Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  Hazel’s mouth worked soundlessly a moment. She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. “Cake,” she whispered. “I crumbled some cake. And lit a fire in the hearth.”

  Ash smiled. “Ah. A much gentler form of coercion. The dead are often drawn to objects that remind them of life, which could be any number of things. A favorite article of clothing, the smell of a certain flower. Or a particular food. Such coercive elements would never be strong enough to bind more willful souls, but for your mother and the connection you shared with her… yes, cake would work splendidly.” He smiled again. “Well done.”

  Hazel looked away. She wanted to tell him she hadn’t done it for him, that she didn’t care for his opinion of her. But his words lit within her a spark of unexpected pride, and she realized that, even after all this time, after everything that had happened, she still cared what he thought of her. It made her ashamed, that deep-down spark of happiness she felt at pleasing him.

  Silence lingered between them as Hazel stared at one of the bookshelves. Then she forced herself to look at him. She refused to let him see her shaken—to let him know the effect his words had on her. “Why am I here?”

  “Given you’ve never employed a mirror in summoning the aspect of your mother, I can only assume you’ve not yet discovered the nuanced magic between summoning aspects and summoning visions.”

  Hazel frowned. “Visions?”

  He nodded. “It’s all very similar. The only practical difference between the two spells is the use of the tallow candle. While it could be said the flame represents the spark of a soul, it’s the fat within the candle itself that we are in need of here. The fat represents substance, flesh, and serves as such in place of the person you are… ah… compelling to manifest visually. This vision can be observed in either the mirror or the basin. But I recommend the mirror, as I find looking upon visions in pools of water most tedious.”

  Hazel stared at him in open horror. “Compel? Do you mean to tell me that by simply using a tallow candle in your spell, you have power over living people? That you can coerce them into doing what you want just as you would the dead?”

  Ash tilted his head. “Theoretically speaking, yes. But truthfully, it is more complicated than that. The living bear exceptionally strong wills that are not easily manipulated. Usually such spells will only cause nightmares for the person in question. In other cases the person will retaliate in the most remarkable and unexpected ways upon the spellcaster. There is a well-known anecdote of a man who cast such a spell upon his wife who had run away with another man and compelled her to return. His wife came back to him, burned down his house, stole his valuables and livestock, sold them at the local market for a hefty sum with which she purchased a respectable property for herself and her newfound lover.” He chuckled. “It is a dark sort of magic that is best left well alone. This spell is only reliably used for visions, nothing else.”

  Hazel wrinkled her nose. “Dark? And what would you call necromancy? Slightly shady?”

  “Necromancy is only dark in the way that sunlight produces shadows. It has dark elements, yes. But it also has light. This is what those in the Grove refuse to acknowledge, to everyone’s detriment.”

  Hazel closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe. She didn’t want to argue about this with him—she didn’t want to waste what energy she had in trying to convince him to give up a belief he had held dear for so long. “What did you want to show me?” Maybe if she went along with him—for a little while at least—he’d be more willing to cooperate with her.

  Ash worked a spell—was it a Hearth spell?—and lit the candle. He poured some water into the basin and, leaning over it, said, “Holly.”

  Hazel’s chest tightened as the air seemed to thin. A mist passed across the surface of the mirror, though there was no mist in the room. Then the haze cleared, and she saw Holly riding in a carriage, her hair tousled and her rosy cheeks more flushed than usual from fatigue. Hazel bit her lip as tears stung her eyes. Part of her wished she had never left her sister, that she had never left home, that she had never once needed to know the burden of responsibility. She wished she could stand tall, convinced she had made the right decision, but she couldn’t.

  In a harsh tone, she said, “So you’ve been watching us then? All this time?”

  “On occasion, yes. Just to see how you and your sister were doing. To see… how your mother was doing. That’s how I knew she had fallen ill.”

  “And so you trapped her soul. Now you get to keep her forever, just like you wanted.”

