Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  She continued to rove blindly with her hands. At the bottom was a narrow crack, no more than a finger’s breadth. She wedged her fingers into the crevice, trying to find the other end of the door. Instead, she felt a tickling on her fingertips. Hazel cried out and yanked her hand back.

  A soft scratching sound came from near the door, then a faint squeak.

  “Chester?”

  Another squeak—louder, nearby. Hazel, hesitating a moment, gritted her teeth, then lowered her hand—palm up—to the floor. She ground her teeth harder as soft fur tickled her palm, and the tiny pricking on her skin from the mouse’s claws. Hazel closed her eyes and shuddered, trying not to dwell on the way the creature’s stiff, cord-like tail wrapped itself around one of her fingers.

  Cringing, she reached with her other hand to the animal resting on her palm. It was Chester, all right; she could feel his vest with its bulging pockets. Yet the disgusting animal presented an opportunity. Hazel needed a personal item into which she could focus her magic. The mouse, though he belonged to Holly, would probably work. They lived in the same house, after all.

  Hazel set Chester back on the ground. Keeping a finger on him, she cast a spell of Transformation. Underneath her hand, the mouse grew. And grew. And grew some more.

  The air in front of her warmed. Hazel put out her hands and met a wall of fur and rough fabric. She pulled her hands away and cleared her throat. “Chester?”

  A resounding squeak came in reply that dwarfed her cautious voice. She grimaced, not wanting to dwell on the fact that a monstrous creature lurked next to her in the darkness.

  “Could you take down the door?” She cleared her throat again. “Please.”

  Another deafening squeak came, along with a scratching sound. Chester’s deep, heavy breaths quickened and then a splintering as the door began to crack. Hazel backed away and put her hands to her ears as the cracking grew louder, and then in a cloud of choking dust, the door broke from the hinges and fell.

  Hazel coughed and waved at the air. Beyond the door was a hallway, dimly illuminated by a distant lamp. Chester’s hulking form filled the doorway and blotted out the light. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Let’s get out of here, Chester.”

  Chester squeezed through the doorway and charged down the hall. Hazel trailed after him, trying to figure out what she’d do if they ran into Zinnia and her guardian statues. From behind, came a light pattering of footsteps.

  Hazel turned and found the little gnome trailing behind her.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Hazel opened her mouth, but before she could reply, the gnome said, “You’d best hurry. Looks like your mouse is leaving without you.”

  Hazel turned to find Chester charging up a set of stairs. He came to another door that he pawed at and then knocked over. Hazel hurried after him into a room cluttered with junk. There were suits of armor and potted trees with wide, glossy leaves. Incense censers swung from the ceiling, and paintings covered every wall. There were massive wooden chests and piles of clothing, heaps of papers and books, and bundles of dried flowers tied together like sheaves of wheat.

  Chester charged through all of it, toppling suits of armor and sending incense censers to clang together like disharmonious bells.

  From behind one of the closed doors came Zinnia’s voice. “What’s all this then?” She opened the door and gawped when she saw the massive mouse hulking before her. She cried out, backing away. Chester leaped through the air and knocked her over.

  “Get off me, you foul beast!”

  Chester put his nose near her face, his long whiskers twitching as he sniffed at the witch. The gnome bolted through the clutter, knelt next to Zinnia, and rifled through her pockets.

  Hazel grabbed a wooden box and stuffed it in one of Chester’s pockets. “You should have taken the mead, Zinnia. I once felt bad about stealing from you. Not anymore.” She finished stuffing Chester’s pockets with anything she could get her hands on.

  “Y-you…” Zinnia spluttered as her face purpled. But before she could finish the thought, Hazel ripped a strip of cloth from one of the clothing piles and stuffed it in Zinnia’s mouth. Then she used another strip to tie Zinnia’s hands together.

  The gnome crawled up onto Chester’s back, and with Hazel following close behind, they made their way out of the witch’s home and into the night.

  The sky had begun to lighten with dawn by the time they made it back to Hazel’s cottage. The gnome slid off Chester’s back, his weathered face splitting into a wide grin.

