Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  “Baern wasn’t too concerned with that detail.”

  Holly stared at her, but Hazel kept her gaze fixed on the bone.

  “What are you going to do?” Holly said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe if we returned to Elder…”

  Hazel shook her head. “I think we’ve gotten all the help we’re going to from Elder. And I’m not sure I’d want his help anyway even if he offered.”

  “But what choice do we have? You can’t do necromantic magic, Hazel.”

  Hazel said nothing and continued to stare at the bone.

  “Hazel?”

  She looked up and met Holly’s puzzled gaze, then forced a feeble smile. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

  Holly frowned, but before she could say anything, Hazel swept the bone off the bed and returned it to her pocket. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s go get something to eat.” Hazel hurried out of the room, leaving her silent sister behind.

  Holly glowered at Hazel’s back as she followed her sister down the hall. This was all wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. They were supposed to find their father, yes, but not with necromancy. Hazel couldn’t possibly be considering it, could she? Holly wanted to believe that, but there had been a look in Hazel’s eyes. A look of… resignation. Holly almost wished that the look meant Hazel was giving up, that they’d soon return home, and everything would go back to normal.

  Except it wouldn’t be normal—it hadn’t been normal for a very long time, only Holly had been too preoccupied to see it. It seemed so frivolous now, all her fussing over dances and making the perfect dress. What did dresses matter when the person you loved most in the world was probably in trouble?

  Holly had been so happy letting Hazel shoulder the burdens of their life while Holly did nothing. She had told herself that’s how Hazel wanted it, but now Holly wished she had done more. If she had, maybe they’d have found another way—maybe Hazel wouldn’t now be walking with a bloody bone in her pocket as she pondered unthinkable thoughts.

  Hazel hurried downstairs, but Holly lingered on the landing. Hemlock and Hawthorn sat at a table in the common room. Hemlock waved Hazel over, and she joined them. When Hazel looked back at her, Holly followed and sat between Hazel and Hawthorn.

  Hemlock and Hawthorn were eating pies stained with thick, dark gravy that had bubbled over the crust. A serving girl came and gave Holly and Hazel pies of their own. Holly poked at hers. She wasn’t hungry. It probably had meat in it anyway.

  Holly studied Hazel as she and Hemlock talked. Her sister looked different. There was color in her cheeks, a brightness in her eyes. It should have made Holly happy seeing her like that, but she only felt sad. She couldn’t let Hazel ruin everything now, not after her sister finally found happiness. And how could Hazel’s life not be ruined when necromancy was involved?

  Holly murmured a half-sincere apology as she got up from the table and headed upstairs. Returning to her room, she went to the trunk housing her good dress and unlocked it with a key she kept around her neck. She rifled around the layers of taffeta and mismatched beads. Why had she brought the monstrous thing; did she expect to go dancing? Underneath the fabric, she found a narrow wooden box.

  She pulled out the box and opened it, her heart thumping a little harder as she peered at the clear liquid in the crystal vials that Odd had given her. Before, Holly had been so eager to try the mysterious potions, but now she wasn’t so sure. Now she was desperate; she didn’t know what to do. It was hard to be enthusiastic, feeling like that.

  Holly put the box in a dresser drawer, ready for when she might need it, though she didn’t know when that would be. Hopefully never, though she doubted it.

  Hazel lay awake in bed as Holly slept next to her. The inn was fully booked and hadn’t had any extra rooms for Hazel or Hemlock, so they had to share with their siblings. Hazel stared at the shadowed silhouette of the bone as it rested on the end table near her head. The room was dark, but the bone looked darker still, soaking up shadows as if any light refused to touch it.

  Hazel couldn’t rest with that thing so close to her. She had told Holly they’d think of something and had suffered a pang of guilt for the lie, but she didn’t know what else to do. It was the only way. Holly would never understand. She didn’t want Holly to understand. Hazel wanted her sister to retain her naive optimism. Something the darkness couldn’t touch.

