Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  There was no way in, not that she could tell. The sails were massive slats of wood, and the little box looked to be a natural part of that.

  “Maybe it’s not supposed to come off,” Holly said. “Maybe it belongs there.”

  Maybe she was right. Hazel’s stomach sank. She had been so certain that she would find something here.

  The sun dipped below the horizon, lighting the sky on fire in brilliant shades of orange and red.

  “We should go,” Holly whispered.

  “Where? We’ve nowhere to go.”

  Holly said nothing. She put a hand on Hazel’s shoulder, but Hazel couldn’t bring herself to meet her sister’s eyes. Then Holly turned and headed back inside the house.

  Hemlock stood next to her but remained silent. The fire in the sky faded, cooling to a deep, pristine blue. A few stars winked into existence, studding the fabric of the young night like luminous pearls.

  On the box, a faint, silvery script began to glow.

  “What is that?” Hemlock said.

  Hazel leaned in to get a closer look. “I don’t know. It looks like a symbol of some sort. A circle that’s been intersected with a cross and crowned with a tiny star.” She leaned back. “Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

  “No, never.”

  What could it mean? Did it mean anything? Maybe it was like the Witness mask—a relic from a bygone age that only held superstitious significance for those who cared to remember it. Was it a mark of protection? Or maybe a spell to bring bountiful harvests?

  Her attention fixated on the cross that divided the circle into four parts. Four was a significant number in magic. There were the four elements of fire, water, air, and earth. There were four Divinities—the Ladies of the Sky and Sea, Lords of the Trees and Sun. Yet if Hawthorn was to be believed, there was also a fifth element, a fifth divinity. Was that what the little star meant? Outside the realm of nature yet still belonging. A Lord of Ether. A Lady of Night and Stars. A siphoner of souls.

  A chill crawled up Hazel’s neck. This couldn’t be a coincidence—finding a potential necromantic symbol in a place similar to what she had seen in her vision. Again, she tried to remove the box, but it remained immovable. Growing frustrated, she cast a Weaving spell that altered the sail behind the box. The wood cracked as it softened, but the box itself began to darken as if it had taken to rot. The glowing symbol began to fade. Fearful she might destroy it—and whatever it might contain—Hazel canceled her spell, and the symbol regained its muted glow.

  Necromancy. Leave it to a rotten art to rot perfectly sound wood. She tried her spell again, only this time she altered it, souring the wood herself, twisting it into something ugly, something dark. She focused her spell directly onto the box. The circular symbol glowed brighter, and the box fell to the grassy ground.

  Hazel picked up the box and opened it. Inside was a lock of golden hair, tied together with a stiff white ribbon. Underneath it lay a slip of paper. Hazel took the paper and unfolded it, but it was too dark outside to read.

  Hemlock summoned a glowing moth that fluttered around her hands, illuminating in its soft light the following message:

  It is time.

  “Time for what?” Hemlock asked.

  Hazel stared at the paper as a cold veil of realization settled over her. “It’s time to meet.”

  “Who?”

  “My father,” she whispered.

  “How do you know?”

  Hazel said nothing. She took the lock of hair and dropped the empty box on the ground. The hair was like spun flax. Just like Holly’s hair. Just like their mother’s. With shaking hands, she untied the ribbon and pulled it free. On one side of the stiff fabric was a scrawling of writing in charcoal ink:

  In the Star Shrine anchored beyond the Sea, a love tempered in death will bring you back to me.

  Hazel felt light-headed, as if all her blood had pooled in her feet.

  A love tempered in death…

  Memories of Willow’s sickness came back to her. The way her mother had weakened until she faded away. The empty silence that followed. The itching that had nagged in Hazel’s mind and taken her to the tumbledown cottage on that first new moon.

  …will bring you back to me.

