Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  “Hazel would know.”

  Hemlock looked down at his hands.

  Holly studied him awhile before saying, “Did she ever tell you what happened to our mother?”

  He shook his head. “I know she passed away. I have gathered, given your father’s tampering in necromancy, that maybe he had something to do with her death. Or… maybe with something that happened afterward.”

  “He trapped her soul in a geas. Hazel’s been trying to figure out how to undo it.”

  Hemlock swallowed. “That is terrible. I’m sorry.”

  Holly looked off towards the trees and nodded. “I went to go see her—our mother—the other night. Right before we left. It was the first time I went since she died.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Terribly. I couldn’t even look at her, and then I left. Now we’re here. I can’t go back and tell her I’m sorry.” She wiped at her eyes. “I might never get to tell her.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Holly stared at her hands resting on her lap. “If you have something you want to tell someone, you shouldn’t wait.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Hazel. She likes you, and I think you might like her too.”

  Hemlock cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “Well, yes, but it’s complicated.”

  “I know. Hazel always makes everything complicated. But you need to figure it out. She needs someone like you, though she’ll never admit it.”

  He shook his head. “I’d like to believe that, but I’m not sure I do.”

  “Did you know that when I was six, our mother left us once?”

  He blinked. “I… No, I didn’t know that.”

  Holly nodded. “Just upped and left, didn’t say where she was going or why or when she’d be back. Hazel was around twelve then, and she was furious. I remember her yelling and she threw something—a plate maybe, I don’t remember what—and broke it. I cried. Hazel grew really quiet, and then she walked into the kitchen and grabbed a jar of honey. She took my hand and led me outside, and we walked to a pond nearby our cottage. We sat on a log together, kind of like this one, and ate the honey with our fingers until the sun set. Then we stayed out and watched the stars. It’s one of my favorite memories, and I sometimes forget that it’s only because our mother left that we did that at all.”

  Holly peered at Hemlock in the gloom. “Despite her rough edges, Hazel’s always looked after me—after Mother too. It’s who she is. I just hope that someday someone will come along who can look after her. I hope she can find someone to watch the stars with.”

  “I hope so too.”

  Holly nodded. “Well, all right then.” She put her hand to the ground and waited until Chester scampered onto her palm. “Just don’t wait too long.”

  She started to walk away when Hemlock said, “Hawthorn would be lucky to have you. If he doesn’t see that, then he’s a fool.”

  Holly smiled. “Thanks, Hemlock.”

  He rose and offered her his arm. “May I escort you back, Miss Holly?”

  She giggled and linked her arm in his. “You may.”

  They strolled back towards the inn as the first stars of the evening sparked into the sky and crickets began to chirp.

  “By the way,” Hemlock said, “Tum has locked himself in your room. I thought you’d like to know.”

  Holly nodded. “I thought he might.”

  The inside of the inn was both creepy and cozy, if such a thing were possible. Racks of antlers hung on the walls, some of which served as sconces with tallow candles affixed to the branching, bony limbs. A massive chandelier wrought from yet more antlers hung from the ceiling of the common room, its candles dripping pale wax onto varnished walnut tables and the bare wooden floor. Black-painted walls sucked life and light from the room, only to give both back through warm, plush curtains and paintings of vibrant wildflowers and idyllic pastoral scenes. A single bookshelf boasted a modest library, and a fire crackling in the hearth helped chase away some of Holly’s unease. Yet the room was empty, the popping of the fire the only sound. It made the place seem sterile. Dead.

  “Where is everyone?” Holly said.

  “The only people that travel between Sarnum and the Grove with any regularity are traders, and they usually sleep within their wagons so as not to be separated from their wares. Yet even they don’t pass through as often as you’d think. The Grove has few traders of its own, and most traders from Sarnum find routes outside the Grove to be more worth their time.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Hemlock straightened his jacket, looking uncomfortable. “Let’s just say Hawthorn’s obsession with silk prices has kept me well informed of the local trade habits.”

