Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  * * *

  Hazel

  Holly flipped over the letter, but there was nothing else. “Where did you get this?”

  Hemlock pulled out a dress from the closet and threw it onto her bed. “The night man slipped it under my door. I couldn’t sleep, so I noticed when it came in. After I read it, I went to her room, but she’d already gone.”

  “But she said—”

  “Get dressed, Holly,” Hemlock said, his voice quiet and strained. “We need to go get her before it’s too late.”

  The street was quiet and abandoned, for which Hazel was grateful. The night man on duty at Sensi’s Contemplation had told her where she could find the Shrine and even had helped her find a late-night carriage to drive her there. He had promised to deliver her letter after she’d gone. She had made him repeat the promise until she had believed him.

  Now she stood on the Shrine’s wide doorstep, the stone immaculately clean and freshly scrubbed.

  She gripped her mother’s lock of hair as she stared at the black wooden door carved with an elaborate motif of stars and bones. The building itself was a massive stone affair, as clean as the doorstep upon which she stood, though there was nothing but darkness beyond the tall windows.

  Curtains. They were dark because of curtains. Or because everyone was asleep. Surely there would be light somewhere inside. She was being silly, fretting over trivialities that didn’t exist other than in her mind. She tightened her grip on her mother’s hair. Just one more minute to gather her nerve. To tell herself she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life.

  Just one more minute.

  Hemlock walked into Hawthorn’s room without knocking. Holly trailed after him, quietly closing the door behind her, though her care was unnecessary.

  “Get up,” Hemlock said as he went to Hawthorn’s closet.

  Hawthorn groaned. “I have never slept so poorly in my entire life than I have in the company of you three.”

  “You mean us two,” Hemlock said. “Hazel’s gone.”

  “Shocking.” Hawthorn sat up and ran a hand over his face. “Has it ever occurred to you to simply let her go? The woman’s more trouble than she’s worth.”

  Hemlock’s expression tightened, and he stared at his brother with a coldness that Holly had never seen in him before.

  Hawthorn sobered and cleared his throat. “I… Where did she go?”

  “To the Shrine,” Holly said. “She’s actually going to do it. She’s going to become a necromancer.” Holly couldn’t believe it. She spoke the words, yet they still felt hollow to her. How could Hazel possibly do such a thing?

  Hemlock said, “Which is why you need to get up and take us there.”

  Hawthorn nodded. “I… Of course.” He got up and took the shirt and pants that Hemlock held out to him. He opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something, but instead he just nodded and started to get dressed.

  Holly walked out and waited in the hall, only then realizing that Hawthorn had been naked and she didn’t even care. She didn’t care about anything other than finding her sister.

  With a final, deep breath, Hazel squared her shoulders and pulled on a thick, braided cord by the Shrine door. She clenched and unclenched her jaw, twisted the lock of hair around her finger until it hurt.

  The door opened, and a man shrouded in a black robe peered out at her. “Yes?”

  Hazel froze. She should leave. She should just turn on her heel and head back to the inn, let Hemlock’s hands warm her own, let his assurances warm her heart. Instead, she said, “I’m here to become a necromancer.”

  The man stared at her a long moment. Then he chuckled a low laugh. He started to close the door, but Hazel put out her hand and stopped him.

  “We don’t take in trash from the streets,” he said. “To be a necromancer is to be chosen. And you… you are not a chosen one.”

  Hazel gritted her teeth. “If I’m trash, then you’re a pus-filled boil. How dare you? If I wasn’t chosen, then how could I know of your Sea of Severed Souls? How could I work necromancy without learning a single thing about it? I’d wager I’m more of a chosen one than you, so you go back in there and find me someone with real authority.”

  The man smirked at her. “Of course. Wait here.” He had nearly gotten the door closed when Hazel thrust her foot in the threshold.

  “I’m not an idiot.” She fished out the ribbon from her pocket and handed it to him. “If I wasn’t supposed to be here, then why do I have that? Why would it tell me to come here? That is what it’s telling me, right?”

