Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  “Where?”

  “Hawthorn apparently knows of a place.”

  Hazel hesitated a little longer. Visiting a location known only to Hawthorn wasn’t exactly compelling. Especially in this town. But then anything had to be better than visiting a necromancer. She stepped into the coach and sat next to Holly.

  “Where’s Tum?” Holly said. “We can’t leave without him.”

  “I haven’t seen him since last night,” Hazel said.

  “Well, we need to find him. We can’t just leave.”

  “And we can’t stay here either. We’ve already overstayed our welcome. Do you really want to go poking around and upset Elder even more? Not to mention his neighbors, who might be necromancers in their own right.”

  Holly shrank back into her seat. “No, but we can’t leave him behind. What if something happened to him?”

  Hazel rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know, Holly. I’m doing my best to make sure something doesn’t happen to us.”

  Holly wrung her hands and stared out the window. Hazel nodded at Hemlock. He rapped on the roof of the carriage, and the carriage started moving.

  Everyone remained silent. Holly continued to wring her hands as she stared outside, and Hazel closed her eyes and tried to convince herself she was doing the right thing.

  Sarnum was an improved sight during the day but not by much. Black slate roofs topped grey stone buildings that towered over cobblestone roads darkened by morning dew. The lamps that had flickered with blue-and-green flames now stood cold, the glass surrounding them crystalline and unsullied by smoke stains. Yet for all the cold stone, lush, green hedges lined almost every street and fenced nearly every house, which gave an unexpected warmth to the otherwise somber and sterile town.

  The carriage eventually turned onto a tree-lined avenue of tall cottonwoods and came to a halt alongside an expanse of manicured grass. An occasional tree dotted the lawn, along with an overly large copper fountain that time had turned green. Further on, a pond glinted in the morning light as a collection of ducks glided across its smooth, placid surface.

  “A park!” Holly said and jumped out of the carriage. Hawthorn climbed out after her.

  Hazel raised her eyebrows at Hemlock, but he just smiled and shrugged and followed the others out.

  As Hazel stepped onto the grass—soft and spongy in its thickness—a rustling came from the coach. She turned in time to see a rumpled gnome fling himself from the top of the carriage to the ground below.

  “Tum!” Holly said, grinning. Then she grew serious and put her hands on her hips. “Where have you been? We thought we left you behind.”

  Tum drew himself up and smoothed his shirt. “Tum’s never left behind.”

  “But where did you go?”

  “Oh, you know, here and there. This place is an odd bucket o’ gutted fish. They got shamblers here that come out at night. Shamblers! Don’t they know shamblers will muss the lawn?” He peered at the well-manicured grass with narrowed eyes.

  “Where did you sleep?” Hazel asked.

  “I burrowed into one of your trunks, seeing as the luggage was left out. No reason to let a perfectly good bed of dresses go to waste.” He thrust a finger into the air. “Especially when there’s shamblers about.”

  Hazel wrinkled her nose and took a step back. “You were in my luggage?” She’d need to find a laundress to wash all her clothes. Either that or burn them.

  “Aye. Figured it’d be a nice change from Miss Holly’s trunk, but I was wrong.” He sniffed and looked Hazel up and down. “A little finery wouldn’t hurt, you know.” Then he wandered off.

  “I… I should keep an eye on him,” Holly said as she watched him go. “Make sure we don’t lose him again.” Without waiting for an answer, she went after him.

  “Father told me of that fountain,” Hawthorn said, nodding towards the great copper sculpture. “He said that if you throw a copper penny into the water, then the two metals would bind together, making the fountain grow ever taller. Left behind would only be a memory of the coin, which you could then exchange for a wish.”

  “What would happen if you didn’t exchange it?” Hazel said. “If you made no wish at all?”

  Hawthorn shrugged. “I don’t know; I never asked.” He wandered over to it. Hemlock and Hazel followed.