  Holding her breath, she slipped out of bed and dressed carefully and quietly so as not to wake Holly. She probably didn’t need to be so careful—Holly would sleep through crashing pots and pans and howling dogs. But Hazel didn’t want to risk it. Not tonight.

  Once dressed, Hazel took the cold, hard bone from the table and slipped out the door.

  A single oil lamp burned on a narrow table in the hallway, illuminating the way to Hemlock’s door. She gently knocked upon it, and after a minute or so, the door opened.

  Hemlock blinked at her. “Hazel,” he said, sounding surprised. He glanced behind him before stepping out into the hallway with her and closed the door. “You know Hawthorn’s in there, right?”

  “I don’t want to come in. I need you to come with me.”

  Hemlock grinned and stepped closer to her. “Oh? Where?”

  She fished the bone from her pocket and held it out.

  His face fell, and he sucked in a breath. “What are you doing, Hazel?”

  “Finding my father.”

  “Now? Tonight? Do you even know what you’re doing?”

  Hazel shook her head. “I have no idea. But I’m never going to know. Now’s a good a time as any.”

  “And what does Holly think of this?”

  “I don’t want her involved.”

  “She’s already involved. It’s her father too. She has a right to know.”

  “I know, but not with this. Not until it’s done and over. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t even know what’s out there after dark. It’s why I need you to come with me. You’ll be able to deal with what’s out there a lot better than her—better than both of us.” She took a breath. “I’m asking for your help, Hemlock.”

  Hemlock rubbed his forehead and nodded. “All right. Just… let me get dressed.”

  Hazel paced around the dim hallway until Hemlock returned, smoothing the jacket of his rumpled black suit.

  She managed a feeble smile. “I’m afraid we both have the look of getting dressed in the dark.”

  Hemlock grinned, straightening his shoulders. “People might get the wrong idea.”

  “Let’s hope that’s the worst thing that happens tonight.”

  They walked down the hallway towards the stairs.

  “I wouldn’t mind, you know,” he said, “if they got the wrong idea. Or… even the right idea…”

  “Focus, Hemlock.”

  “Right.”

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and bit her lip to keep herself from grinning like the fool she was. She also needed to focus.

  The common room was empty, save for a man sleeping at a table, his face buried in his arms. Hazel lingered by the door. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened it, picked a direction, and started walking.

  “Do you know where to go?” Hemlock asked as he followed her.

  She shook her head. “No, I… I figure we’ll just walk and see what happens.”

  Hemlock said nothing.

  They came across a tiny orb of blue light weaving in and out between the black bars of an iron fence. From the shadows came a rough, scraping sound of something heavy being dragged along the road. Hemlock took her arm and pulled her away. Yet a tension tugged at Hazel’s mind, drawing her attention to a darkened alley on the other side of the road, opposite of where Hemlock was headed.

  The dragging sound became louder. Not wanting to waste time, Hazel took Hemlock’s hand and, before he could speak, ran with him across the street and into the shadows of the alley. Whatever was out on
the street didn’t follow them.

  They walked past low shuttered windows. When Hazel passed an uncovered window, she glanced inside before hurrying on. Then her breath caught, and she stepped back to it. Beyond the window the room stood dark, yet she still managed to make out the shadowed silhouettes of bookshelves lining the walls. A private library, nothing special. She should move on, but instead Hazel lingered there, her breath fogging the cold glass.

  “What is it?” Hemlock said.

  Hazel didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say—how to explain the tension tugging at her mind. Maybe she was just afraid to say the words, because then it would be real.

  A low arched door stood next to the window. Hazel walked to it and pulled on the handle, and the door creaked open.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I need to go in there.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” She ducked inside and walked down a pair of stone steps that took her into a darkened hallway. Hemlock closed the door behind them.

  “Who lives here?” he whispered. “Do you know?”

  “No idea.” She listened for any sound—footsteps, hushed voices, or the even, feathered breath that came from sleeping bodies. But there was nothing. No clock ticking, no crackling of embers as they cooled in the night. Not even a scratching from rats in the walls—a sound which Hazel never thought she’d miss, but she missed it now. It was too quiet.

