Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  Hazel bolted out the door, clutching a handful of her skirts in a throbbing, stinging fist. She kept her gaze ahead as she hurried through Baern’s weather-worn yard, refusing to look at Holly or Hemlock, who now trailed behind her.

  “What happened?” Holly said. “Are you bleeding? Why are you bleeding?”

  Hemlock said, “Hazel, what happened?”

  Hazel ignored them. She left Baern’s yard and turned onto the stone-cobbled street, to the right, as there were no people or houses that way. They were at the edge of town, close to the wall surrounding Sarnum that cast a shadowy pall over the pale, wispy grass that grew wild in untended fields.

  “What did he say?” Holly said as she trailed behind her. “Did he tell you where Father is?” When Hazel said nothing, Holly grabbed her arm.

  Hazel rounded on her. “For once in your miserable life, Holly, shut your mouth and leave me alone!”

  Holly’s face went slack with shock, and in that moment Hazel hated herself. She turned around and kept walking. At least Holly and Hemlock didn’t follow.

  The air grew colder the closer to the wall Hazel got. The sun was out. It was supposed to be summer, but maybe that didn’t mean anything in a place like this. Maybe the laws of nature meant nothing to the people of Sarnum, and so the laws themselves had abandoned them.

  The grass rustled against Hazel’s skirts, grasping at her like boneless fingers. A stunted pear tree stood nearby, it’s gnarled, knobby branches laden with tiny hard fruit that likely would never ripen. Hazel sat down underneath it, into the tall grass that, she hoped, eclipsed her from view. She let go of her skirts, wincing as the fabric stuck to her wound before pulling away. Blinking, she stared at the cut, red and ugly that still trickled a thin stream of blood. She put her fingers to it and pressed, gritting her teeth at the pain, her stomach twisting in a nauseating way as the blood came faster.

  Is that what her father had become? Living alone with writing scrawled on the walls, blood and spirits his only companions? Is it what he wanted her to be?

  The grass rustled, and Hazel looked up, finding Hemlock walking towards her.

  She looked away. “Leave me alone, Hemlock.”

  He stopped in front of her. “What happened in there, Hazel?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “What happened to your hand?” His voice took an angry edge. “Did he hurt you?”

  Hazel took a breath, struggling to keep her voice even. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He crouched down in front of her and tried to take her hand. “Let me see.”

  Hazel clenched her hand shut, letting the pain fuel her anger. Then it was like the anger within her snapped, and suddenly she didn’t care anymore. “You want to see?” She thrust her wounded palm near Hemlock’s face. “Bastard cut me. Threatened to cut my wrist but I settled for the palm. I let him do it, Hemlock. Let him hurt me and draw blood so he could invoke his cursed spirits—all so he could give me this!” She threw the bloodstained bone at him. It struck him in the shoulder before falling into the grass.

  Hazel laughed—a low, mirthless sound that sounded maddened even to her own incensed ears. “That’s the best part of all. After everything we’ve done, after letting that monster put his filthy knife blade to my skin, I am then informed that I must somehow perform necromantic magic in order to find my good-for-nothing father. Only by becoming like him, will I find him. You have to appreciate the irony.”

  “Hazel—”

  “Don’t,” she said, her voice low. “Don’t tell me you want to help. Don’t tell me I’m not alone. Don’t sit there and pretend you don’t want something from me when we both know that’s not true!” She got to her feet. “You’re all the same—men, warlocks—you all want the same thing: a woman for your pleasure and children for your legacy. Yet even when you have those things it’s not enough, and you wander the world looking for something else, never once looking back at what you left behind. At who you’ve hurt in your wake.”

  Hemlock’s brow knitted into a puzzled frown, and he shook his head. “What are you talking about? Who have I hurt? Who have I left behind? Not you. You’re the one who’s always leaving. You’re the one that refuses to look back no matter who you hurt. And for what? So you can do all this yourself? So you don’t have to feel vulnerable and ask for help? How’s that working out for you, Hazel?”

  Hazel raised her chin. “It’s working just fine.” A dismal lie that even she didn’t believe, but what was the alternative? To say she needed him? The thought terrified her.