  The base of the fountain, though massive, wasn’t all that impressive. It was of simple design, lacking any decorations or flourishes that Hazel would have expected for such a large structure. The single column that rose up in the center of the basin bore some wavelike embellishments, most of which were situated underneath the two smaller basins that the column supported. A thin trickle of water bubbled from the top of the fountain and drizzled downward, drip-dropping into a meager pool below. A few lilies floated on the surface of the water amid a film of algae that hid the glint of copper pennies.

  “Well, that’s disappointing,” Hawthorn said.

  “Do you have a penny?” Hazel asked.

  Hawthorn arched an eyebrow at her as Hemlock rooted around in a pocket and pulled out a burnished copper coin. He handed it to her.

  She tossed the penny into the fountain, breaking a hole in the algae and causing a lily to bob on its rippling wake. They all leaned forward as they stared at the water. Hazel realized she was holding her breath. She sucked in some air, hoping her foolishness didn’t show.

  Hawthorn harrumphed before he turned on his heel and headed towards a bench underneath a honeysuckle tree. Hazel and Hemlock remained by the fountain.

  “Did you make a wish?” Hemlock asked.

  “Why would I? It’s all nonsense.”

  He smiled and shrugged. “You never know.”

  Hazel stared at the water, the layer of algae so thin it looked like paint. What would she wish for, if she believed one would be granted? Would she wish for the restoration of her mother’s soul? It felt like an odd thing to spend a wish on, as her mother would likely depart from this world for good, never to be seen again. But it was what she had been working towards. It was the natural way of things; it was right even if the thought of it left a painful lump in Hazel’s throat. Wishes were meant to be spent on something one desired, not obligations—however well intended. So what did Hazel want?

  She stared at the water, swallowing as she realized she couldn’t answer the question. No one ever asked her what she wanted—she never even asked herself. Her life seemed to have been a long string of duty and obligation, to be the will that kept the family together and safe. To be responsible and strong. To simply be there, no matter what. To be what her mother and father had never been.

  Hazel had never wanted such a life, but it was the one she had taken upon herself to live. She had always thought it noble of her, but maybe she had just been afraid. Afraid to relinquish this illusion of control she clung so tightly to; afraid to be nothing more than a lonely leaf tumbling on an errant wind.

  It all seemed so fragile, this flawed life of broken promises and tenuous illusions, of duty and heartache and lonely nights. It felt as if even a simple thought of a wistful wish would be enough to shatter it all, leaving her with nothing but cold and bitter regret. This life, such as it was, was all she had. Without it, she was nothing more than a hollow shell, a shadow left to shamble along darkened streets, dragging her sorrows behind her.

  Unable to look at Hemlock, unable to answer him, Hazel returned to the carriage and sat inside. She folded her hands on her lap as she stared at the empty seats across from her, waiting for the others.

  Waiting until this dull pain that had blossomed in her heart ceased to ache.

  * * *

  Hazel remained silent as the carriage once again rattled down the road. Her fear of meeting Baern had ebbed, replaced by a certain disquiet, a troublesome discomfort that disallowed any other feelings to take hold.

  The carriage slowed and came to a halt in front of a modest home, one made from timber rather than the grey stone that seemed so popular in Sarnum. This home had n
o groomed hedges surrounding it. Instead, it bore only a few outcroppings of the same pale grass they had seen in the field surrounding the town.

  Hazel smoothed her skirts as she took a deep breath. Then, squaring her shoulders, she left the carriage, marched up to the door, and gave the simple iron knocker three quick raps. She clasped her hands tightly together as everyone stood around her in silence. Then from the other side of the door came the shuffle of footsteps, and the door cracked open.

  A single eye peered at them from the narrow opening. “Yes?” said a man’s voice. “What do you want?”

  “Are you Baern?” Hazel asked.

  The eye narrowed. “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Hazel. This is my sister Holly and our associates Hemlock and Hawthorn. We’ve just come from Elder’s house. He seems to think you know our father, Ash.”

  “And why would he think that?”

  “You are a teacher in necromancy are you not? My father has taken up the discipline. Someone must have taught him. We’re wondering if that someone is you.”

