Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  “Are you all right?”

  Hazel took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I think I’ve made a real mess of things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hazel gave a wry laugh. “I mean this.” She waved her hands towards the room. “I’ve been so intent on finding Father I never really stopped to look at where we were going.”

  “But we’re getting closer. We’ve never been this close to finding him.”

  “Are we closer? I’m not so sure.”

  Holly remained quiet. Then she said, “What was it like when Elder… did what he did?”

  Hazel shook her head. “I don’t remember much. I just remember it being cold and dark and… empty.”

  “It was creepy. You looked all shadowy. Like you were gone but still there.”

  “How did you get him to undo it?”

  “I didn’t. Hemlock did. I threatened to burn down the house. That… didn’t really work.”

  Hazel smirked. “It might have helped with the cold though.”

  “That’s what I thought!”

  They giggled.

  Then Holly said, “You should have seen him though.”

  “Who?”

  “Hemlock. He was so calm—he even conjured a fairy that brought in light. I… I couldn’t have done what he did. It’s good that he’s here.”

  They fell back into silence.

  “We should try to get some sleep,” Hazel said.

  They crawled under the covers and pulled the thick, downy blanket up to their chins as they lay side by side. From time to time, a shriek would resonate from outside. Each time it did, they flinched and Holly would grab on to Hazel’s hand. They seemed to have stayed like that forever when there came a gentle knocking at the door.

  Holly hid under the covers while Hazel took a deep breath and, struggling to keep her voice even, said, “Who is it?”

  “Hemlock,” came the quiet reply.

  Holly exhaled and rolled out of bed. She tried to push the dresser out of the way, but it didn’t move much. “Come help,” she said.

  Hazel hesitated. What did Hemlock want? But Holly threw her a sharp look, so Hazel got up, and they moved the dresser just enough for Holly to crack open the door and pull him inside. They moved the dresser back—Hemlock helped—and Holly ran back to the bed and dove under the covers.

  Before Hazel could say anything, Hemlock said, “I wanted to make sure you two were all right. I wasn’t expecting the barricade.” He waved towards the dresser.

  “More sturdy than a lock,” Hazel said.

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  The fell into silence for a while, so Hazel said, “We’re fine, Hemlock. Thank you.”

  He nodded and started towards the door but then turned back around and said, “All right, that wasn’t entirely true. The truth is I can’t sleep, and I was hoping you two might want company. If… you know… you were also having trouble sleeping, that is.”

  “We are,” Holly said. “We haven’t slept at all.”

  “Mind if I stay a little while?”

  Holly sat up on the bed. “We don’t mind. Do we, Hazel?”

  Hazel’s mouth hung open a moment before she found any words. “N-no, I suppose not. But what about Hawthorn? Do you think he’ll be all right alone?”

  Hemlock shrugged. “He’s already asleep. Which is another reason for my wanting to leave that room. He sleeps nude, you know.”

  Hazel cringed. “I know.”

  “What?” Holly said.

  Hazel held up a hand. “Don’t ask.”

  Holly frowned, looking puzzled. Then she brightened and bounced on the bed. “Ooh, we could play a game. Know any good games?”

  “What games could we possibly play, Holly?” Hazel said. “Hide-and-seek? You go hide, and I’m sure Augustus will have a wonderful time finding you.”

  Holly both cringed and deflated. Then she perked up again. “What about stories?”

  Hazel sighed.

  “I know a story,” Hemlock said.

  “Really?” Holly said, sounding surprised. Then she grinned and patted the bed. “Sit down and tell it.”

  Hemlock glanced at Hazel, then walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. He adjusted his glasses and said, “Well, long ago there was a warlock who, afraid of growing old, decided to set out and find a fountain for eternal youth.”

  “How does someone find something like that?” Holly said.

  “I-I don’t know,” Hemlock said.

  “Does it exist? You can’t just decide to find something that doesn’t exist.”

  “I…”

  Hazel said, “Do you want him to tell the story or not, Holly?”

  Holly slumped. “Fine.” To Hemlock, she said, “Continue.”