  “It’s quiet,” Holly said as she surveyed the room.

  “That’s not so bad, is it?”

  Holly pressed her lips together. “We’ll see. If there are any of those antlers in my room, I’m tossing them out.”

  She walked to a counter and rang a little bell. After a moment, a thin man with a thinner mustache and ears nearly as big as his head walked out of a door and stood behind the counter. He beamed at her.

  “We’re going to need some beer,” Holly said.

  The man pointed at an open ledger on the counter.

  Holly glanced at it and shook her head. “I don’t understand. Did you hear what I said? We need beer.” She raised her voice. “BEEER.”

  The man, still smiling, lifted a pen next to the ledger and handed it to her.

  “I think he wants you to write it down,” Hemlock said.

  The man nodded and tapped the ledger one more time.

  “What on earth for? He seems to have heard you. So why can’t he hear me?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe just humor him?”

  Holly sighed and wrote down: Beer. Three. (Yes, three, and no they’re not for me.) She put down the pen and glowered at the man.

  The innkeeper smiled and, with a flourish, ripped the paper from the binding and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “Hey!” Holly said. “That’s my order!”

  He scampered back through the door and disappeared.

  Holly stared at where he’d gone and then at Hemlock. “Is… is he coming back?”

  Hemlock shrugged.

  “What kind of place is this?” Holly said.

  “The only place between Sarnum and the Grove, I’m afraid. It’s just for one night.”

  A bell rang, and Holly froze. “Where did that come from?” They both kept still, and Holly held her breath as she waited. It rang again.

  “There,” Hemlock said and walked over to a wall. He slid open a door to a little hatch, revealing three mugs of beer on a shiny silver tray.

  “Where did that come from?” Holly said.

  “It’s a dumbwaiter,” Hemlock said. “We have one in our house though we rarely use it.” He took the tray and handed it to her. Then he poked his head back into the hatch. “Intriguing design though. I wonder how they got a bell to ring…” He rapped on one of the inner walls and waited, but nothing happened.

  Holly blinked at the foaming mugs. “Well, all right then. Which room is mine?”

  “Oh, uh, room six.”

  Holly made her way upstairs and wandered down a hallway of doors, all painted black like the walls. She found the door with a brass “6” nailed to it and pounded on it with her foot, but there was no reply.

  “I know you’re in there, you little beast. I’ve got beer here, so unless you want me to drink all of it, you’d better open the door.”

  The door cracked open, and Tum poked his head out. “What kind of beer?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might. You should try lodging yourself in a cramped trunk full of dresses of middling quality for an entire day, and then see how you like drinking substandard beer as a restorative.”

  “This isn’t supposed to be a restorative. It’s supposed to be your weekly wages so you don’t ro
b us all blind. And I told you before, you’re not burrowing in with my good dress. I’ve only got the one, and I don’t trust your grabby little fingers.”

  Tum’s mouth fell open as he shrank back. “My fingers aren’t grabby!” He stared at his hands as if unsure.

  Holly walked in the room and set the tray down on a table. “Just drink your beer.”

  Frowning, Tum shuffled over to the tray and took a mug. He sipped some beer and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye but said nothing.

  “Well? How is it?”

  Tum shrugged. “Perfectly adequate. Utterly unremarkable.”

  “Good.”

  He sniffed. “After the glories of beer from the Green Man, ‘adequate’ is so much harder to bear.”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage.” She sat down on the floor, resting her back against the bed. Tum sat down next to her.

  The room was brighter than the rest of the inn, with walls that had been papered with a butterfly pattern. It was actually kind of lovely. Especially the way the candlelight caught some of the wings, she could almost see the texture of them and… Holly narrowed her eyes as she tried to focus. Were they casting shadows?

  She got up and examined a wall. To her horror, it was filled with scores of butterflies, all pinned to the plaster, their wings preserved in colorful splendor. She cried out and staggered back.