  Baern was quiet a long while as he looked her up and down. “I don’t like visitors.”

  “I quite understand. I myself am not terribly fond of visiting the homes of necromancers. But it’s important we find our father. If you could tell us where he is or, if you don’t know, point us to someone who does, then we’ll happily go on our way and leave you to your… business.”

  He remained silent, and then the door swung open. The man was thin and spindly, with greying tufts of hair that were unsettlingly similar to the pale grass outside. He wore an old suit, rumpled and patched, that seemed to have once held color but had since turned a wan greyish-brown. He turned and walked down the shadowed hallway and disappeared into a room.

  Hazel, Holly, Hemlock, and Hawthorn remained huddled on Baern’s doorstep.

  “Perhaps we should go in,” Hemlock said.

  “Go in and get answers rather than stand out here like lackwits?” Hawthorn said. “Madness.”

  Hazel’s rising annoyance at Hawthorn helped stifle her fear. So, taking Holly’s hand in hers, she stepped inside.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The only light came from the open door. When Hawthorn closed it behind him, there wasn’t even that. Then, from the walls, pale etchings of script came into focus.

  The script scrolled across the walls and onto the floor and ceiling in a fluid, even hand. The writing was white, almost like chalk or paint, yet it gave off a faint, glittering light, as if Baern had ground up the stars and turned them into ink.

  Gripping Holly’s hand, Hazel made her way down the darkened hallway. She kept her gaze ahead, not wanting to look at the script too long, afraid of what she might find if she did. They came to a door that she believed was the one Baern had disappeared behind, and Hazel pushed it open and stepped across the threshold.

  Inside, the room smelled dusty yet pungent with the odor of herbs and meat, ink and wet fur, and a host of other scents Hazel couldn’t place. Strings of bones hung from the rafters, tied together in oddly arranged bundles. Baern sat at a table amid a mess of papers and a stuffed raven that looked out on the room with vacant glass eyes.

  He motioned to an empty seat at the table. Holly tightened her grip on Hazel’s hand. Hazel gave her a final squeeze, then let go and sat in the chair.

  Baern blinked at her, then at the others. “Tell them to leave. What we discuss here is not meant for outside ears.”

  “Holly’s my sister. She’s not an outsider.”

  “Then she can take your place and you may leave. I will speak with only one of you.”

  Holly opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Hazel said, “Wait outside. It will be all right.”

  Hawthorn shrugged and sauntered out the door.

  Holly put her hands on her hips. “I want to stay.”

  Baern said, “Either one of you stays or all of you leave. Decide now, or leave me be.”

  “Wait outside,” Hazel said. “It will only take a moment, I’m sure.” She met Hemlock’s disapproving gaze. “Please.”

  Hemlock glanced between Hazel and Baern. Then his frown collapsed, replaced by resignation. He put a hand on Holly’s shoulder. “Come on. We’d better go find Hawthorn before he wanders off.”

  Holly pressed her lips into a fine line as she wrung her hands. Then she hurried out the door. Hemlock, casting a final worried glance at Hazel, followed her.

  Baern got up and closed the door and returned to the table. Hazel swallowed. There was only a single window in the room, covered by heavy drapes that let in a sliver of light around the edges.

  Baern turned up the oil lamp on the table next to the raven and shuffled through a pile of papers. He looked at her from under his brow and back at the papers again. After an excruciatingly long silence, he pushed the papers away, got up, and walked to one of the strings of bones hanging from the ceiling. He untied a bone before dragging his chair over to sit next to Hazel.

  “Give me your hand,” he said.

  Hazel remained still, and he raised his eyebrows. He put out his hand, and Hazel, licking her lips and setting her jaw, put her hand in his.

  He took her by the wrist, his skin cool and clammy. An untrimmed fingernail scraped against her skin as he traced a line along her palm. “When was the last time you saw Ash?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Everything matters.”

  Hazel took a breath. “When I was a girl. Around six or so.”

  “What was it like when he left?”

