Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  Hazel frowned. “That you came after me?” Of course it was foolish, but hearing him say it still stung.

  He shook his head. “No, I was foolish thinking I could keep you from doing something so important to you. Something that, I realize now, is a part of you.”

  Hazel stared at him; she didn’t know what to say.

  “Did Holly tell you we drank the potions?”

  “What potions?” Then she remembered. “Odd’s potions?”

  He nodded. “Also probably not the smartest thing to do, but under the circumstances, it seemed worth the risk.”

  “What happened?”

  He stared at the wall, looking thoughtful. “I saw a world in which you did not exist. Not even a little bit. It was like I had never known you. After I woke from that, I realized what a trivial thing it would be if you were a necromancer. What difference would any of it make, as long as you were in my life?” He took her hand and returned his gaze to her. “I don’t want you to leave my world, Hazel.”

  “But what if I can’t go back? What if the Grove won’t take me back? What if… I don’t want to go back?”

  He smiled again, this time more happy than sad. “Then we’ll live somewhere else. The Grove has never felt much like home to me anyway. We can figure it out, Hazel.”

  She wanted this—wanted it so much it almost hurt her. But she was afraid to say yes, afraid to look at this moment directly and frighten it away or break its delicateness with her clumsy, heavy way. So she said nothing, squeezing Hemlock’s hand as if that would keep the tears from rolling down her cheeks. It didn’t, but none of it mattered. It was as if he understood anyway. He took her in his arms and kissed her, and Hazel let him take some of her fear away.

  Tum toddled down to the common room as Holly trailed after him. Hawthorn sat at a table, sipping wine, and Tum clambered onto an empty chair beside him.

  “Of all the empty tables,” Hawthorn said, “you have to sit right there? Go find somewhere else.”

  “It’s rude to let someone sit alone, you know. Tum’s nothing if not polite.”

  “Oh, I can think of a few things that Tum is.”

  “Don’t bicker,” Holly said. “It’s nice that we’re all back together, isn’t it?”

  Hawthorn muttered something into his wine glass that Holly couldn’t hear.

  A willowy waitress came over, and Tum ordered beer while Holly ordered tea. When their drinks arrived, Tum took a sip of his beer and grimaced.

  “When are we going home?” he said. “It’s past time for a drink at the Green Man. This place doesn’t measure up.”

  “I think we’ll be heading home soon.” Holly looked at Hawthorn. “Won’t we?”

  “Probably.”

  Tum eyed the three women knitting on the sofa near the fire. “What’s going on there?” Beer in hand, he hopped off the chair and wandered over to them.

  Hawthorn made a great effort of swirling and examining his wine. He didn’t seem to notice that Tum had gone.

  “It will be nice to go home, won’t it?” Holly said.

  “I suppose. I suppose everything will go back just as it was.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Wonderful.” Only he didn’t sound at all pleased. He drank some wine.

  “Except,” Holly said after a while, “it probably won’t all be the same.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, Hazel and Hemlock are going to get married.”

  “What? They are?”

  “Well, probably. I’ve kind of been assuming they would. That is, if Hazel doesn’t ruin it.”

  Hawthorn grunted and nodded and drank more wine.

  “And if they get married… well… I’m not sure what I’ll do.”

  “Why would you need to do anything?”

  “Well, they’re not going to be the sort that live separately. I can tell. Plus Hazel’s never liked that custom.”

  “So?”

  “So… it just feels like it will be awfully crowded with me milling around while they start their new lives together.”

  He shrugged. “Come live with me then.”

  “What?”

  “Have you not noticed? My house is huge. Hemlock and I will sometimes go days without seeing each other. You, too, could have that pleasure.”

  Holly stared at her tea as she pressed her lips together. “It’s very nice of you, Hawthorn, and I am very fond of you, but…”

  “But what? It solves all our problems.”

  “But I can’t marry you!”

  Hawthorn blanched. “Marry? I… What…?”

  “Well, that is what you’re asking, isn’t it? You can’t just ask a girl to move in with you without thinking that you… you know…”

  Hawthorn’s mouth hanging open as he dumbfoundedly stared at her suggested that he, in fact, did not know at all.

  Growing flustered, Holly waved her hands. “Well, aren’t you looking for a wife? Isn’t that why you had that party all that time ago?”

