Swallowing, she said, “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Neither are you,” he said.
Ash stood alongside Hemlock. “Perhaps your greatest failing, my daughter, is your continual misjudgment of a given situation. You insist on underestimating yourself and others. You choose to see things as you want them to be—or perhaps even believe them to be—instead of how things actually are.” He placed a hand on Hemlock’s shoulder, and Hemlock tensed as his expression tightened. “Take our mutual friend here. You chose to believe you could leave someone you love behind. That once you did, it would be the end of it. You would go your way, he would go his. That is what happened here, isn’t it? I’ll admit I’ve had to puzzle out a few of the gaps from what I’ve seen in the mirrors.” He paused as he glanced between Hazel and Hemlock, but when neither said anything, he continued.
“Perhaps you chose to believe that you didn’t love him, or he didn’t love you. Or perhaps you underestimated the bond of love that ties you together. I’ve certainly made that mistake. Whatever you chose to believe, it put you at a disadvantage, and so now we find ourselves here, together, at a crossroads of sorts, don’t you think?”
Hazel tried to walk towards Hemlock, but the shadows constricted and kept her from taking more than a step. Hemlock’s face darkened, and he tried to go to her, but Ash tightened his grip on his shoulder, and Verrin summoned a tall, lanky woman with hair like midnight and crystalline skin. She put a bony hand on Hemlock’s arm, causing him to wince as he paled, and he went still.
“What do you want?” Hazel said. “Why are you doing this?”
“I want what I’ve always wanted from the day you were born, Hazel. I want you to be true to yourself, without fear, without reservation. I want you to achieve your potential. I want you to recognize, as I do, how great your potential truly is.”
“What does any of that have to do with Hemlock?”
He smiled as his brow furrowed in a quizzical manner. “Even now you refuse to see this situation for what it is. You underestimate the significance of this moment.”
Hazel clenched her hands in an effort to keep calm. “Then why don’t you tell me?”
“You have been holding yourself back, Hazel. You have preconceived notions of what it means to be a necromancer that don’t sit well with your other preconceived notions of who you think you are. Perhaps you are afraid of what others will think of you. Perhaps you worry you will never be able to return home. Perhaps you worry about something else entirely. But one thing is clear: the right situation can push all that aside and force you to see yourself as you truly are. And there is no coming back from that.”
A dreadful understanding unfolded itself for her, and Hazel’s fear turned sharp and acrid. “Let him go.”
“You’ve held me in such disdain for all of these years, accusing me of ruining your mother. But did you ever once put yourself in my shoes? Did you ever, just once, imagine what you would have done had you been in my situation?”
The conjured woman dug her pale fingers deeper into Hemlock’s arm. His pallor turned waxy and his lips blue. The skin under his eyes darkened, and he would have fallen to the ground if not for the woman and Verrin holding him up.
“Let him go!”
“I never wanted this for you, daughter. I never wanted for you to witness what it’s like to watch someone you love waste away before your eyes. I would have protected you from this, if you would have let me. But you are my daughter. I should have known you would choose the harder path, just as I always have. It was wrong of me to have expected anything different.”
She fought against the shadows, but the harder she pushed, the harder they solidified around her. This couldn’t be happening; never before had she felt so helpless. The woman tightened her hand again, and Hemlock’s pallor worsened. Hazel hunched over and let out an enraged scream.
Holly jolted awake as a scream seared through her sleep-addled mind. Had she dreamt it? She must have, because everything now was so quiet except for the crackling of a fire in a nearby hearth and the gentle snoring of Hawthorn as he sat slumped in an armchair. She herself lay on a sofa. How had she gotten there?
She sat up and looked around the well-furnished room that she now found herself in. There were no windows in the stone walls, but the lavish curtains seemed to make up for it somehow. Plush carpets padded the stone floor, and the warm tones of the intricately carved wooden furniture added almost as much warmth as the fire that crackled so close to hand.
She got up and shook Hawthorn by the shoulder. “Wake up.”
He opened his eyes and blinked at her, then scrambled to his feet. “Where are we? Where’s Hemlock?”
Holly shook her head. “I don’t know. I just woke up a minute ago, and we were here. I don’t know where he’s gone.”
“That’s some fine father you’ve got there. Who would’ve thought he’d poison his own daughter?”
“Well, I don’t think we were poisoned…,” Holly began but trailed off when Hawthorn’s expression told her he didn’t much care about that particular distinction. “Norman’s gone too,” she added, not knowing what else to say.
“Who cares about the necromancer!”
“His mother probably cares,” Holly muttered.
“Good. She can shed an ocean of tears for him while we find Hemlock.” He walked over to the door, but it was locked. He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath.
“Maybe he’s with Hazel,” Holly said, trying to sound hopeful.
Eyes still closed, Hawthorn said, “Why would he be with Hazel while we’re left here?”
“I…” Holly tried to think of a reason that let her hold on to this thread of hope she had found, but nothing came to mind. She wrung her hands. “It’s all ruined, isn’t it? They’re both gone. What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to find them.”
“How?”
“Well, an excellent start would be by getting out of this room, don’t you think?”
