nothing,” she murmured. “It’s not important.”
Hazel put a hand over her eyes and let out a ragged sigh. “I swear, Holly, you’ll be the death of me, and on days like today, I can’t wait for that to happen.”
Holly swallowed, but her gaze remained fixed downward.
Hemlock cleared his throat. “No harm done, really. I’m sure this has all just been a playful misunderstanding. Isn’t that right, Hawthorn?”
Hawthorn continued to frown as he clutched the bear. He walked over to the remaining stolen goods scattered on the floor. He picked up the scarf, smelled it, then wrapped it around his neck. He moved his long fingers over the spoons and plates, picking up at last one of the crumpled pieces of paper. He smoothed it out, read it, and tossed it back onto the floor. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, straightening. “No harm done. What I don’t understand, brother, is why you are here if you didn’t have a hand in this… playfulness.”
Hemlock’s cheeks reddened. “I am afraid that is a private matter between Hazel and me.”
“No, it’s not!” Holly cried. “I want to know why you’re always here and what you two are always whispering about!” She folded her arms and gave them a defiant look.
Hawthorn stood next to her and folded his arms as well. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come clean, brother.”
Hazel closed her eyes. “Just tell them.”
Hemlock adjusted his glasses and said, “Well, it’s about your father, Holly.”
Holly lifted her shoulders and shook her head. “What about him?”
Hemlock glanced at Hazel then said, “As you know, we’ve been trying to find him. What you might not know is we suspect he’s been dealing in necromancy.”
Both Hawthorn and Holly unfolded their arms. Hawthorn looked pale, but Holly looked confused and mildly disappointed. “Is that all? Why’ve you been keeping that a secret?”
Hemlock blinked a few times. “Well, we… uh…”
“We didn’t want to upset you,” Hazel said.
“And so you lurk around being all creepy and secretive? You thought that was a better idea?”
“Well,” Hemlock said. “When you put it like that…”
“It doesn’t matter,” Hazel said. “All our efforts have turned up nothing, and so Hemlock won’t be coming around anymore, so you have nothing to worry about.”
“What do you mean you haven’t had any luck?” Holly said. “Why not?”
“I’m afraid my contacts in the Conclave don’t know anything,” Hemlock said. “We’ve come to a dead end.”
Silence hung in the room. Then Hawthorn walked over to the crumpled papers that had fallen from Tum’s bag, picked them up, and with a flourish, handed them over to Hemlock.
Hemlock’s brow furrowed as he took the papers. “What’s this?”
“Your way forward, it would seem.”
Hemlock read the papers and then, shaking his head, looked up at Hawthorn. “I don’t understand. What is this?”
“It’s a letter from an acquaintance of mine in the Conclave. An acquaintance that you do not share. He is one of the oldest members and, as such, is given more leeway for not attending than the other warlocks.” He turned towards Holly. “If anyone knows how to find your father, it will be him.”
Hazel said, “And why would he tell you anything at all?”
Hawthorn smiled, showing his perfect white teeth. “As it happens, he owes me a favor.”
The following day, Hazel, Holly, Hemlock, and Hawthorn sat in an ornate carriage as it rattled down the road. Holly stuck her head out the window, grinning as the wind buffeted her face.
“How is it that you know Pyrus?” Hemlock said. “Better yet, how is it that he owes you a favor?”
Hawthorn waved a bejeweled hand. “I know it’s sometimes easy to forget, but I am older than you.” He narrowed his eyes. “Honestly, Hemlock, would a simple glamour be too much to ask? People are bound to think you’re my father rather than younger brother.”
“Answer the question.”
Hawthorn fiddled with the purple velvet curtain hanging from the window as he peered outside. “He is an old friend of Father’s. As I am the eldest, Father introduced me and not you.”
Hemlock tightened his jaw. “And the favor?”
Hawthorn chuckled. “Because of me, he has Shirley and Shiela.”
“Who are they?”
“The two great loves of his life.”
Hemlock frowned, looking puzzled, but he sai
d nothing. Hawthorn smiled and returned his gaze towards the window.
The rest of the journey to Pyrus’s home was spent largely in silence. On occasion, Hawthorn would break the quiet with a heavy sigh or with a comment on the beauty of the summertime woods, which he would then equate to a sunset or a still pond or a moonlit sky. Whenever he did, Hemlock would close his eyes and shake his head, seemingly putting great effort into keeping his breathing even.