  Hazel gritted her teeth at the thought of sharing intimate information with a man such as Baern. But she didn’t know of any other way. She fixed her gaze past his shoulder, staring at a dried flower pinned to the wall. “It was quiet except for Mother’s weeping. She locked herself in her room, and I was left to tend to Holly, who was little more than a baby.”

  “Did he break your mother’s heart?” Baern asked as he continued to run a finger along her palm, almost like a caress.

  Hazel suppressed the desire to cringe and looked him in the eyes. “I don’t know. She never talked about it with me.”

  “Not even now, trapped as she is?”

  Hazel narrowed her eyes and tried to pull away, but Baern tightened his grip, his fingernails digging into her skin.

  “What would you know about that?” Hazel said.

  “Ash took great pride in speaking of you. Hazel, his clever little daughter. Bound for greatness.”

  “He doesn’t know a thing about me.”

  Baern inclined his head. “Perhaps.” Still holding on to her hand, he used his other one to root around the papers on the table until he pulled out a short curved knife. Hazel tensed and got to her feet, struggling to pull away, but his fingers and nails only dug deeper into her skin.

  “Let go of me,” Hazel said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Now.”

  Baern fixed her in a level gaze and held up the knife in front of him, pinching the hilt near the blade between a pair of long fingers. “I am going to cut you, but do not cry out. Whatever you do, do not cry out.”

  Hazel tried to yank her arm free, but his grasp was firm. Breathless, she spoke a spell to knock over the lamp, but nothing happened.

  Baern waved the knife towards the walls. “Your magic will not work here, not with these glyphs on the walls.” He pulled her hand closer, and Hazel clenched it into a fist.

  “Open your hand or I will cut your wrist, which is prone to profuse bleeding. I cannot guarantee the cut will be shallow. This knife is very sharp.”

  She kicked his leg and swiped at him with her other hand, but he leaned back out of her reach, and then she felt the cold, stinging edge of the blade against her arm.

  “The hand or the wrist,” Baern whispered. “You decide.”

  “You’re a madman.”

  “You want to find your father. It’s the only way I’m offering you.”

  Hazel’s breat
hing grew heavy and ragged as her racing heart thundered in her chest. She glanced at the door as she sank back onto her chair. Biting her lip to keep it from trembling, she opened her hand.

  “Remember,” Baern said as he put the blade against her palm. “Not a sound. We are invoking spirits, and your screams will only call forth the unsavory ones. Do you understand?”

  Hazel blinked several times and nodded.

  A sharp pain lanced across her hand, followed by a warm rush of blood. Hazel bit harder on her lip, and an iron tang filled her mouth that matched the metallic smell in the air. Struggling to keep her breathing even, she again fixed her gaze on the flower on the wall. It looked like a cornflower, but she couldn’t be sure in the dim light.

  Baern pressed something hard against the wound on her hand, and she winced but kept silent. He intoned a spell, and the script on the walls grew a little brighter, just as the flickering light from the lamp grew a little darker.

  Then he let go of her hand and rose from the chair. “We are done. You may leave now.” He held out the small bone he had untied earlier, now stained red with her blood.

  Hazel grabbed a handful of her skirts and used it to staunch the bleeding. She glared at Baern as she struggled to get her breathing under control. Anger settled over her, pushing all words out of her head, and all she could do was sit and fume.

  He waggled the bone as he held it out to her.

  “I don’t want that disgusting thing, you sick piece of filth,” she hissed.

  “You will need it if you want to find your father. You two are bound by blood, and so by your blood will you find him.”

  “I’m not a necromancer. How am I supposed to use that to find him?”

  A corner of Baern’s thin lips twitched into a smile. “That will be for you to puzzle out. We shall see if you are as clever as Ash has made you out to be. Now leave. I am no longer feeling hospitable.”

  Hazel continued to glare at him, her mouth working soundlessly as she chewed on empty words that would not come. But she didn’t want to be there anymore, so she grabbed the bloodstained bone and marched down the darkened hallway, wiping stinging tears from her eyes before she walked out the door and into blinding daylight.