  Her father had trapped her mother’s soul, and now Hazel was holding a lock of her mother’s hair that had been bound in a ribbon that spoke of the deed. Was it part of the spell? Was this somehow part of the key of undoing her mother’s geas? Or was it an act of pride that made her father pen these words in ink? For the first time in her life, Hazel wished she was a necromancer. So that she could understand. So she could undo what had been done.

  Hazel’s hands trembled so much she nearly dropped the ribbon and hair. Gently Hemlock took the ribbon from her, and she put the lock of hair in her pocket.

  He read the writing. Then, sparing a single glance at her, he turned and hurried back into the house. Hazel followed.

  Hawthorn sat upright on the sofa, sipping a clear liquid from a glass vial and wincing at the taste. Holly sat next to him.

  “It’s disgusting,” he said.

  “It’s willow bark extract,” Holly said. “It’ll help with your headache.”

  He sipped more of the liquid when Hemlock walked up to him and handed him the ribbon. Hawthorn read it, then shook his head and looked up at him. “What is this?”

  “You’ve been to Sarnum before,” Hemlock said. “You know the place. What is this sea he’s talking about?”

  “Who’s talking about what?” Holly asked.

  “Father,” Hazel said. “About Mother.”

  Holly’s mouth fell open, and Hawthorn tightened his jaw. He read the ribbon again and then took a deep breath. “The only sea I know about around here is the Sea of Severed Stars.”

  “I didn’t know there was a sea nearby,” Holly said.

  “It is not a sea of water.”

  Holly shrank back a little. “Then what is it?”

  “There is a prevalent notion in necromantic circles of a connection between stars and souls. Both are objects over which the Shapeless One reigns. Some even believe stars and souls to be one and the same and will use the words interchangeably. Which would make this sea…”

  “A sea of severed souls,” Hazel said.

  Hawthorn nodded.

  “Is that even possible?” Holly asked.

  He shook his head. “I have no idea. I certainly hope not. I hope it’s just a colorful name for a murky pond in someone’s back garden that has been overly embellished throughout the years. But if I were to wager a guess in what ‘sea’ that note was referencing, then that would be it.”

  “Where is it?” Hazel said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?”

  Hawthorn gave her a sharp look. “This is a closely guarded secret that only practitioners in necromancy are meant to know. The only reason I know anything about it is because some necromancers’ tongues are too easily loosened when plied with enough wine. But even they would not reveal the location, not for any price or promise. If you want to find out where it is, you’ll have to become a necromancer.”

  Everyone fell silent.

  “How would I do that?” Hazel asked in a near whisper.

  Everyone stared at her.

  After an unbearably long moment of silence, Hawthorn said, “Necromancers have their own version of our Circle and Conclave called the Shrine. Perhaps if you appealed to them, they’d take you in.”

  “This is madness,” Holly said. “You can’t become a necromancer, Hazel!”

  “What happens if they do take me in?” Hazel said. “What will they do? What will they… want me to do?”

  Hawthorn shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Holly said, “Hemlock, talk some sense into her!”

  “We’ll find another way, Hazel,” Hemlock said.

  “Like what?” Hazel said. “Tell me of this other plan you’ve devised that will lead us t
o my father. I’d love to hear it.”

  When Hemlock said nothing, Holly said, “The potions!”

  “What?” Hazel said.

  “The potions Odd made, remember?”

  Hazel rubbed her forehead. “How will those help us?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why we drink them and find out. It’s got to be better than becoming a necromancer.”

  After a while, Hazel nodded. “Fine, but not here. We should return to Sarnum first. I don’t want to be here when the townspeople finally regain their nerve and come back.”

  They took the tinctures and potions and carried them out to the carriage. The doors stood wide open, and Tum and the driver fanned the air with swathes of clothing.

  “Is that my dress?” Hazel said.

  “Dunno, maybe,” Tum said. “But that’s not the pressing issue here.”

  “Here we go.”

  “The issue is that I haven’t gotten paid in… well… a while. I’m out of a jar o’ eggs, a pile o’ dolls, and there isn’t any beer to be found anywhere. What have you got to say about that?”