When the carriage at last slowed, Hemlock opened the door and jumped out before it had a chance to stop. Holly squeaked and clamped her hands over her mouth, but when she saw he was all right, she smiled and giggled.
“Me too!” she said, and before Hazel could stop her, Holly threw herself out of the carriage after him. She landed in a cloud of dust, stirred up from the carriage and her own clumsy landing, but she seemed fine.
“Barbarians,” Hawthorn murmured. Then, glancing at Hazel, he put on smile, showing his overly white teeth. “I mean that in the most affectionate way, of course.”
Hazel ignored him. She had no desire to speak with Hawthorn and his affected buffoonery. Being alone with him in the carriage was almost enough to make Hazel pitch herself out the door after Holly, but then the carriage turned onto a manicured circular driveway and stopped at the steps of a great brick home.
Holly and Hemlock came strolling down the road to meet them. From within the house, dogs barked.
“No,” Hemlock said to Holly as they approached, “I don’t usually jump out of the coach like that. Certainly not while it’s still moving. I…”—he cast a glance at Hawthorn—“just had an urge.”
“If I had a coach,” Holly said, “I’d make the driver drive me around every day, just so I could jump out of it like that. Bet I could get real good at it. Don’t you think?”
Hemlock smiled. “I’m sure if you practiced, you’d become exceedingly talented in the art of jumping from speeding carriages.”
Holly grinned.
The barking grew louder, and when the door opened, a pair of greyhounds raced out to greet Hawthorn. They jumped around him and on him and nearly knocked him over.
Hawthorn gave a nervous laugh and stiffly patted one on the head. “There’s a good girl, Shiela. Or is it Shirley?” He looked at a rumpled butler standing in the doorway, but the butler just shrugged.
Holly yelped and joined the dogs in jumping around Hawthorn. The dogs seemed to sense her enthusiasm and were soon jumping around her instead, tongues lolling like pink ribbons. One of the dogs barked, and Holly laughed and clapped her hands.
Hazel backed away. She’d rather not have a dog pouncing on her, thank you very much, and if it happened, she didn’t know if she’d be able remove herself from the situation with any grace. The last thing she needed was to offend Pyrus by yelling at his two beloved dogs.
“Shiela! Shirley!” came a stern voice from within the house.
The dogs calmed and trotted back towards the door where they met a man in a long burgundy robe. The material was smooth and shiny, and it rustled when he moved. Holly sighed.
“Pyrus,” Hawthorn said and smiled. He walked towards Pyrus and shook his hand. “It’s been a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Pyrus said. “The girls still remember you. Fondly, it seems. You know I don’t like competition.”
Hawthorn smoothed his hair. “The ladies often find it difficult to forget me.”
Pyrus smirked. “I imagine they do, though perhaps for different reasons than you think.”
Hawthorn shrugged as if such differences were of no concern.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Hemlock said, his voice tight.
Hawthorn waved a limp hand. “This is Hemlock, my brother, as you undoubtedly know.” Before Hemlock or Pyrus could say anything, Hawthorn rushed on, waggling his fingers towards the sisters. “And that’s Hazel, and that’s Holly. Two witch friends of Hemlock’s.” He sniffed.
Pyrus smiled and gave a slight bow to the women. “Charmed.”
Holly put a hand to her cheek and giggled.
For a man that was supposedly one of the oldest warlocks alive, Pyrus looked deceptively young. His curly, shoulder-length hair was still mostly dark brown, showing only streaks of grey at the temples. Similarly, his beard bore a stripe of grey along his jaw, but the rest was dark. What was with these warlocks and their glamours? Hazel wondered if her father was the same way—projecting an illusion of vitality that hid a frail truth.
“And to what do I owe this pleasure?” Pyrus said.
“I’m told you know my father,” Hazel said.
Pyrus’s eyebrows arched upwards, and Hawthorn chuckled nervously. “There’s a proper time and place for all things, Hazel, and this isn’t it. We haven’t even had tea yet.”
Pyrus remained silent, watching Hazel with shrewd, grey eyes.
“Shall we go in?” Hawthorn said and, without waiting for a reply, walked into the house.
“The dogs certainly think so,” Hemlock said as two wagging tails disappeared into the house behind Hawthorn.
“They’re off!” Pyrus said and went into the house after them.
Hazel glanced at Hemlock, and he shrugged and gave a lopsided smile.
“Come on, Holly,” she said. “Let’s see what this warlock knows.”