  “Really? My mistake.” He picked up the bloodied bone from the ground and handed it to her. “Good luck finding your father.”

  Hazel’s stomach sank as she took the bone, the sight of the blood sickening her more than it had before. And as she watched Hemlock’s back as he walked away, an old hurt bubbled to the surface—a helpless sorrow she had forgotten ever feeling when someone she loved walked out of her life and never returned. Before, she had remained silent. Before, she let it happen without so much as a protest. Not again. She wouldn’t be silent again.

  “You don’t get to leave!” she shouted to Hemlock.

  He turned around and spread out his arms. “You don’t want me here, Hazel.”

  “That didn’t stop you before, back at the inn. You came along anyway. Why?”

  His arms went limp, and he stood there in the field, the grass brushing against his legs as it swayed in the breeze. Then he walked back to her. “Why?” he said, his voice low. “Why do any of us do anything? Why are you here searching for your father? Why are you trying to undo your mother’s curse? Why have you looked after your sister for all these years, when no one asked you to do any of these things? Why do you do it, Hazel?”

  Hazel frowned, swallowing. “They’re my family.”

  “Family is just a word. You’re doing it because you love them.”

  Her mouth worked soundlessly a long while, and she shook her head. “You don’t love me.”

  Hemlock gave a wry laugh. “I’m afraid I do. I’ve loved you the moment you walked into my house and insulted my brother. From that moment, I knew you were a woman I wanted in my life. An intelligent, sensible woman capable of coherent conversation—one not taken by shiny baubles or fooled by the illusionary preening of warlocks who think too highly of themselves.” He looked down at his hands. “I had hoped, in time, you would come to love me too. But even if you never did, I still wanted to help you. I wanted to see you happy, because if you were happy, then a part of me could be happy too. And maybe that part would have been enough.”

  The wind rustled the grass and the leaves of the pear tree above—a coarse, whispering reply that Hazel wished she had the voice to give, but her voice had gone.

  Hemlock shook his head. “Foolish, I know.”

  Hazel swallowed. No, not foolish, but even those words failed her. And as if from a great distance, she watched as Hemlock once again turned to walk away. In that moment she saw, almost as plain as the skin on her hands, that this time he would not be back. That any words spoken by her next week, next month, next year, would be too late, the hurt inflicted by her dumbfounded silence too much to bear. And the idea of never seeing him again filled her with such an intense sorrow that her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes, and he faded entirely from view when she covered her face with her bloodstained hands.

  Her mouth felt parched, her tongue swollen. Was this love? This uncomfortable, terrifying feeling as if she balanced on the edge of a knife? Would she slip and fall? Would he pull the knife out from under her, cutting her open? She didn’t know, and Hazel didn’t like not knowing. How could you protect yourself from danger—from heartbreak—if you couldn’t see it coming? Her mother hadn’t seen it coming, and look what happened to her.

  She thought of Willow, alone in her tumbledown cottage, her once melodious voice taking on a more bitter edge with each passing year. Hazel had sworn she wouldn’t let that be her f
ate, and yet in that moment when Hemlock turned his back on her, she could see it already was. She was a prisoner of her fear, destined to be alone because she refused to trust, to let someone in.

  Hazel’s body shook as she watched Hemlock move through the field. She felt heavy, paralyzed by the words she was so afraid to speak.

  “Stay,” she whispered, barely audible over the rustling leaves. She could say that to him; maybe he’d stay. Maybe it would be enough. She cleared her throat and, louder, said, “Stay.”

  Her voice must have carried, for Hemlock turned to look at her. “Why?”

  Hazel swallowed and lifted her chin. “I don’t want you to go.”

  Hemlock’s features softened as he returned to her. “Why?” His voice was quiet; he sounded tired. “What’s the point, Hazel?”

  She narrowed her eyes. Was he trying to be cruel? Wasn’t it enough that she wanted him to stay? “I can’t love you, Hemlock. Because if I love you, then I don’t know who I am anymore. What is my life if it’s not mine alone?”