  “Absolutely nothing. We have bigger problems than your sobriety. So you can either help us load up these potions or find your own way back to Sarnum.”

  Tum stopped fanning and eyed her. “Potions, you say? What kinds of potions?”

  Hazel thrust the drawer of tinctures at him. “Look for yourself.”

  Tum grinned and tottered away with his newfound loot.

  The egg smell clinging to the carriage had faded to tolerable levels, and once the driver had lit and hung the lanterns, they were on their way. The waxing moon shone brightly above, washing the grassy hills in shifting shades of grey.

  The night stretched on. Holly and Hawthorn slept slumped against each other. Hemlock dozed with his forehead resting against the window. But Hazel remained awake, watching as the whitewashed world rolled by and faded into darkness.

  They made it back to Sarnum in the afternoon of the following day. Everyone had slept fitfully on the carriage, and they were all exhausted. They didn’t return to the Backwards Buck though. Hawthorn directed them to a different inn—one that, he claimed, had far better hospitality.

  The inn didn’t look like much from the outside—a narrow timber building wedged between two of grey stone, like a spindly child trapped on a sofa between her two great aunts. A brass placard near the walnut door displayed the inn’s name of Sensi’s Contemplation.

  “That’s a weird name,” Holly said.

  “Are you sure this is an inn?” Hazel said.

  Hawthorn drew himself up. “Of course. Although…”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Just… apologies in advance.” Without further explanation, he stepped inside and the others followed.

  A pleasing aroma of rosewater and mint hung in the air, but all pleasantries ended there. A garish floral print papered the walls that clashed disorientingly with the mosaic-patterned carpets. The curtains were made of heavy chiffon, in lavender, and dozens of paintings of cats and kittens hung on the walls. There were kittens in baskets and hatboxes of yarn, another of a cat curled up next to a blazing fire. One portrait of a white-and-orange-patched cat was painted so intricately that Hazel felt like its brilliant green eyes followed her.

  The main room was snug, with only a handful of round tables near the door. On the far end of the room, the hardwood floor rose a step, which led to a firelit hearth and a sofa where three elderly women sat knitting. A grey-striped cat lay on one of the sofa’s arms.

  Holly’s mouth hung open as she took in their surroundings. Hemlock stared at the wallpaper with a dubious expression, as if expecting the flowers to hop off the walls and advance on them. Hazel didn’t know what to make of it, so all she said was, “Oh my.”

  Hawthorn sighed. “The decor is atrocious. But they have the softest beds in town and the fluffiest biscuits topped with the most delectable cream.” He nodded towards the trio of women. “I’m fairly certain those women were knitting on that sofa the last time I was here several years ago. I think they might be a permanent fixture.”

  “It’s no wonder,” Holly said as she gazed around the room. “This place is amazing!”

  A stout, jovial innkeeper greeted them and escorted them upstairs, which was surprisingly vast compared to the overly snug common room downstairs. They were each given their own room, and once Hazel stood in hers, she stared in horror at a mural painted on the wall behind the bed depicting a collection of flowers with cat faces for blossoms.

  Holly walked in and wrinkled her nose. “That’s actually pretty creepy.”

  “Lucky me,” Hazel said. “What’s in your room?”

  “A pirate ship with a crew of cats. It’s the best painting in the house, as far as I can tell. So I’m not swapping.”

  “I’ll contain my disappointment.”

  Hemlock walked in and froze when he saw the mural. “That’s… impressive.”

  “What’s in your room?” Holly asked.

  “A line of cats wearing mismatched boots.”

  She giggled. “That sounds funny. Mine’s still better though.”

  “Where’s Hawthorn?” Hazel said.

  “He’s already fallen asleep. He’s right about the beds; they are comfortable.”

  “What painting is in his room?” Holly asked.

  “A pair of cats dueling in full plate armor.”

  Holly gasped. “Really?” She started for the door.