  “Best bit of fun I’ve had in a long while,” he said.

  “What were you doing in her cellar?”

  “We’re both collectors, so it suited me fine to live under her house awhile. When it no longer suited me, well, it seemed I became another item for her to keep.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  The gnome shrugged. “There’re worse fates than being kept and cared for.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Find a new cellar that has need of a gnome.” He peered up at her. “Say, what about you? I’ll keep your preserves tidy and prevent your root vegetables from rotting. In return, I take some beer and some treasures that I can add to my collection.”

  “Uh… no. I don’t think we need a cellar gnome, Mr.… ah…”

  “Tum.”

  “Mr. Tum.”

  He nodded. “As you like. If you change your mind, though, just set some beer outside for me and I’ll come right in. Think about it.”

  Stunned, Hazel could only nod. Tum smiled, gave her a wave, then ran off into the darkness.

  Hazel turned to Chester and emptied out his pockets. She reversed her spell and returned him to his normal size, then she walked inside the house to wake up Holly.

  Hazel tapped her foot as she waited in the main room of the cottage, tightening her clasped hands. “Are you ready yet?” she called to Holly. “Or am I to stand here the entire night, overdressed and with aching feet?” She smoothed the skirt of her dress—tea-dyed muslin embroidered with silk flowers and bees. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn it.

  Holly’s door opened, and she emerged in a flurry of rustling taffeta and streaming ribbons. Her golden hair had been piled atop her head, out of which sprouted three long peacock feathers. Holly must have used every scrap of fabric she had—the dress looked on the verge of swallowing her, as if it were some great blue-black beast, armored with gleaming scales of mismatched beads and crystals.

  “Good grief, Holly. What’s happened to you?”

  Holly beamed, her rouged cheeks redder than usual. “Do you like it?” She twirled around, the ribbons on the dress streaming behind her.

  Hazel most decidedly did not like it. Her sister looked like a swollen bruise, one that had apparently been adorned with every button and bauble in existence. She was about to tell her as much, but when she saw the hopeful, eager gleam in Holly’s eyes, she cleared her throat instead. “It is… unique.”

  “Do you mean it? You don’t think anyone will have a similar dress, do you? I want to stand out.”

  “You will most definitely stand out.”

  Holly giggled and clapped her hands. “Oh, Hazel, tonight is going to be so magical. I just know it.”

  “It will certainly be something.”

  They walked along the main road that wound through the Grove. A carriage hurtled past them in the same direction they walked. Otherwise, they saw no one. Eventually they came to a tall wrought iron fence that surrounded Hawthorn and Hemlock’s home. The gate was flanked by two guards dressed in black-and-purple livery.

  “You don’t think we’re late, do you?” Holly said as she eyed the guards.

  “Of course I think we’re late,” Hazel said. “You took half the night putting on that dress of yours. I’ll not be blamed if they turn us away.”

  Holly produced the rumpled invitation from her pocket and handed it to one of the
guards. “We’re the Witch Holly sisters. Invited. Says so right there.” She pointed at the paper.

  “Actually, it’s the Witch Hazel sisters,” Hazel said.

  Holly glared at her. “Is not,” she said under her breath.

  “Don’t be difficult. You’re just going to confuse the poor man.”

  Holly opened her mouth, but the guard said, “Lollygaggers,” and handed the invitation back to Holly. “Best be on your way.”

  “What?” Holly said.

  “Did I stutter? Lolly. Gaggers. That’s you. And this is you getting turned away at the gate. Says so right there.” He tapped the invitation in Holly’s hand.

  “We’re not late!”

  “It’s half past eight. So yes, actually, you are.” He swept his arms towards the road. “Go on. Off with you now.”

  Holly straightened her back and pressed her lips into a fine line. “Listen, you. Do you know how much time I’ve spent on this dress? You need to let us in.”

  The guard looked her up and down. “Yes, I imagine you’ve put eternity into that dress, along with everything else. Doesn’t make any difference though.”