  She ran her hand along the wall as she walked down the hallway. Dust clung to her hand and floated into the air. Hazel sneezed.

  Both she and Hemlock froze, but everything remained eerily silent.

  Hemlock pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “I think the house might be empty.”

  Hazel nodded, took the handkerchief, and wiped her nose. “I hope so. How anyone could live in all this dust is beyond me.” But she remained tense. The amount of dust suggested that no one had lived there in some time, yet the house was furnished. Shadowed portraits hung on the walls; dusty carpets padded her steps. When Hemlock pulled out his pocket watch and conjured from it a fairy that, along with the watch, emitted a brilliant white-gold light, Hazel could finally see the true state of the house.

  Dust-laden cobwebs hung in the corners, fluttering in a draft that Hazel couldn’t feel. Faded paper had peeled from the wall in places. Further down the hall stood a narrow table with a porcelain vase containing an arrangement of dried red roses that almost looked black. Webs stretched between the drooping heads of the flowers, and when Hazel touched one, the petals fell apart and fluttered to the floor in a papery cascade.

  The fairy continued to flit down the hallway, and the shadows shrank away as it approached. They followed it and opened a door to a bedroom—the covers on the bed lay flat and undisturbed, their color indistinguishable underneath the dust. A photograph portrait of a woman rested on the night table in a silver frame. Her face was blurred, as if she had refused to sit still. Hazel made her way back down the hall to the door she believed led to the library. When Hemlock and his fairy came close enough to illuminate the cracked and peeling paint on the door, she nudged it open and stepped inside.

  The smell of dust was thicker here, moldering in its stench. Hazel put the kerchief over her nose to keep from sneezing again. She stared at the stacks of books and wondered what to do.

  Hemlock followed her in, and the fairy carrying his glowing pocket watch flitted to the shelves. The light seared across Hazel’s vision, and she closed her eyes, leaving a ghostly winged afterimage imprinted on her mind.

  “Extinguish the light,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “The light, put it out.” She took a breath. “Please.”

  Hemlock remained silent a moment. Then he released the fairy and returned his watch to his pocket.

  Hazel opened her eyes. Moonlight filtered through the window, and she could make out some of the muted colors of the leather-bound tomes. Dark green and maroon. Midnight blue, black, and chocolate brown. Some of the titles were visible on the spines, even underneath the dust that coated everything like powdered breath. Whispering Wights and Intelligent Sprites: How to Imbue Cognizance into Your Summoned Spirits. The Misunderstood Virtues of Blindweed and Direction for its Proper Application. Silenced after Sunset: 50 Counterspells for the Mischievous Familiar. Necromancer books. Hazel wished she could feel surprised. She pulled a book from the shelf and cracked it open, wrinkling her nose as a waft of musty air hit her, smelling like stagnant water and decomposing leaves. She held her breath and brought her face closer to the pages, trying to make out what was written. But the text was faded, and the paper was blotted with a rash of mold like liver spots on old, withered skin. She pulled out another book and opened it, but the pages were the same. Then another but it, too, was illegible.

  Hazel stood there, her arms limp at her sides.

  “Hazel,” Hemlock said, his near-whispering voice carrying through the silence with surprising clarity. “Perhaps we should leave.”

  “There’s something here. I know there is.”

  “Yes,” Hemlock said. “That’s what worries me.”

  She made herself look at him. “I can’t turn back. Not until this is done. I think you know that.”

  An expression passed over his face that Hazel couldn’t quite read. He looked sad but also strangely defiant, his shoulders squared and back straight as he met her gaze.

  Hazel reached into her pocket and pulled out the bloodied bone. She held Hemlock’s gaze a moment longer. Then, looking away, she tossed it into the air.

  The bone clattered onto the wooden floor, clearing a path through the dust before it rolled to a stop at the clawed foot of a dense cherrywood bookshelf. Hazel bent down to pick up the bone and as she did, felt a draft of cool air coming from behind the shelf.