  The man summoned an orb of silvery light and read the ribbon. He regarded her a long moment from under his brow, then he swung open the door. “Follow me.”

  Hazel wiped her sweating palms on her skirt and hoped that, one day, Hemlock and Holly would forgive her.

  Holly, Hemlock, and Hawthorn sat silently in the carriage as it hurtled down the street. Hemlock stared out the window, biting his nails as his legs mindlessly bounced up and down. Hawthorn stared at his hands. When the carriage slowed, Hemlock jumped out and ran to the Shrine and pulled on a braided cord that hung by the door. Holly and Hawthorn followed close behind.

  Hemlock tapped his hands on his legs as he waited. The door opened, and they were met by a man wearing a black robe.

  “A young woman came here tonight,” Hemlock said. “Her name’s Hazel. We need to see her.”

  “We are not a boarding house,” the man said. “We do not take visitors. We do not betray those who pass beyond our walls.”

  “But she came here, right?” Holly asked.

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Hemlock grabbed the man by the collar of his robe, yanked him away from the door, and sent him stumbling out into the street. Hemlock tried to walk into the Shrine, but it was as if he had walked into an invisible wall. He staggered back.

  The necromancer laughed. “As if you were the first who ever tried to trespass on our Shrine. As if we weren’t prepared for such inevitabilities.”

  From within the Shrine, three more black-robed necromancers came to the door. From the shadows on the streets, dark forms shambled into the light. They watched Hemlock and the others with weeping yellow eyes. Hemlock took a step back.

  “That’s right,” the necromancer said. “You’d better leave, and you’d better leave now.”

  Holly whispered to Hemlock, “We need to find another way in.”

  Hemlock clenched his jaw, but he nodded. They returned to the carriage and drove away.

  Hazel waited in a dark, well-appointed, windowless chamber. She sat on a plush, deep blue velvet sofa, eyeing the blue-and-green flames that flickered behind glass sconces on the stone walls. The lights illuminated tapestries woven into scenes of star-studded night skies, which gave the room a feeling of openness that Hazel had not expected. It was strangely comfortable, and that made her uneasy.

  The door opened, and a man wearing a black robe embroidered along the sleeves and hem with glimmering silver thread walked in. “So. I’m told you want to become a necromancer.”

  Hazel stood and regarded him. His features were shrouded within his robe’s hood, so she couldn’t get a measure of him. She clasped her hands and straightened her back. “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  She blinked a few times. “I’m sorry?”

  The man chuckled and lowered the hood of his robe. He was younger than she’d expected—perhaps a little older than herself—with wavy brown hair and kind eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “Hazel.”

  “Like the tree? You must be from the Grove.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Not really. But it does make me question your motives. Necromancy is forbidden in the Grove, disdained by its people. It makes me wonder why you are here, saying you want to become one.”

  Hazel’s mind whirled. She didn’t know what to say to him. She didn’t want to become a necromancer—she just wanted to find her father. Should she tell him
that? He seemed kind; maybe he would help her. But then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d throw her out and she’d have squandered her one chance in finding Ash. “I’ve told you my name, what’s yours?”

  “Verrin.”

  “Have you ever been to the Grove, Verrin?”

  “I have not.”

  “It’s a beautiful place, lush with trees and flowers. Life flourishes there, and I’ve always thought it well that necromancy was forbidden.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “But we’re a peculiar people,” Hazel continued. “We’re set in our ways with customs that don’t always make sense. Men and women largely live separately, for example. Even if married, they don’t necessarily share their lives together.”

  Verrin folded his hands. “Fascinating.”

  Hazel gave him a level look. “What I’m trying to say is that I haven’t always agreed with how life is lived in the Grove. Perhaps change… could be good for us.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying you want to take necromancy to the Grove?”

  “No… I… nothing that drastic.”

  “Because you still haven’t told me why you want to become a necromancer.”