Holly took a deep, shaking breath as she struggled to pull herself together. “Right.” She smoothed her robe as if she might find some confidence hidden among the wrinkles and joined Hawthorn by the door. “Maybe we could burn it down.”
“It’s worth a try.”
Holly pulled fire from the hearth and flung it at the smooth black door. Hawthorn winced and backed away from the heat. But once the fire died down, the door remained unscathed.
“Stupid necromancers!” Holly shouted.
Hawthorn cast spells of his own. There were bright flashes of brilliant, colorful light and powerful gusts of wind that threatened to knock Holly over. She took refuge behind the armchair. But after the onslaught of spells died out, Hawthorn stood there scowling and puffing at the door that remained locked.
“Damned necromancers,” he muttered.
“Now what?”
Hawthorn said nothing.
His silence frightened her. There had to be a way out.
Holly reached into her pocket, relieved to feel the familiar, fuzzy little body curled up into a warm ball. She gently lifted Chester and petted his tiny head.
“Great,” Hawthorn said. “Vermin.”
Holly ignored him and lifted Chester up to her face. “We need your help again, Chester,” she whispered. “We’re stuck here. We need you to go find the key to the door or something that will let us out.” She kissed Chester on the head, then put him on the ground. With a sharp squeak he scurried under the door and out of sight.
Hazel clenched her eyes shut and shifted her focus to keeping her breathing steady and calm.
“Open your eyes, Hazel,” Ash said. “You’ll only add to his pain by hiding.”
Hazel glared at her father. “You’re doing this to him.”
“And what are you doing to stop me? You don’t get to choose to use necromancy as it suits you, Hazel. Everything you did to come here, everything that led you to me, you had to use necromancy to find. Are you really go
ing to balk now, when so much is at stake?”
Frustrated, she cried out and tried work a conjuration, but her knowledge of such spells remained limited, and her distress scattered her thoughts. The conjuration took shape as a blackbird. When it flew towards the pale woman, she swatted at it and the spell unraveled.
“You can do better than that, Hazel.”
“I don’t know how! I don’t know what I need to do!”
Ash considered her a moment, then nodded to Verrin. He gestured to his familiar, and the pale woman slackened her grip, allowing some color to return to Hemlock’s haggard face.
Movement pulled Hazel’s gaze to a corner of the room. A little brown mouse darted behind a desk leg. She never thought she’d be so glad to see a rodent in her entire life. Holly was nearby; she had to be.
“Your excuses grow wearisome, Hazel,” Ash said. “But I am not an unreasonable man. I will give you time to reflect on the task at hand. Perhaps my absence will help you… focus.” He started for the door.
Hazel, fearing he’d see Chester, who now nosed around one of the bookshelves, said, “Where’s Holly?”
He turned back around. “Your sister is safe, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“And Hawthorn?”
“With Holly.”
“Why don’t you bring them here so we can all have this discussion together?”
“Because this doesn’t concern them. They will only distract you.”
“Or perhaps you’re worried they will distract you.”
“Your attempts at stalling are childish and unbecoming of you, Hazel.”
Chester scurried from the bookshelf to underneath a table. The movement pulled Hazel’s gaze before she could stop herself.
“Well, well,” Ash said as he walked over to the table. “Looks like someone’s come to join us after all.” He crouched down just as Chester dashed underneath a pile of fallen papers. As Ash moved, a delicate silver chain poked out from underneath his robe around his neck. It gleamed in the light for the span of a breath, then he moved again and the collar of his robe shrouded it once more.
He put out his hand, and to Hazel’s surprise, Chester scampered onto his upturned palm. He straightened and grinned while petting Chester’s furry back. “I’d always thought there were never enough Wild witches and warlocks in the Grove. I was happy to learn Holly had become one.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d care for the discipline,” Hazel said as she studied Ash’s neck, trying to get another glimpse of the silver chain he wore.
“On the contrary, I care for all of them. Wild magic is the least pursued of all the disciplines. I’ve never understood why. Being able to interact with other living creatures is quite astounding. It’s not to be underestimated.” He brought up Chester near his face, angled so that both he and the mouse faced Hazel. “Why do you suppose this little fellow is here?”
“Perhaps you have an infestation.”
He smiled. “Oh, I don’t think so. Familiars of Wild practitioners never act quite the same as their cousins out in the natural world. This one belongs to Holly, and I think you know that.”
Hazel said nothing.
Chester scurried up Ash’s arm to his shoulders and went behind his neck. Just as Ash reached up to retrieve him…
“Ow!” he cried.
Chester leaped to the floor and hid underneath a gap in one of the bookshelves.
Ash put a hand to his neck. When he pulled away, one of his fingers was stained with a spot of blood. His previous good humor faded, and he scowled at Hazel. “Out of respect for your sister, I will overlook that particular trespass. But only this once.” He walked out. Verrin, casting a single glance at Hazel, followed. The pale woman he had summoned faded, and Hemlock collapsed to the floor.