  Tum poked his head up from his mug. “What’s that?”

  Head down, Holly bolted out the door and ran into Hawthorn in the hallway.

  “I-I’m sorry,” she said. Her vision blurred as her eyes filled with tears. Oh please, not now. Don’t cry now. It’s just butterflies. Who cares about butterflies? But that only upset her more, and she covered her face as a sob escaped her.

  Hawthorn put a kerchief into her hands, and Holly cried into it. He stood there—she knew he did even though she dared not look at him. What he must think of her, running into him like that and then bawling for no reason like a crazy woman. She gulped down air and clenched her hands until she managed to calm.

  Hawthorn shuffled his feet as he glanced around. He looked like he wanted to leave. “Are… you all right?” he asked.

  Holly nodded, probably more vehemently than was proper. “Yes, sorry. I mean, thank you. It’s just… my room. It took me by surprise.” Her lips trembled, and she bit them to keep herself from crying again.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Holly bit down harder and shook her head. After a while, she managed to say, “I can’t stay here. This place, it’s awful. I want to go home.” Tears rolled down her cheeks again, and she hastily wiped them away.

  Hawthorn cleared his throat and said, “You could take my room if you want. It’s number eight, over there.”

  “What’s in your room? Dead bears?”

  “Lilies.”

  Holly sniffed and blinked at him. “Lilies?”

  He nodded. “Lilies.”

  “But… where will you sleep?”

  “In your room, I suppose. Or with Hemlock. Though whatever is in your room is probably less horrific than putting up with Hemlock’s feet.”

  A giggle escaped Holly, and she nodded. “All right. Thank you.” She remembered the kerchief and held it up. “I think I’ve ruined this.”

  Hawthorn waved a hand. “Not to worry. I buy them by the case.” He gave a short bow. “Good night, Holly.”

  She smiled and clutched the kerchief to her chest. “Good night, Hawthorn.”

  He walked into her room and shut the door. Then, after a moment, it reopened and Tum came stumbling out, holding a mug of beer in each hand. He turned back towards the room just as the door slammed in his face.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “I was in there, you know!”

  “Come on,” Holly said. “Hope you like flowers.”

  Hazel stood near the fire in the common room. The hour was late, and she suspected everyone else slept except for that creepy innkeeper, of course. Every now and then he would appear and fluff the pillows on the armchairs near the fire, grinning at her all the while and not saying a word. It was unsettling, and Hazel would glower at him, but the man seemed unconcerned with her displeasure.

  She walked to the bookshelf and perused the odd selection. What kinds of books were these? Pressed Wood Sprites that Impress; Seasonal Beverages for the Lunar Touched, and her favorite, From Melting Faces to Melting Cheese: How to Turn Your Culinary Mishaps into Appetizers that Dazzle. Against her better judgment, she pulled that last title from the shelf. She cracked it open to a page with a wood etching of a cook brandishing a club at a cornered rat.

  “Hazel?” Hemlock said.

  She slammed the book shut and returned it to its place.

  “What are you still doing up?” he said.

  “I’m not tired. Though I could ask the same of you. You’re not even dressed for bed.”

  Hemlock looked down at his dark jacket and slacks, still rumpled from the long journey. “Ah, yes. I thought I’d leave a note for our host, regarding breakfast.” He held up a slip of paper. “It might make things easier.”

  Hazel suppressed a grimace as she recalled the image from the book and its unsettling title. “You might want to avoid ordering any meat. Or cheese.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Let’s just say I have my doubts about the quality of this establishment’s food preparation.”

  Hemlock looked puzzled, but he didn’t pursue it. Instead, he pulled out a pencil and, using the tea table as a desk, began striking out passages of whatever he had written.

  She sat down next to him and stared into the fire.

  Hemlock glanced at her as he made amendments to his list. “Something troubling you?”

  “What do you think we’ll find when we get there? To Sarnum.”