  The other guard snickered.

  Holly’s face reddened.

  “There will be other parties, Holly,” Hazel said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Holly said. “We’re getting in this one.”

  “No,” the guard said, “you’re not.”

  Holly glared at him, then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a pinecone the size of a robin’s egg.

  Hazel took a step back.

  “Come on, miss,” the guard said. “Run along home.”

  Holly flicked the cone and pelted him in the forehead.

  “Ow!” the guard said as he put a hand to his head and bent over.

  The other guard let out a short laugh before he remembered himself and put on a sober face. “You shouldn’t have done that. Now we’ll have to take you in. Let the brothers deal with you.”

  Holly flicked another cone and got him in an eye. The guard cried out and reeled back as he put his hands to his face. She walked up to the first guard, who stood doubled over while cradling his head in his hands.

  “That pain you’re feeling,” Holly said, bending down next to him, “is from a tree getting ready to sprout from your head. Give me the keys to the gate, and I’ll stop it from happening.”

  “What?” the guard said.

  Holly made a disgusted sound and patted his pockets until she found a ring of keys. She tested several of them until she found the one that fit and opened the gate. She grinned. “Come on, Hazel!”

  Hazel glanced at the guards and said, “You can’t leave them like this, you know.”

  Holly rolled her eyes. “Fine. Come through the gate first though.”

  Once Hazel had followed Holly through the gate, Holly closed and locked it. Then, to the guards, she said, “You’ll be fine. A tree isn’t really going to sprout from your head.” She paused. “Well, it probably won’t. Human heads don’t make good growing grounds. But”—she grinned—“you never know.”

  Hazel put a stern edge in her voice. “Holly…”

  Holly’s smile faded. “Just rub some salt or ash on your head, and that should get rid of the pain.” She started to walk away but turned back around and added, “You’re welcome.”

  They followed a road through Hawthorn and Hemlock’s estate, past manicured lawns and hedges shaped into the likeness of woodland animals. They came to a great manor house, shrouded in curtains of ivy that twined up the grey stone walls. Holly bounced up the steps, took hold of the knocker at the door, and gave it three quick raps. A solemn butler in a starched suit answered the door.

  As Holly opened her mouth, Hazel stepped forward and said, “We are the Witch Hazel sisters, here by invitation.”

  Holly slumped, her face crestfallen.

  The butler sighed and said, “Follow me.” He retreated into the house. Hazel and Holly trailed after him.

  They walked down a wood-paneled hallway lined with painted portraits of frowning men. Some had dogs down by their feet, some held books. Others were cut off at the shoulders and were nothing more than disembodied heads of bushy-eyebrowed disapproval. Holly’s mouth hung open as she gazed up at them. Hazel wore a frown of her own, keeping her gaze fixed on the butler’s back. She felt as if the paintings watched her as she moved, and she did not care for being watched by the dead.

  The butler came to a door, but instead of opening it, he turned towards the sisters and clasped his hands behind his back. “We see the mistresses’ faces are exposed. Perhaps they would care for a covering provided by the house?” He waved towards an alcove, within which scores of masks hung upon the walls.

  Holly squealed and ran over to peruse the selection. Hazel folded her arms. “I don’t think so.”

  “We would insist,” the butler said.

  Hazel narrowed her eyes. “Who’s this ‘we’ we’re talking about? And why should they insist upon it?”

  The butler drew himself up. “We are everyone, for whom few are trusted to speak.”

  Hazel opened her mouth, but Holly came over and thrust a mask into her hands. It was shaped in the likeness of a dragon, adorned with glittering crystals and sequins for scales.

  Holly giggled. “That one’s perfect for you.” She tied a mask around her head, taking on the appearance of a cat with whiskers made of threads of finely spun glass.

  The butler continued to look down his nose at Hazel while Holly bounced up and down.

  “Come on, Hazel. We’ll never get in otherwise.”

  Hazel let out a breath. “Fine,” she said and tied the mask around her head.

  The butler opened the door and, with a sweeping motion of his arm, ushered them inside.