  He looked away. Quietly he said, “It is a sort of living, isn’t it? Isn’t it better than the cold void of death? Isn’t it better than being lost forever?”

  “It’s not right. And it’s not what she wants.”

  A strange, soft expression fell over Ash’s features. For a moment he looked on the verge of remorse, of letting go at last to shed long-suppressed tears. But then his expression hardened and he returned his gaze to Hazel. “Let us ask her ourselves what she wants.”

  It was weird seeing the Shrine in the morning light, Holly thought. It looked like a normal building, old and unusually clean, perhaps, but not anything to be afraid of.

  “Now, all of you keep your mouths shut,” Elder said. “I will do the talking, and you will all stand there and nod and look sufficiently ignorant, suppliant, or pathetic, as the need arises. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” both Holly and Hemlock murmured.

  Hawthorn said, “I’m sure I’m too pathetically ignorant to fully grasp your meaning.”

  “Good.” Elder cleared his throat and fidgeted with his coat while casting a furtive glance at the Shrine’s front door. “If we’re lucky, we won’t see anyone. Early morning at the Shrine isn’t exactly a high hour.” He poked at one of his coat buttons.

  “You’re stalling,” Holly said. “Let’s just go in and see what happens.”

  Elder nodded. “Yes, of course.” He drew himself up a little. “Remember: ignorant and pathetic.”

  “A worthy mantra for any aspiring necromancer,” Hawthorn said.

  Elder shot him a sharp glare, then composed himself and marched up the steps, waved his hands as he worked a spell, then eased the heavy door open. He peeked inside. Then, relaxing a little, he signaled the others to follow him in.

  They filed into a dark, windowless hallway. Gentle blue flames flickered behind glass sconces upon the walls that weakly illuminated the interior. Elder took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He smiled. “There now, that’s better. I don’t know why I was so tense.” He ambled down the hallway while the others trailed after him and stopped at a door. “Ah, here we are.” He pushed it open and led them to a warm chamber furnished with plush sofas and chairs and polished tables. A few bookshelves lined the walls, but the most noteworthy feature was the great crackling fire and the man that sat on the sofa in front of it.

  “Oh!” Elder said. “Beg your pardon, I thought the room would be empty at this hour. We’ll find a different spot to, ah, hold our conversation.” To Holly and the others, he said, “Come along then.”

  Elder turned to leave just as the man rose from the sofa. His gaze passed over them, fixing on Hemlock a bit longer than the others. “Aren’t you the group that came here last night, looking for someone?”

  Elder tried to chuckle but made a poor job of it. “What’s that? Last night? No, no. You must be mistaken. These are associates of mine visiting from out of town. It is their first visit here.” Elder made another strangled noise as he tried to laugh. “The first visit to the Shrine is always the most memorable, don’t you think?”

  The man continued to scrutinize them. “Yes. Of course. There’s no need for you to go elsewhere. I was just leaving.”

  “Oh, no,” Elder said. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  But the man made no indication of having heard Elder’s continuing insistence that he stay and left the room.

  Elder took a kerchief out of his p
ocket and mopped his brow. “Well then. I guess that’s that.” He turned to the others and tried to glower at them but only managed a menacing twitch of his eyebrows. “I do believe this concludes our business together. You asked me to get you in, and I did. What you do afterwards I’m sure is no concern of mine.” He narrowed his eyes as he looked them up and down. “Yes, that’s right. No concern of mine at all.”

  “Yes, yes,” Hawthorn said. “You got us in. So thank you very much, but we’ll be just fine now.” He shooed at Elder with his hands. When Elder remained, Hawthorn shot Holly a warning glance.

  She jolted herself into action and took Elder by the arm and led him to the door. “You did brilliantly well, Elder. Abby will be most pleased.”

  Elder’s frown softened into a pleading stare. “Do you think so?”

  “Oh, yes, absolutely. And when you get that orange tree, why, just imagine all that she’ll do with it.”