  Hazel sat down on the sofa and buried her face in her hands. She let out a long, heavy breath and looked up at him. “I’m searching for my father, Ash. The trail has led me here. And so I want to become a necromancer to find him.”

  “Now that,” Verrin said, “is much more interesting. What trail, exactly, led you here?”

  Hazel told him about the bloodied bone, the potion, and the vision she’d had, and of the little box with the lock of hair bound with a ribbon bearing a scrawled message.

  Verrin smiled. “One moment, please.” He gave a short bow then left the room.

  Hazel took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing, fluttering heart. Was he finding men to throw her out? Was he preparing whatever ritual she’d need to do to become a necromancer?

  He returned a few minutes later. “Please, follow me.” He headed back out the door, and Hazel hurried after him.

  They walked down a long corridor illuminated with cool, sapphire light.

  “Where are we going?” Hazel said. “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t you know? It’s why you came here.”

  Hazel swallowed. “Is it a ritual of some sort? What will I have to do?”

  Verrin chuckled. “Ritual? No. I thought you wanted to see your father.”

  Hazel stopped walking, and Verrin turned to look at her.

  “You know where he is?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re just going to take me to him?”

  Verrin frowned, looking puzzled. “Would you prefer we did something else?”

  Hazel’s mouth fell open. “No, I… I just thought I’d need to become a necromancer for any information about him.”

  “We do not accept initiates into the Shrine who come here out of desperation. But your aptitude is real and your presence expected. Perhaps you will join our ranks after you meet with Ash.” He turned and kept on walking.

  Hazel hurried to keep alongside him. “What do you mean, my presence was expected?”

  He smiled at her. “You might want to keep some of your questions for your father.”

  They came to a door. Verrin opened it and gestured for her to step inside. Hazel studied him a moment longer, then crossed the threshold into a vast room much colder than the rest of the Shrine. A lit pair of sconces flanked the door, illuminating a black-lacquered coach embossed with ornate silver scrollwork that surrounded a skeleton dancing amid a curtain of stars. Two robed initiates—Hazel assumed they were initiates given they lacked the silver needlework adorning Verrin’s robes—were busy hitching two black horses to the coach. A man dressed in a black coat, breeches, and top hat sat in the driver’s seat. Behind the coach, all else remained shrouded in shadows.

  “Your ride,” Verrin said, extending a hand towards the coach, “to the Sea of Severed Stars.”

  Holly had to sit on her hands to keep herself from wringing them. “I don’t think he’s going to be happy to see us,” she said. “Elder, I mean.”

  “His happiness does not concern me,” Hemlock said.

  “Well, no, I don’t mean that.” She scratched her nose. “Just that he’s creepy and he might try his creepy necromancy on us again.”

  Hemlock said nothing as he stared out the window.

  Holly sighed, then clenched her hands and put them on her lap. “Well, he’s welcome to try. Right, Hawthorn?”

  Hawthorn cocked an eyebrow and gave her a look that suggested he was questioning her sanity.

  She elbowed him, and he rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, quite right.”

  She smiled, but Hemlock never looked away from the window.

  The carriage slowed as they pulled in front of Elder’s house. A pang of sorrow stabbed at Holly. The last time they’d been there, Hazel had been with them. She’d been the one to knock on the door and lead the way.

  Hemlock hopped out, strode to the door, and rapped with the knocker in several quick successions.

  Minutes passed, but no answer came. Hemlock knocked again.

  The door opened a crack, and Elder’s round face peered out at them. “You again? Are you people incapable of calling at a decent hour?”

  “We need to get into the Shrine,” Hemlock said. “And we need your help to do that.”

  Elder fell into a raucous laugh. “Oh, that’s a good one.” He turned towards the hallway and shouted, “Augustus! Augustus my lad, did you hear that? They need to get into the Shrine!” Elder let go of the door, and it swung open wider as he rested his hands on his knees, laughing.

  “It’s really not that funny,” Holly said.