  “Let the man rest, Holly,” Hazel said.

  Holly’s shoulders sagged. “Fine.”

  “Should I be concerned about the cat infatuation here?” Hazel said.

  “Only if you’re allergic,” Hemlock said, grinning. Then he sobered and cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

  “So, the potions,” Holly said. “Should we drink them now?”

  “Can it wait?” Hazel said. “I’m hungry and tired—not exactly the best condition when experimenting with suspicious gnome-enhanced potions.”

  Holly nodded. “All right then. We’ll do it in the morning.” She turned and left.

  “Want to go downstairs and get something to eat?” Hemlock said. “I’m rather curious about those biscuits Hawthorn was going on about.”

  Hazel nodded.

  They went down to the common room. The three women were still on the sofa, their needles click-clacking as they unapologetically eyed Hazel and Hemlock.

  “What do you think they’re knitting?” Hemlock whispered.

  “Probably a cat.”

  They sat at a table and waited in silence as a willowy young waitress brought them a plate of biscuits topped with cream and jam. Hemlock took a big bite of one, then nodded as he chewed.

  “Hawthorn wasn’t kidding about the biscuits. They’re incredible.”

  Hazel gave him a tight smile and took a bite of her own, but she couldn’t find it within herself to share his pleasure.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She stared at her plate a long while. “Would it be so bad if I became a necromancer? It’s not like it’d mean anything. Just words I’d say to find Father. But if it would lead me to him, wouldn’t that be worth something?”

  Hemlock tightened his jaw and set down his biscuit. “Except it wouldn’t be just words, Hazel. Words have meaning. Power. You know that. What you don’t know is what they would require of you. These people manipulate human souls. How do you know they won’t require yours?”

  Hazel said nothing as she stared at the table. Hemlock took her hand. “We will find a way. Don’t worry.”

  She forced a smile and nodded. “All right.”

  They finished their meal and retired to bed early—Hazel to her room and Hemlock to his. She lay in bed as she stared at the ceiling. Despite the fatigue that stung her eyes and ached in her bones, Hazel still couldn’t sleep. Her mind wouldn’t quieten, and an unaccountable fear settled deeper and deeper into her heart. What if becoming a necromancer was her only
chance to find her father? What if it was the only way? The others would never let her go. Holly would likely tie her to a chair and haul her back to the Grove. And Hemlock… Hazel wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes again, and somehow that frightened her far more than necromancy ever could.

  Hazel squeezed her eyes shut, telling herself to sleep, telling herself to believe Hemlock that they would find another way. But her unspoken words held no power for her. This was the only way. The sooner she accepted that, the sooner it would all be over.

  A painful lump caught in her throat. She swallowed it down, along with her rising regret. She walked to the little desk in a corner of her room and scribbled a note by the gentle moonlight filtering through the window. Then she got up and walked into the night.

  Holly.

  * * *

  Holly sipped her tea. She sat at their little kitchen table at home, seated across a squirrel twice her size.

  “It’s all rubbish, you know,” she said. “Gathering acorns for winter is one of the world’s greatest hoaxes. Everyone knows that summer is eternal and that winter is just a clouding of the mind.”

  The squirrel chittered and nodded, then buttered a piece of bread.

  * * *

  “Holly!”

  Holly jolted awake. Hemlock stood over her as a little glowing moth illuminated his haggard face.

  “Hazel’s gone,” he said.

  “What?” Holly sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Gone where?”

  He dropped a note on the bed and went over to the closet. “You need to get dressed.”

  Holly blinked several times as she tried to clear the haze of sleep from her eyes. She squinted at the paper, illuminated just enough by Hemlock’s fluttering moth.

  * * *

  Hemlock,

  * * *

  I’m sorry, but there is no other way. I need to do this, though I don’t expect you to understand. Please look after Holly for me and make sure she gets home safe. Tell her I’ll find a way to make Father undo what he’s done. Tell her—just tell her that.