  Hazel and Holly walked into a grand ballroom with a painted ceiling that arced the height of two stories. Tall windows lined one end of the room, looking out onto a well-kept garden illuminated with candles in glass jars hanging in tree branches. And then, of course, there were the people.

  The room hummed with movement and conversation, with rustling fabric of countless dresses. Hazel squinted. There were an awful lot of women. In fact, they were all women. The only men she could see was the butler that stood guard at the door, hands clasped behind his rigid back, and the musicians in a corner of the room.

  Holly gasped as she walked inside, her head craned back as she took in the motifs above. One panel showed rabbits dining with foxes over tea and cakes, another showed a porcupine leading an army of armor-clad mice towards a distant city. There was even a painting of a witch stirring a cauldron from which a cloud of smoke rose and gave form to a surrounding forest.

  Hazel bumped into a woman wearing a butterfly mask. “Pardon me.”

  The woman peered at Hazel through wings of stained glass. She huffed and moved on.

  Holly disappeared into the crowd. Hazel tried to follow, but people closed in behind Holly and blocked her way. Gasps and tittering laughter rippled through the crowd. Hazel elbowed her way through—ignoring glares and sharp remarks—and eventually found Holly holding the hand of a man with wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair. He wore a burgundy waistcoat and breeches with bright white stockings. His face was covered with a mask of polished green ivy, with curling tendrils that coiled from his head like budding horns. Holly blushed, her neck reddening.

  “My, what an enchanting dress,” the man said, and he smiled, showing rows of pearly white teeth.

  Holly giggled and put a hand to her cat-swathed cheek.

  He turned towards the crowd. “There are so many fine witches here this evening I cannot possibly choose amongst you. So to help me decide, I will hold a contest, the prize for which will be… me.” He extended a leg, showing off a shapely calf. The surrounding women gasped and giggled.

  Hazel frowned. “Ridiculous.”

  “It’s a glamour, you know.”

  Hazel turned and found a man standing next to her. He wore an
owl mask, built into which was a pair of round spectacles. He had a head of short brown hair, but that was all she could see of him.

  “I beg your pardon?” Hazel said.

  “My brother. That’s not what he looks like.”

  “Your brother? You mean…”

  The man gave a wry smile. “I’m Hemlock.” He nodded towards the other man. “That’s Hawthorn.”

  Hazel frowned again. “I don’t understand. What does he mean by ‘choosing amongst us’?”

  Hemlock rubbed the back of his neck and twisted his mouth to the side. “Yes, well, it turns out he’s looking for a wife.”

  “A wife? What on earth for?”

  “What other reason is there for finding a mate? Love, companionship, extending one’s legacy. That sort of thing.”

  “The invitation said nothing about this.”

  Hemlock winced. “Hawthorn thought it would be a ‘nice’ surprise.” He glanced around the room and muttered, “He doesn’t seem to be wrong.”

  “Well, in the case of my sister and me, he’s dead wrong.” She looked Hemlock up and down. “Are you in on this as well?”

  He cleared his throat. “Ah, no. This was all Hawthorn’s doing. I wanted nothing to do with it. I had planned on secluding myself throughout the spectacle, but I couldn’t resist watching Hawthorn make a fool of himself.”

  A series of squeals rippled through the room as Hawthorn’s hair fluttered as if caught in a breeze, and a pair of cream-colored bunnies hopped around his ankles.

  A witch wearing a shimmering green dress and dragonfly mask fainted near Hawthorn’s feet, and then a tussle broke out among the surrounding women. One woman reached for Hawthorn, but Holly—still at his side—planted a hand on her face and pushed her away.

  “Ladies, please,” Hawthorn said as a wide smile split across his face.

  Another witch came up from behind Holly and pulled her by the hair. Holly cried out, her hands flailing as she stumbled backwards.

  “Ridiculous,” Hazel muttered again. She took a step forward, but then, from a corner of the room, music started to play, and the crowd pulled together in front of Hazel and cut her off from her sister.