“Are you all right?” she said, but he never even looked at her. He stared at the floor as he took in slow, deliberate breaths. She tried to move towards him, but the shadows wouldn’t let her. Instead, she crouched down and peered into the gap below the bookshelf where Chester had disappeared. She put out her hand, not really expecting the mouse to come out, but he did. The shadows didn’t hinder his approach, and he scampered onto her palm. A fragment of black cloth had gotten snagged on his teeth. She pulled it free and let Chester run off again.
Hazel pinched the tiny bit of cloth between her fingertips, and they came away with a slight red smudge. A portion of her father’s robe, stained with a drop of his blood.
With a Weaving spell, she altered the bit of fabric and made it grow larger and larger until it was almost the size of the palm of her hand. The bloodstain hadn’t grown with it, and the mark was so small that, along with the dark color of the cloth, Hazel couldn’t see where it was.
Knowing Ash, he had probably locked Holly up somewhere. It would explain why she had set Chester loose, not being able to get out herself. Maybe she could turn the fabric into a key somehow. Only problem was that she had no way of knowing how the key should be shaped, not to mention that changing cloth to metal would be exceedingly difficult. No, that wouldn’t work.
She pursed her lips. She was still thinking like a Weaving witch. Her Weaving magic hadn’t helped her when Ash had locked her up; she doubted it would help now.
Tired, she sat down on the floor and laid the fabric out in front of her. Then she got an idea.
She worked a spell similar to the one she had used to summon a familiar when her father had locked her in her room. But for this one, she wove elements of Weaving magic into it. She joined short words, lively and bright, with longer, complicated ones that lived in the shadows of her mind, bending under their own sorrows.
The patch of black fabric formed into the shape of a tiny little man. His body was entirely featureless except for the two bright eyes that peered at her like pinpricks in paper held up to the light.
“Hello,” Hazel said, tremendously uncomfortable but hoping it didn’t show on her face or come through in her voice.
The little man didn’t respond. He teetered upon one stout leg, then the other. Chester came out from hiding and crept up to him. The mouse’s whiskers twitched as he sniffed at the familiar, and the familiar touched Chester’s nose with a tiny woolen finger. Hazel expected the mouse to run away, but he stayed put and began to wash his face with his paws while the little fabric man tottered in unsteady circles around him.
Hazel gently poked the familiar’s chest. The fabric had gone cold, but it gave away at her touch far more easily than any stuffed doll she had ever put her hands on. It was like there was nothing inside but billowing air, cold headwinds whipped over star-soaked snow.
Hazel rubbed warmth back into her finger. “I need you to find Holly,” she said to the familiar. It snapped to attention at her voice, though it still weaved back and forth as if unsteady on its legs. “Go with the mouse. He knows where she is. Do what you can to help her. Understand?”
The familiar put its tiny hands together, and its eyes flared bright before darkening and blending in with the surrounding fabric. It threw itself across Chester’s back like a sack of grain, and the mouse scampered underneath the door with his burden.
Hazel took a deep breath. The familiar would help Holly—she needed to believe that. And now she needed to focus on Hemlock and figure out how to help him.
Holly sat on the floor in front of the fire. The flames warmed her back, and that warmth helped keep her fear under control. Everything would be fine—nothing could be so bad as long as you had clothes on your back and a fire to warm them. Right?
She needed to believe that.
Hawthorn remained in front of the creepy black door. He had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, as if he intended to wrestle with the door if it didn’t give way to his spells. Holly grinned a little. She’d like to see that.
“You should sit on a chair,” he said without turning to look at her. “The floor is filthy.”
“I like it here. It’s warm, I can watch what you’re doing, and
it keeps me from wondering what necromancers stuff their chairs with.”
He turned and arched an eyebrow at her. “The souls of laughing widows?”
“Or the bones of baby animals.”
“The unwashed feet of wayward peddlers.”
Holly giggled. “Exactly. So I’ll stay right here.”
Hawthorn turned back towards the door. But before he could work another spell, a faint scratching came from the other side. Holly scrambled to her feet. When Chester wriggled through the crack underneath the door, she scooped him up and gently rubbed the soft, furry mouse against her cheek.
But the scratching continued.
Both she and Hawthorn froze. In the same spot where Chester had squeezed through, a little woolen creature wriggled and writhed as it scrabbled at the floor with its little dark hands until finally it pulled free from the door and got to its little feet. It blinked up at Holly with tiny eyes that shone like glass beads.
“Wonderful,” Hawthorn said. “Look at what your rat dragged in.”
“He’s not a rat,” Holly said, half-distracted. Her heart wasn’t in that particular argument. Her attention remained fixed on the creepy black woolen doll thing.
“How do we get rid of it?” He took a kerchief and waved it at the doll. “Shoo, shoo.”
The doll remained unfazed by Hawthorn’s flapping cloth. It stood on its tiptoes—well, what would have been the tips if it had any toes—and pointed up at the door.
“Yes, out,” Hawthorn said. “That’s where you should be going.” He flapped his kerchief some more.
“No, wait,” Holly said and picked up the doll before Hawthorn scared it away. It was cold in her hands, like frost-encrusted leaves.
“Ugh, don’t touch it! You don’t know where it’s been.”
“It’s been with Chester.”
Hazel and Holly Page 41