  “Hopefully we’ll find Ash. That’s the plan anyway.”

  “And since when does anything in life ever go according to plan?”

  He tilted his head, scribbled something else, then set the pencil down. He turned towards her. “What do you think we’ll find?”

  She remained silent a while. Then, fixing her gaze on the fire, she said, “I’m afraid I’ll find that my father and I aren’t all that different.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “No, it’s really not.” She let out a breath and rose from the sofa. “I should go to bed.”

  Hemlock rose with her. “Wait.” He took her hand. “You are not alone in this, Hazel. Whatever we find.”

  Hazel’s heart quickened as she looked at his hand holding hers. She swallowed. “It’s late, Hemlock.”

  He lingered a moment before letting go. “Of course.”

  Unable to look at him, Hazel turned and hurried upstairs. She passed painted black doors without really seeing them. Somehow she managed to find hers, jerk it open, and stumble inside.

  She was such a fool. What had she been thinking, spending so much time with him? It had all seemed so harmless, so safe. But it wasn’t. It never would be. She had been out of her mind in letting herself care for him. After everything that had happened. She’d been so worried about becoming like her father she had failed to notice that she was becoming like her mother.

  Hazel had vowed never to make Willow’s mistakes. It wasn’t too late. Nothing had been done that she couldn’t undo.

  The night passed unbearably slow, measured only by the even, hollow beats of her heart. She lay in bed and, from time to time, would squeeze her eyes shut to try and sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come, and so she had nothing to do but lie there and take in her surroundings.

  As if insomnia weren’t bad enough without being surrounded by tasteless decor. There were bear heads on the wall, a bear rug, a bear leg trash bin, and a paw with long, glossy black claws on the writing desk, though why it was there, Hazel certainly didn’t know. She wanted to go downstairs and request a different room, but she didn’t want to risk running into Hemlock, so she stayed instead.

  By the time dawn started to
peek through the heavy, fur-patterned curtains, Hazel was already dressed and packed. She ventured out into the hallway and knocked on Holly’s door.

  “Holly? Wake up. We’re leaving early.” She waited but was met with silence. She sighed. Waking Holly was always a near-impossible feat. Hazel opened the door, walked over to the bed, and shook the form burrowed under the covers.

  “Honestly, Holly, just this once couldn’t you wake up without my having to drag you out of bed?”

  The covers pulled back, and Hawthorn blinked up at her, his glamour gone and his lined face puffy with sleep. He sat up, pulling the blankets up to his bare chest. “I am not dragged anywhere, madam. It is far too early and far too filthy a task.”

  Startled, Hazel jerked back. “Where’s Holly?”

  “How should I know? Do you see her here? I’ve not pinned her to the walls like so many butterflies, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Hazel hurried out of the room and into the hallway. “Holly! Where are you?” She returned to the room just in time to see Hawthorn’s bare ass as he got out of bed. She reeled back and covered her eyes, unable to prevent herself from emitting a disgusted sound. “Are you naked?”

  “Of course I’m naked. Only heathens sleep while clothed. It goes against nature, the very core of our existence.”

  Hazel took a deep breath and, still covering her eyes, said, “Where’s Holly?”

  “I told you, she’s not here.”

  “Where is she?!”

  “Great Grandfather’s ashes, woman, you’ll wake the dead. I gave her my room, as she didn’t find this one to her liking. Why don’t you go check there?”

  Hazel staggered out and walked to Hawthorn’s room. At least she thought it was his room. She’d find out soon enough. She pushed open the door, sparing only a fleeting hope that it wasn’t Hemlock’s room.

  The walls were papered in a lily pattern the color of eggshells, vases of lilies adorned the end tables and desk, while a little pot of potpourri simmered over a hearth. As Hazel walked over to the bed, a passing twinge of envy gnawed at her that she hadn’t been given this room. She gently pulled back the covers, saw Holly’s golden hair, then ripped the blankets off her and dumped them on the floor.