  He cleared his throat. “Anyway, so the warlock sets off into the woods to find this fountain, and along the way he comes across a witch’s cottage. Smoke streams from the chimney”—he waggled his fingers in the air—“and smells of roasting meat and spiced wine.”

  “How does smoke smell of wine?” Holly said.

  Hazel glared at her, and Holly shrank under the blankets. “Sorry,” she murmured.

  Hemlock took a breath. “So the warlock goes inside the cottage, and there he finds the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Love-stricken, he gets down on one knee and professes his eternal devotion to this witch who has stolen his heart, forgetting all about the fountain of eternal youth. But the witch just watches him with a cool, hard gaze. Then, she grabs a knife, cuts out his heart, and eats it.”

  Silence filled the room.

  Holly screwed up her face. “Is that it? That’s terrible!”

  Hemlock adjusted his glasses. “Well, I didn’t say it was a good story.”

  Holly sat there, her mouth hanging open as she stared at him.

  A giggle escaped Hazel, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. But it didn’t help, and her giggles turned to laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Holly said.

  “It’s terrible,” Hazel said as she laughed. “Completely awful, horrible story.” She bent over and put her hands on her knees, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

  Hemlock chuckled along with her.

  “You’ve lost it,” Holly said.

  Hazel laughed a little more. “Probably. But that’s likely for the best.”

  Hemlock smiled.

  Holly screwed up her face again.

  There was a knock at the door, and they all froze.

  “Who is it?” Hemlock said.

  “Hemlock?” came Hawthorn’s voice. “What are you doing in there?”

  Hemlock and Hazel moved the dresser, and Hawthorn stepped inside. Thankfully, he was clothed.

  “Where did you go?” he said. “I woke up, and you were gone. I thought maybe Augustus got hold of you.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Hemlock said. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

  “Well, I did. This isn’t exactly the most hospitable establishment, you know.”

  “It’s not an establishment, Hawthorn. It’s a necromancer’s house.”

  “Exactly my point.” He smoothed his rumpled clothes and looked around the room. “So what’s going on in here?”

  “Hemlock is telling us horrible stories,” Holly said.

  “Oh? I know some horrible stories.” Hawthorn fiddled with his fingers and raised his eyebrows.

  “Would you like to join us?” Hazel asked.

  Hawthorn smiled. “I would love to, thank you.” He sat on the bed near Holly’s feet.

  Holly grinned and snuggled down under the covers.

  They passed most of the night swapping stories that ranged from mundane to completely awful, until Hawthorn and Holly both fell asleep sprawled across the bed.

  Hazel sat on the floor with her back against the wall. Hemlock sat next to her. She looked towards the window and relaxed as the first light of dawn peeked in from behind the curtains.

  Keeping her gaze on the wind
ow, she said, “Thank you, Hemlock.”

  “For what?”

  Hazel shook her head and smiled. She looked at him and, in a quiet voice that was almost a whisper said, “Thank you.”

  Hemlock studied her a moment, then nodded and gave a small smile back. “You’re welcome.”

  She looked back towards the window, closing her eyes and resting her head against the wall as the first bird chirped with the rising sun.

  Later that morning, Hazel and Holly ventured downstairs and found a slip of paper pinned to a wall with an arrow drawn on it that pointed down a hallway off the main room. They followed it and came to another sign that led them into a dining room, within which a monstrous wooden table took up most of the space as well as most of the light, despite the sunlight that streamed through the tall windows.

  “What… what do we do?” Holly whispered.

  Hazel shrugged. “Sit down, I suppose.”

  Holly took a deep breath and said, “Okay.” She walked over to one of the high-backed chairs and screwed up her face. “Well, these chairs are ugly.”

  Numerous grotesques had been carved into the wood, snarling among bunches of grapes and thatches of fig leaves. The arms had been shaped into two long lions, their bared wooden teeth pricking Hazel’s finger when she touched one. At least the seat of the chair was cushioned and relatively comfortable, all things considered.

  Holly sat down next to her, her back as straight and nearly as rigid as the chair itself.