  He took her hands in his, even the bloodied, cut one that he held with care. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  Her eyes filled with tears again, and she looked away. “I’m afraid to love you, Hemlock,” she whispered. “I’m afraid I won’t recognize myself if I do. I’m afraid you’ll crush my heart, and I won’t have the strength to stand it.”

  “Hazel.” He touched her cheek and gently turned her head to face him. “Why do you want me to stay?”

  She closed her eyes. “Because I’m afraid that it’s already too late, and if you leave, then you’ll take my withered heart with you, and I don’t know if I can bear that.” She took a heavy, ragged breath. “I’m afraid of what my life will be if you’re not there.”

  Hemlock put his arms around her, and Hazel, unable to hold back any longer, clutched on to him as she wept on his shoulder. Years of anger and resentment, tension and fear, it all seemed to pour out of her in a continuous stream of tears. Part of her felt like she shouldn’t be there, crying like that—that she should pull herself together. But another part of her wanted it out; it felt good letting it out, just like it felt good standing in the warmth of Hemlock’s body, feeling the weight of his arms as he held her close.

  He said nothing as they stood there. He just let her weep and weep until, after an eternity, Hazel finally calmed and pulled away. She couldn’t look at him, so she kept her gaze fixed to the ground. She wiped at her face and eyes, ignoring the throbbing pain in her hand. “What you must think of me,” she said, no longer comfortable with the silence between them.

  “I think you’re beautiful,” he said, handing her a kerchief.

  She looked up at him, and he gave her a crooked smile that pulled a small smile from Hazel’s own lips.

  He pushed back strands of her hair that had become plastered to her fevered cheeks. He looked into her eyes as he held her face—just for a moment—and then he kissed her.

  It wasn’t an impassioned, desperate kiss; it wasn’t tenuous or meek. It was steadfast, sturdy, almost matter-of-fact, as if this moment had never been in doubt. It was a kiss to endure life’s turbulent throes; it was a kiss to comfort and ease the pain away. It was a kiss of love, pure and simple. And it… was perfect.

  Hazel and Hemlock walked down the streets of Sarnum, heading towards an inn that Hawthorn had recommended. Apparently, after Hazel had run off to the field, Hemlock had sent the others away, and Hawthorn had said they would wait at the inn until she and Hemlock arrived.

  Though as they turned down one road and then another, passing shops and doors and people disinclined to meet her gaze, Hazel wasn’t sure she and Hemlock knew where they were going. Then again, she wasn’t sure she cared.

  They walked in silence, sidestepping oncoming people and the occasional dog. Even through all the bustle, Hazel had to keep reminding herself not to smile like a moonstruck idiot. Especially when Hemlock would take her arm and guide her away from stepping into a filth-laden gutter or—when she was looking up at him—from walking into a lamppost. She suddenly felt so foolish around him, and yet somehow that foolishness was wonderful.

  Not that he was faring much better. In the reflection of a window, she saw his gaze fall upon her just as he walked headlong into a man wearing a cape of a brilliant, shimmering material that would likely have made Hawthorn blanch with jealousy. Hemlock murmured an apology, but the man just huffed, swept his cape over a shoulder, and strode away.

  Hazel bit her lip, but it wasn’t enough to suppress a giggle. Hemlock smiled. He took her hand, and they continued on.

  The chill morning waned into warm afternoon, finally taking on a semblance of summer. And though Hazel was reluctant to admit it, Sarnum really didn’t seem so bad in the daylight. They passed jewelry shops displaying amulets that had been wrought into twining serpents with crystalline scales that sparkled in the light. Pastry shops boasted layered tortes and columns of cookies bundled together with bands of colorful ribbons. A tobacco shop sent an earthy, sweet scent wafting into the air, mingling with the smell of onion and meat, beer and char that came from elsewhere on the street. They even passed a dressmaker’s shop that displayed an elaborate gown in the window; it had so many frills and flounces that Hazel could practically hear Holly squeal with delight.