  Hawthorn winced and studied his wine. “Uh, yes. Yes, I was. But… to be compulsively honest… I don’t want to marry. I never have. I was only looking because I felt it was my duty. You know, keeping up the family line and all that. I’m the eldest, and Hemlock was hopelessly reclusive, so that was never going to happen. It seemed necessary. But now… if Hemlock and Hazel, well… I’d happily hand over that responsibility to him.” He took a deep breath. “You have no idea.”

  “It was quite an elaborate party for something you didn’t want to do.”

  “One may as well have a little fun before one ruins one’s life, don’t you think?”

  “Getting married wouldn’t really ruin your life, would it?”

  Hawthorn continued to stare deep into his wine glass. “Holly, me and women don’t exactly get on.” He looked up at her. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Well, if you scaled back on the sarcasm you might…” But then his words sank in as did his intent gaze, and her mouth fell open. “Oh.” She blinked several times. “Well. Then I suppose in that case having a wife would not be ideal.” She stared at her cup, unsure how she should act.

  “I mean, women: they are soft and squeaky, and you never know which direction their moods will take. That party I threw was only the least bit fun because they were all appropriately adoring of me. The one true solace I found in the idea of taking a wife was the fact that I wouldn’t have to live with her.”

  “You do know that I’m a woman, right?”

  “Yes, which is why my affection for you is most puzzling. But there it is.”

  Holly couldn’t help but smile. “You like me,” she taunted and poked at his arm.

  “Stop it, shrew.”

  She giggled. “Okay, so you don’t want to get married. But what if I do?”

  Hawthorn’s expression turned slightly panicked.

  “Not to you! But to… someone. I would like to get married someday, I think.”

  He shrugged. “Then I will be the first to offer you my best wishes.” He sipped some wine. “After I kill the man.”

  Holly grinned, and Hawthorn smiled with her. He must have sensed her lingering hesitation though, because he said, “You don’t have to move in. Just know that you have a home beyond Hazel and Hemlock’s walls. If you want it.”

  She smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Hawthorn.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, well. That’s quite enough of the unsightly baring of one’s squishy heart for the afternoon. Don’t you think?”

  Holly giggled and sipped her tea. “Quite.”

  Tum waddled over, swathed in knitted scarves, mittens, and socks, all several sizes too large for him.

  “Charming ladies!” His voice was muffled from layers of scarves. “I haven’t been this warm since cousin Lur accidentally lit my pants on fire. The beer here might be unremarkable, but the hospitality is fantastic!” He started heading for the stairs, tripped on one of the trailing scarves, and tumbled down into a wel
l-padded heap. “Marvelous!” came his muffled cry.

  “I better go help him,” Holly said. “Before, I don’t know, he suffocates or something.”

  “No rush,” Hawthorn said and took another sip of wine.

  They waited a few more days to allow Hemlock time to recover, then made the journey back to the Grove. Hazel had mixed feelings about it all. On the one hand she was glad to be returning home, but on the other she was afraid she wouldn’t recognize it—or herself—once she got there. Other than undoing her mother’s geas, nothing had gone the way she had expected. She hadn’t ever thought she would turn to necromancy—she especially never thought she’d find beauty in what was supposed to be a grim, dreadful discipline. She didn’t know what to think anymore, and so she didn’t know what to expect when returning home.

  Both she and Holly had their noses to the windows as the carriage rolled up in front of their cottage. They got out and remained on the road as the driver unloaded their luggage from the rack up top.

  “It looks so small,” Holly whispered. “Was it always so small?”

  “I think so,” Hazel replied.

  Holly rubbed her arms. “I don’t.”

  Tum hopped down from his perch next to the driver and bolted towards the cellar door.

  Hemlock said, “Hawthorn and I are going to head home and take care of some affairs. We can stop by later if you’d like.”

  Hazel said, “That would be nice. Wouldn’t it, Holly?”

  Holly continued to stare at the cottage, but she nodded.

  He smiled. “All right. Until later then.” The carriage rolled away, and Holly, taking a deep breath, headed inside. Hazel followed.

  The air inside was musty and stale, but everything looked as it should. Only dustier.

  “Definitely smaller,” Holly muttered and went into her room.

  Hazel went to the kitchen. She had left a jar of flowers on the table that had since withered and browned. Purple columbines. Her mother’s favorite. Hazel’s too.

  She put her hands over her face and cried.

  * * *

  The cottage was the same, yet different. It was as though ghosts had taken up residence while they were gone. So Hazel and Holly gathered all the candles they could find and lit them in an effort to keep the ghosts away.