  “Try to relax,” Hazel said, hoping her words didn’t sound as hollow to Holly as they did to her. She had to remind herself to breathe and to unknot the tension in her drawn-up shoulders.

  “I’ll relax when we’re home,” Holly said.

  Hazel couldn’t help but agree though she remained silent.

  Augustus came in carrying a tray covered with a silver cloche. He stood on his tiptoes as he hoisted the tray up over his head towards the table. Holly kept her eyes shut, her hands clenching around the long bodies of the lions.

  Hazel cringed as she watched Augustus teeter on his tiptoes before he finally managed to slide the tray onto the table. He chittered, then scampered out of the room.

  “What’s taking Hawthorn and Hemlock so long?” Holly said.

  “Hawthorn said he needed to freshen up. Your guess is as good as mine how long that’ll take.” Hazel nodded towards the cloche on the table. “What do you think’s under there? Should we look?”

  “I don’t know. What if it’s pickled eyeballs?”

  “I doubt it’s eyeballs.”

  “You never know. Last night it was liver pâté sandwiches. That’s almost as gross as eyeballs.”

  “Now you’re just being dramatic.” She elbowed Holly. “Go on, look.”

  “You look.”

  Elder walked into the room, and Holly tensed again as Hazel fixed her gaze ahead.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I hope you slept well.” He pulled out a chair at the end of the table furthest away from the sisters and sat down.

  Hazel hadn’t slept at all, but somehow it seemed insulting to admit it, and she didn’t want to cause any more trouble. “The room was lovely. Thank you.”

  Elder quirked his mouth to the side, but he said nothing. He reached for the cloche, and Holly sucked in a breath as his hand lingered on the handle before lifting it up, exposing a row of sliced brown bread. Holly exhaled.

  Elder frowned. “Augustus!”

  Augustus hopped through the door. Elder waved a hand at the tray. “Augustus, my lad, have you forgotten something?”

  Augustus wrung his little hands and chittered.

  “That’s right,” Elder said. “The relish plate. Rel-ish.”

  Augustus squawked and ran from the room just as Abby walked in carrying a tray of six tall glasses filled with murky, dark beer. She set a glass each in front of Hazel and Holly, one to Elder and to herself. The last two she left in the empty places where Hemlock and Hawthorn would undoubtedly sit, should they ever come downstairs.

  “Beer for breakfast?” Holly said.

  “Of course,” said Elder. “Nothing invigorates the constitution in the morning like Abby’s bitter dark. Isn’t that right, Abby?”

  Abby giggled and waved a hand. “Oh stop.”

  Holly leaned towards Hazel and whispered, “Tum would love it here.”

  “Where is he anyway?” Hazel whispered back.

  Holly opened her mouth to answer, but Elder interrupted her.

  “No whispering over there. It’s rude, you know. Honestly, did your parents never teach you any manners?”

  Hazel tightened her jaw and fixed him in a level gaze. “No, as a matter of fact, they didn’t.” She and Elder stared at each other for a long while until, thankfully, Hemlock and Hawthorn walked in.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Hemlock murmured. “It seems Hawthorn had a mishap with his clothes.”

  Hawthorn drew himself up, smoothing his red-and-black brocade jacket in the process. “Your… assistant… never fetched my luggage. And the driver was asleep in the garden shed.” He fixed Elder in a pointed gaze. “The garden shed.”

  Elder scoffed and waved a hand as he took a sip of his beer. “Not my fault the lot of you arrived unannounced and that your help doesn’t know how to use a knocker. Maybe he wanted to sleep in the shed, you ever think of that?”

  “Want to? Don’t be absurd. He—”

  “And Augustus doesn’t fetch luggage,” Elder continued, “so don’t you go blaming him. You’ve got hands and legs of your own; it wouldn’t hurt you to use them.”

  Hazel snorted and then composed herself by taking a swig of beer.

  Hawthorn drew himself up even more, but before he could say anything, Hemlock said, “Perhaps it would be best if we sat down. We’ve kept everyone waiting long enough.”