  The thought of her sister, and what Hazel had said to her, made her wince. She needed to make it right, though she wasn’t sure how. By the time they finally found the inn—the Backwards Buck—Hazel was exhausted and filthy from the blood and dust that clung to her dress, and she could think of little beyond a bath and going to sleep despite the early hour.

  They stepped inside, and Hazel hesitated at the threshold as she waited for her eyes to adjust. Her heart quickened, sweat stinging her cut palm as memories of Baern’s dark home surfaced, and she clutched Hemlock’s hand. But then she took in the flickering blue light from the sconces, and the dim interior of a common room came into view.

  Tables littered the expansive room, populated by numerous patrons talking over mugs of beer or playing at cards. No one looked up as Hazel and Hemlock passed, even as she studied them while looking for Holly and Hawthorn.

  They came to a counter, behind which stood a disinterested woman, her brown, greying hair pulled back into a single frizzy braid. When Hemlock enquired after Holly and Hawthorn, the woman raised her eyebrows, shrugged, and moved her gaze elsewhere. When they remained, the innkeeper sighed, murmured some room numbers as she waved a limp hand towards a set of stairs, then moved further down the counter.

  Hazel and Hemlock headed upstairs and found one of the rooms the woman had mentioned—the other one further down the hall.

  “Is this Holly’s or Hawthorn’s room?” Hazel asked.

  “I don’t know. The woman wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information.”

  Hazel knocked on the door.

  “Go away!” came Holly’s reply.

  “Well, I guess that answers that question,” Hemlock said.

  “I should talk to her alone,” Hazel said.

  Hemlock nodded. “I’ll go find Hawthorn.” He squared his shoulders and straightened his jacket. “This should be bracing, as always.” Then he walked to the other door down the hall.

  Hazel eased Holly’s door open and slipped inside, not wanting to make too much noise. Holly lay on top of the bed, her back to Hazel.

  Holly turned, scowled at her, then turned back around. “What do you want?”

  “To say I’m sorry. I had no right to speak to you like that. I’m sorry, truly.”

  “You’re always sorry, but you keep doing it anyway. I’m not a toy for you to kick around, Hazel.”

  Hazel sat on the edge of the bed behind Holly. “I know. I was scared and hurt and confused, and… I know that’s not an excuse—I’m not trying to excuse it—but I don’t deal with all that very well. Sometimes I need time to think, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know. Why don’t you just say that? ‘I need t
ime to think.’ It’s not hard.”

  Hazel swallowed. “It shouldn’t be, but it’s hard for me.”

  Holly said nothing.

  Hazel knotted her fingers together as she stared at her sister’s back and her mess of golden hair spilling over the pillow. She opened her mouth but snapped it shut again. Then, gathering her courage, she said, “Hemlock and I kissed.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  Hazel blinked a few times. “Well, I suppose it’s more accurate to say that he kissed me, but it happened.”

  Holly shook her head, an awkward motion as she lay against the bed. “You want me to think you did so I’ll forget about what you said. But I won’t forget. Not ever. Not this time.”

  “I don’t want you forget, Holly. I hope you’ll forgive me, but that’s not the same thing. I’m not lying though. I…” She took a breath. “I think I might love him.” Hazel stared at her hands as Holly sat up and studied her. Then before Hazel knew what was happening, Holly embraced her in a crushing hug.

  Tears filled Hazel’s eyes, and she smoothed Holly’s hair as she hugged her sister back. They stayed there for a time until Holly pulled away. She grinned. “Now are you going to get married?”

  A short laugh escaped Hazel as she wiped at her eyes. “I don’t know. One step at a time, all right?”

  Holly pursed her lips, but she nodded. “Let me see your hand.”

  Hazel let Holly take her hand, wincing as she poked at the wound.

  Holly screwed up her face. “Why’d he cut you? He sick or something?”

  “Probably, but he did it to make this.” Hazel fished out the bloodied bone from her pocket and set in on the bed.

  They stared at it as if the bone might scurry off the blanket and cavort about the room.

  “W-what are you supposed to do with that?” Holly said.

  “Find Father, apparently.”

  “But you’re not a necromancer.”