  “You won’t be the same man,” Hawthorn said.

  “That’s right,” Holly said. “I bet you’ll be rejuvenated like you wouldn’t believe, what with all the healing properties oranges have.”

  “Scurvy will be a scourge of the past,” Hawthorn said.

  Elder stared at him. “Scurvy?”

  “Never mind him,” Holly said and put on a fresh smile. She gave Elder a quick hug, but he just stood there like a sack of potatoes, his arms limp at his sides. Then she shoved him out the door and closed it behind him.

  Hawthorn said, “I’m guessing we have about two minutes before that man comes back with a group of his colleagues and throws us out. And that’s assuming we’re lucky.”

  Holly nodded. “Agreed.” She turned to Hemlock. “Please tell me you found something at Elder’s house.”

  Hemlock fished around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “It’s all I could find that looked remotely useful.”

  Holly snatched the paper and unfolded it. She wrinkled her nose. “What is this?”

  “I think it’s a picture Augustus drew.”

  She tilted her head and squinted at the paper. “But what is it?”

  Hemlock stood next to her. “You’re holding it wrong.” He took the paper from her, turned it around, and handed it back. He pointed at a blotch of ink. “See? That winged thing there is Augustus. I think.” He pointed at a pair of crooked scribblings. “And that might be Elder and Abby.”

  Holly screwed up her face. “Really? It looks like they’ve got three legs.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t think Augustus is the most artistically capable creature.”

  “Fascinating,” Hawthorn said. “But how does that even remotely help us?”

  “Well,” Hemlock said and moved his hand to the upper left corner of the paper. “Those jagged things there look like mountains. And see how they’re surrounded by those inkblots? They kind of look like stars, don’t you think?”

  “I think it looks like he had a fit with his pen and scattered ink all over the paper,” Holly said.

  “I… I suppose that’s a possible explanation. But I think they look like stars. The mountains… they look like they’re surrounded by a… sea of stars.”

  “Are you saying this is a map?” Hawthorn said, incredulous.

  “I… well…” Hemlock rubbed the back of his neck. He looked like he might be sick. Then he took a deep breath and adopted a look of resolve instead. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. This is a map.”

  “Um, guys…,” Holly said.

  Hawthorn held up a hand at her and, to Hemlock, said, “Now is not the time for false bravado. You have far more to lose than I do.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Guys…,” Holly said again.

  Still ignoring her, Hawthorn said, “To call that incomprehensible scratching a map is like putting a pig in a dress and calling it ‘mother.’”

  “You speak from experience?”

  “Guys!” Holly shouted, and the brothers stopped bickering and turned to look at her. “Where’s Tum? He was right behind me before, but now he’s gone.”

  Before they had a chance to answer, the door opened and the man they had walked in on earlier stood in the doorway, backed by a pair of necromancers, one of whom looked much too muscular underneath his robe than was appropriate for a practitioner of a dark and creepy art.

  “Well,” Holly said as she tried to appear calm and not at all terrified. “This is awkward.”

  “The moon is a week in its waxing cycle,” Hazel said. “How can you summon Mother without a new moon?” She clung to a desperate hope her father wouldn’t be able to summon Willow. The idea of it filled her with a peculiar dread she couldn’t explain.

  Ash smiled a patient, tolerant smile that grated against Hazel’s nerves. “It’s true that the cycle of the moon and the positioning of the sun and stars affects the magic we cast in different ways. But we are not beholden to those cycles. To have a command over necromancy is to have a command over ether—the very substance of creation. You will find that the moon holds very little power over you when you can master the substance that holds it in the sky.”

  He moved the candle further down the table, away from the mirror, then refreshed the basin with more water from the ewer. The surface of the mirror flickered as if with passing shadows. Ash stood before it, but it did not give him his reflection. Instead, the mirror stood dark, occasionally lightening beyond the glass as if clouds had departed from an unseen sun, to only become shadowed again the next moment.