  Hawthorn glowered at Elder, fidgeting with a button on his jacket before finally nodding. Hemlock sat across from Hazel; Hawthorn sat next to him, across from Holly.

  Augustus returned with another covered tray, this one wider than the last. He scampered up to Elder and held it out.

  “We have company, Augustus,” Elder said. “Ladies first, you know that.”

  Augustus walked up to Holly and held out the tray.

  Holly whimpered and squinted her eyes shut. “Hazel,” she whispered.

  Hazel swallowed. She didn’t want anything to do with Augustus either, but it wouldn’t do to show fear. Or be rude. Taking a breath, she held out a hand and said, “I’ll go first.”

  Augustus wobbled over to her, struggling under the weight of the tray. She lifted the cloche, finding a selection of pickles in various bowls and jars. There were pickled onions and pickled beans, pickled beets and radishes, pickled herrings packed in a juniper-spiced brine, and a wedge of white cheese floated in oil among sprigs of rosemary and flowering thyme.

  Hazel dished a little of everything onto Holly’s plate—except for the herring—and did the same for herself. Augustus chittered and made his way around the table as everyone helped themselves to the proffered fare.

  “Be sure to take some bread,” Elder said as he took a slice for himself. “It’s baked with the same beer as Abby’s brewed, and is particularly good with the pickled herring and onions. Isn’t that right, Augustus?”

  Augustus chittered and hopped and nearly dropped the tray onto Hawthorn’s lap before righting himself again.

  Elder chuckled. “This is his favorite time of day. He loves the pickles, you see. The brine tickles his nose in a pleasing way.”

  Augustus made little chirping sounds that almost sounded like music. Once everyone had been served, he scampered back out the door.

  “Do you always eat pickles for breakfast?” Holly asked.

  Elder heaped herring, onions, and a couple of slices of beets onto a piece of bread. “Oh, yes. Like the beer, it’s good for the constitution. The salt and brine are cleansing, you know. I haven’t been sick in twenty years, and I owe that to the
pickles.”

  Holly poked at the cheese with a fork and tasted a crumb. She seemed to relax a bit and grabbed a slice of bread.

  “Perhaps we should discuss why we’re here,” Hazel said, “and then we can be on our way, which I’m sure you are awaiting with great anticipation.”

  Elder eyed her a moment as he chewed his breakfast before chasing it down with a swig of beer. “You want to find a teacher in necromancy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why should I tell you anything? What assurances do I have that you won’t go to this teacher’s house, drag him into the street, and flog him?”

  “I’m not in the habit of flogging people. Not to mention that, if necromancy is as common here as you say, then I doubt such a flogging would be tolerated by the townspeople. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Elder narrowed his eyes and took a bite of his food. “I might.”

  He seemed unconvinced, so Hazel continued. “Look, I don’t like you. I don’t like necromancers. I think the lot of you are abominations that this world would be better off without. But I’m not here for you or any of your cretinous colleagues. I’m here for my father and no one else. The sooner I find him the sooner I can leave, and I think we can both agree that the sooner that happens, the happier the both of us will be.”

  Elder chewed his food a while longer and then chuckled. “You’re a miserable woman, but I can’t argue with the logic. Very well. I’ll give you the address of a man named Baern. Talk to him and see where that leads you.”

  Hazel exhaled as she kept her gaze on her plate. “Thank you,” she said, unable to look at him.

  Elder grunted. “We shall see.”

  They left Elder’s house after they finished breakfast. Hazel clutched the slip of paper with Baern’s address while Holly and Hawthorn clambered into the coach. Hazel was about to follow them but hesitated.

  “Is everything all right?” Hemlock asked.

  “I… I don’t think I can face this man. Not yet. Not after Elder.”

  Hemlock studied her a moment, then stepped into the coach and murmured something to Hawthorn. Hazel closed her eyes, trying to gather her nerve to follow him in, but before she could, Hawthorn hopped out and walked around to talk to the driver.

  Hemlock poked his head out the door. “Come on. We’ll go somewhere else first.”