  “There’s something here,” she murmured. She tried to push the shelf aside, but it was too heavy. “Help me move it.”

  Hemlock walked to the other side of the bookshelf, and on a count of three, they edged the monstrous thing away from the wall as it groaned and screeched across the floor. In the wall where the shelf had stood was the outline of a door. There was no handle or knob, only a hole in the wood where a knob should have been. Hazel hooked her finger into it and pulled, and in a cloud of dust and a squeaking of rusty hinges, it opened, revealing a dark passage beyond.

  Silence lingered as she and Hemlock peered into the blackness.

  “Well, that doesn’t look foreboding at all,” he said.

  Hazel smiled, but it was fleeting and faded as a cold fear settled over her.

  Hemlock looked at her. “Do you want to go first or should I?”

  She closed her eyes, thankful beyond words that he was there. “I’ll go first, but we need some light. Maybe something less brilliant than the fairy though?”

  Hemlock shook his head. “This is a warlock’s house. I’ll need an object of mine for the magic, and the fairy is the only thing I can conjure from the watch. You’re under no such restrictions though, unless a witch lived here as well.” He looked around. “Which I doubt.” Then he smiled. “Have you been practicing your Wyr pronunciation?”

  “In the Grove, yes, but not since we came here.”

  “Try the moth spell I showed you.”

  She spoke the words Hemlock had taught her, feeling both elated and relieved when a little white moth glowing like moonlight unfolded into being. It flitted into the passage and illuminated a narrow set of stairs that headed downwards.

  Hazel took a deep breath to steady her nerves, then started her descent. The stairs creaked under her weight. She kept a hand to the wall, trying not to dwell on what made the rough stones slick underneath her fingers.

  She looked back at Hemlock. He was frowning, but when he saw her looking at him, he gave her a crooked smile. Hazel tried to smile back, but the effort felt beyond her, and she probably looked more pained than pleased. She continued on.

  At the b
ottom, Hazel’s boots scuffed against irregularly shaped flagstones that paved the floor. The moth’s light was feeble down here, and Hazel resisted the urge to ask Hemlock to summon his fairy. She didn’t know why, exactly. The extra light would be welcome. But at the same time, it also felt… wrong.

  The wound on her hand throbbed in time with the beating of her heart. The cold air fed into her nerves a strange kind of energy. She felt excited. And beyond that, a faint and terrible understanding.

  Thoughts and images came to her mind, unbidden and unknown, but there was truth beyond them. Like when she had known that on each new moon at the tumbledown cottage near her home, if she made a fire and crumbled cake in a water-filled basin, she’d see her mother again. Hazel had that same kind of feeling now. She knew what to do to push back the darkness beyond the little moth Hemlock had taught her to summon, only she wished that she didn’t. Especially now with Hemlock there. She didn’t want him to know that about her.

  Hazel reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the bone that now felt warm against her cool, clammy skin. She worked a spell—similar to a Weaving spell of Transformation but with altered pronunciation and harder consonants. Into that spell she wove another one similar to a Wyr conjuration but also with the altered pronunciation and a longer drawing of the vowels. When she finished, blue points of light flared in the darkness. They wove around each other until each light found a sconce on the wall, then erupted into flickering flames as they attached themselves to tapered candles, and the darkness receded.

  A long rectangular table stood before Hazel. On the table was a plain silver goblet, a mortar and pestle, and a wooden box about the size of a thick book onto which intricate designs had been carved. There was also a bottle of wine, a thin, narrow knife, an unadorned ceramic bowl, and a clean white cloth that had been folded into a neat little square. It occurred to Hazel that there was no dust down here—the cloth looked freshly laundered and pressed, and the dark glass of the bottle gleamed in the flickering blue light as if it had been polished.

  Everything looked deliberately placed, each item carefully arranged. And the absence of dust could only be the work of magic. Someone wanted to keep this place just so. But why? Did they plan on returning? Or had they known she would be there—that someone would be there—and if they had, then what did that mean?