Pyrus’s home looked much like Hemlock and Hawthorn’s, with vast, dimly lit hallways of wood-paneled walls adorned with portraits. In the brothers’ house, the portraits were of old men—possibly ancestors. But in Pyrus’s home, all the portraits were of himself. Or of his dogs. Or both. Mostly both.
One painting depicted a striking landscape as the dogs ran over grass-covered hills beneath a sky of roiling clouds. Another painting depicted Pyrus carrying ropes of link sausages, leading the two dogs to a distant, sunlit land. Most disturbing of all was the painting of Pyrus wearing nothing but a torn white toga that barely covered his tan skin and bulging muscles while Shirley and Shiela flew around him on white, swanlike wings amid a flurry of colorful butterflies.
Hazel stopped to stare, but Hemlock nudged her and gave her a pleading look as he nodded towards the room into which the others had disappeared. Hazel followed and walked into a parlor with walls painted a burgundy color similar to Pyrus’s robe. A great stone fireplace dominated one of the walls over which hung a trio of paintings: Pyrus in the middle, holding a thick book and wearing a black robe adorned with brightly colored gemstones, while the other two paintings featured Shiela and Shirley respectively, each sitting obediently while gazing towards the center portrait of Pyrus.
“You really like your dogs, don’t you?” Holly said.
“They are my children,” Pyrus said. “What father doesn’t love his children?” He patted one of the dogs on its head, who lay upon a plush pillow in a corner of the room.
Holly’s expression turned solemn, and she sat down on one of two chocolate-colored leather sofas, directly across from Hazel. The butler came in—his suit still rumpled and his hair in disarray—carrying a tea tray. When the dogs saw him, they ran towards him. The butler cried out and hurried to the table by the sofas and set down the tray as the dogs yipped and pranced around him, nipping at his coat-tails and at the cuffs of his pants.
Pyrus laughed. “They are such playful creatures, and they just love Cheswick. Isn’t that right, Cheswick?”
“Y-yes, sir. Their uh… love… knows no bounds.” Sweat ran down Cheswick’s reddened face, and he gazed at the doorway as he wrung his hands. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, thank you, Cheswick. That will be all.”
Cheswick let out a ragged, heavy breath. “Very good, sir.” He all but ran to the door, slamming it behind him before Shirley and Shiela could follow.
Holly helped herself to some tea before topping a biscuit with jam and stuffing it into her mouth.
“Good grief, Holly,” Hazel said. “Can’t you ever wait to be invited before you start gorging yourself?”
“What?” Holl
y said, biscuit crumbs tumbling from her mouth. “They put out the tray. That is being invited. Waiting for the words seems awfully repetitive.” She ate another jam-topped biscuit, glowering at Hazel as she chewed.
Glaring back at her, Hazel said, “I apologize for my sister, Pyrus. Our mother died before Holly could be properly house-trained.”
Pyrus nodded. “House-training is a tricky business. Not all animals are suited to the task. It requires a keen mind—of both the trainer and trainee—as well as mutual respect and a natural inclination towards cleanliness.”
Holly licked her thumb and rubbed it on her skirt as she tried to remove a glob of jam. She looked up, finding everyone watching her. “What?”
Hemlock cleared his throat. “So, Pyrus, how long did you know our father?”
“I met Lupinus when he was a boy and I was a young man about to attend my first Conclave. My father and Lupinus’s father—your grandfather—were friends, and so they thought it prudent their sons also become acquainted.”
“But what about the dogs?” Holly said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The dogs, where did you get them? That’s what I want to know, not stuffy old warlock history.”
Pyrus leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “Well, the two stories are intertwined, in a way. Stuffy old warlocks like their customs, you see, and a custom was established when my father and Hawthorn and Hemlock’s grandfather introduced their two eldest sons to each other. To keep up the custom, Lupinus introduced his eldest son to me, given I don’t, nor will ever have, any sons of my own. Hawthorn, seeing I was childless, gave me a gift of two puppies, and my life has been blessed ever since.”
“That’s really nice,” Holly said, gazing at Hawthorn.
Hawthorn smiled and smoothed his hair. “Yes, well, I do try.”
“Though,” Holly said, sounding thoughtful, “if introducing your sons is a custom, and your dogs are your children, does that mean Hawthorn will introduce his future son to your dog’s eldest puppy?”
Hemlock choked on his tea. He set down his cup. “Excuse me,” he wheezed.
“You all right?” Holly asked.
Hazel and Holly Page 6