  Ash peered into the mirror and said, “Willow.”

  The hair on Hazel’s neck prickled and she suppressed a shiver. The room darkened, matching the shifting shadows of the mirror so that Hazel was no longer certain she wasn’t in the mirror. Her skin crawled in a way that made her feel like she was being watched. But she resisted the urge to turn around. She didn’t want to acknowledge her father’s magic—let it have any power of her.

  The air in the room chilled—an unnatural kind of cold that Hazel knew all too well. She tensed and focused her attention on keeping her breathing steady and calm.

  Ash turned away from the mirror and towards Hazel. “Willow,” he said again.

  A rustling sound came from behind, like a long skirt brushing over dried leaves. Hazel turned and found her mother, her skin pale and tinged slightly blue, just as it had been the last time Hazel had seen her. But she also exuded a gentle luminosity, as if she stood in sunlight even though there were no windows in the room.

  Willow fixed her gaze on Ash. She hadn’t seemed to notice that Hazel was there.

  Ash extended a hand, and to Hazel’s surprise, Willow took it. Her mother smiled at him as if they were enjoying an afternoon stroll.

  “Mother,” Hazel said.

  Willow’s gaze drifted over to Hazel. Her smiled wavered and her brow furrowed as if a distant, unpleasant thought had momentarily surfaced. But then it faded and she returned her attention to Ash.

  “You see?” Ash said as he kept his gaze on Willow. “She is perfectly well. She is perfectly happy.”

  “No,” Hazel said, “she is perfectly out of her mind.”

  Ash frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

  Hazel thrust a hand towards her mother. “Look at her! She is not herself. She doesn’t even recognize me. You’ve done something to her.”

  “I’ve given her a second chance. I’ve given her an existence she otherwise wouldn’t have had. An existence that is arguably better than the one you and I continue to endure. Never again will she have to worry about growing old and feeble, of worrying about sickness and disease siphoning her strength. Now she is free to be whatever she wants.”

  “You mean she’s free to be whatever you want. This is not who she is. This is not my mother.”

  “You’ve never truly known who she is. Not like I have. It does not surprise me that you do not recognize her as I have known her.”

  “You are deluding yourself. This is how you want her to be.
It proves how wrong you were to bring her back. She can never truly be herself, not when a necromancer has full control over her like this. You need to undo it. Now.”

  Ash frowned, shook his head, and returned his gaze to Willow. “No. You do not yet understand. You always were a smart and clever girl, Hazel, but in this you are quite ignorant.”

  Hazel clenched her hands. She cast a Dissolving spell to release her mother’s apparition, but nothing happened. She hadn’t really thought it would work, but she needed to try something.

  “Honestly, Hazel,” Ash said. “Desperation does not suit you.”

  Willow remained silent, gazing upon Ash like a starving man might look upon a loaf of bread. It infuriated Hazel. This was not her mother. But she could do nothing to stop it.

  With tears stinging her eyes, Hazel turned and hurried from the room.

  “It’s quite a funny story, really,” Holly said to the three necromancers that stood scowling in the doorway. Any minute now they were going to throw Holly and the brothers out of the Shrine. And who knew where Tum was. But Holly’s mind went blank. How was she supposed to fix this?

  She turned to Hawthorn. “Isn’t it funny?”

  Hawthorn stared blankly at her for one terrifying moment. Then he turned to the necromancers. “Oh, it’s hilarious. It all started with an orange tree…”

  “And a cellar gnome,” Holly added.

  “Disgusting creatures. But the oranges are lovely.”

  Holly nodded. “Oh yes, very delicious. Anyway, this cellar gnome… um…”

  “Came here,” Hemlock said, casting a sideways glance at Holly. “We think you might have an infestation.”

  “If you have an infestation,” Hawthorn said, “the entire place will need to be emptied. Once they get in your walls…”—he made a dismissive wave of his hand—“it’s all over.”