  Elder straightened, chuckled some more, then wiped tears from his eyes. “Oh, my dear. Yes, it is. It’s quite hilarious. Not only your audacity in coming here, asking for my help, but in also thinking that I would actually help you. And with a matter that would be considered sacred among some.”

  “But not to you,” Hemlock said. “It’s not sacred to you.”

  Elder’s mirth faded. “Highly irrelevant either way. Even if we were good friends, which we’re not, I still wouldn’t take you into the Shrine. The Shrine is for necromancers, and you’re not necromancers.”

  “Hazel’s gone there to become one,” Hemlock said.

  Elder snorted. “The one that got so riled up over necromancy? There’s hypocrisy for you.”

  “We need to stop her.”

  Elder eyed Hemlock for a while. “I’ll admit, I’m not too excited over the prospect of having her in the club, so to speak, but that decision isn’t mine to make. Isn’t yours either.”

  “But if I get to her in time, I might be able to talk her out of it.”

  Elder shook his head. “If you’re here and she’s there, then it’s probably already too late.”

  “What do you want?” Hawthorn said.

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  “I beg your pardon?” Elder said.

  Hawthorn folded his arms. “You’re a warlock of the Grove that came here to practice necromancy. I imagine quiet and solitude are important to you.”

  “Oh no,” Elder said, wagging a finger. “That threat isn’t going to work on me twice. If dealing with the Conclave is what I have to do to be rid of you folks, I’m beginning to think it will be worth it.”

  “It’s not a threat, it’s an offer. Sarnum’s all well and good, especially for those inclined towards necromancy, but don’t you miss the quiet of the forest? Don’t you miss the way the air changes as the sun sets and the ground cools? Don’t you miss the whispered hush of the wind rustling the trees? You might have solitude here in Sarnum, but you don’t have quiet. I—we—can give you that.”

  “I can’t go back to the Grove,” Elder said. “That bridge is burned and buried.”

  Hemlock said, “But maybe we can bring the Grove to you.”
/>
  Elder narrowed his eyes. “How?”

  “An atrium!” Holly squeaked. “A garden inside your house, all quiet and cozy.”

  Hemlock nodded. “I was thinking more of a garden extension, but yes, an atrium would work.”

  “With an area for a library within it,” Hawthorn added.

  “I have a library,” Elder said.

  “But not a library in a miniature forest, I bet,” Holly said. “Wouldn’t it be amazing, to be at home reading but to also be sitting under a tree with the sun shining down on you.”

  Hawthorn nodded. “A glass roof is a must.”

  “And,” Holly said, “since the garden would be protected, you could grow all kinds of things you normally can’t around here. Like orchids and orange trees.” She sighed, turning wistful. “I wish I had an orange tree.”

  Elder pursed his lips as his brow furrowed. “I’ll admit, an orange tree would be an enviable item, but—”

  “Imagine what Abby could do with all those oranges,” Hawthorn said.

  “Orange juice for breakfast,” Holly said.

  “Remarkable for the constitution.”

  “And orange tarts!”

  “Orange cordial.”

  “Orange beer!” Holly giggled. “Tum would love that one.”

  “Orange blossom tea,” Hawthorn added. “That’s an expensive import around here. And you could have your very own supply.”

  “Ooh, and orange cake!”

  “Yes, yes,” Elder said. “It would all be quite wonderful, I’m sure. But I don’t see how any of this is feasible.”

  “We would build it for you, of course,” Hemlock said.

  “That would cost a small fortune.”

  “I don’t have a fortune, but I do have some money set aside from my father’s inheritance. It’s all yours if you help us.”

  “As is mine,” Hawthorn said. “I believe our combined inheritance suffices as a small fortune.”

  Hemlock turned to stare at him. “Hawthorn, I…”

  “And I can grow the garden,” Holly said. “I’m a Wild witch. I can make just about anything grow with the right materials. You’ll have the most beautiful garden and without having to do anything at all.”