  “I bet Tum’s got some candles stashed away,” Holly said as Hazel tried to prod a fire to life in the hearth.

  “More than likely.”

  “I’ll go get them.” Holly hustled outside.

  Hazel blew on the feeble flames until they grew and caught the wood and burned on their own.

  There was a commotion outside, then Tum came stumbling through the door, wearing red fuzzy pyjamas with matching cap and slippers. He scowled up at Holly, who followed him in, carrying a crate of mead and a few candles.

  “Why do I need to come in here? I was perfectly comfortable where I was. Or hadn’t you noticed?” Tum looked down at his body, as if to reassure himself of the obviousness of his comfort.

  “It’s our first night back,” Holly said. “You shouldn’t be spending it alone.”

  “But—”

  “Nobody’s spending it alone!” Holly took a deep breath, set down the crate, and took out a bottle of mead. She handed it to Tum. “Here. Drink this.”

  “I don’t…,” Tum began, but when he saw Holly’s expression, he just said, “Right,” took the mead, and sat on the sofa.

  Despite the fire and candles, there was a gloom in the cottage the light couldn’t dispel. Tum sniffed at the mead and grimaced and continued to stare into the fire while Holly poked around in the kitchen, looking for food.

  “There’s nothing here!” she called out. “Wait… Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “A jar of green beans.” She poked her head around the corner and held out the jar. “How old is this?”

  “I don’t know,” Hazel said. “So probably pretty old.”

  Holly muttered something Hazel couldn’t hear.

  “We could go to the Green Man,” Tum said. “I bet they got food.”

  “They don’t have food,” Holly said.

  “But they got beer. That’s a kind of food.”

  “I don’t want—” Holly began but was interrupted by a knock at the door. She ran over and opened it. Hemlock and Hawthorn stood on the threshold. Hawthorn carried a crate while Hemlock carried a wide basket.

  “Come in!” Holly grabbed Hawthorn by the jacket and pulled him inside. Hemlock followed.

  “We brought refreshments,” Hawthorn said and thrust the crate at Holly, undoubtedly to get her to unhand him.

  “Oh?” Holly said. “What kind?” She lifted the lid to the crate and found several dark bottles nestled among handfuls of straw.

  “Wine, of course.”

  “Oh.”

  “We also brought food,” Hemlock said as he set down his basket and began to unpack it.

  “Oooh!” Holly hustled over to help him. There was a braided loaf of bread, a roasted chicken, several apples, a wedge of cheese, a jar of brined olives, and two small honey cakes.

  Holly ran into her room, pulled the blanket from her bed, and spread the blanket on the floor in front of the fire. She and Hemlock lay the food out on the blanket while Hawthorn rooted around in the kitchen and came back with four glasses.

  “You didn’t bring a glass for Tum,” Holly said.

  “Tum doesn’t drink wine,” Tum said and continued to stare forlornly at the fire.

  “Exactly,” Hawthorn said. He went over to the crate and pulled out a smaller, dustier bottle and handed it to Tum. “Besides, I figured he’d rather drink his beer from the bottle.”

  “Beer?!” Tum said. “You got beer?”

  Hawthorn shrugged. “I found it in the cellar. Could be Merrick’s. Or maybe it belonged to Father. Who knows? But I figured better to get it out of the house.”

  “And into old Tum’s belly!” He grinned as he broke off the wax stopper and took a swig. He cackled. “Oh ho! It’s horrible!” He took another drink.

  “Where did all this food come from?” Hazel said.

  “One of the many benefits of having a fully trained staff waiting for one’s inevitable return,” Hawthorn said as he looked around. “You should really consider hiring a maid.”

  Hemlock took the glasses and poured some wine, and everyone sat down on the blanket and started to eat.

  “This is cozy,” Holly said as she nibbled on an olive. “Don’t you think, Hazel?”

  It was. Somehow the tiny cottage had gotten too big for her and Holly, and they alone could no longer light its dark corners with the candles of their lives. Perhaps they never could, only Hazel had never realized it. She smiled and nodded and raised her tumbler of wine. “To family, new and old.”

  The others clinked their glasses to hers. Even Tum toddled over and clanked his dusty bottle against her glass.

  And so they passed that first evening at home in the company of each other, making plans for the future and of the orange tree Holly planned to grow for Elder. As the candles burned down and the night grew darker, the room inside grew warmer as they all lay down on the floor, talking and telling stories before drifting off to sleep.

  * * *

  Hazel awoke in the night. She lay there listening to the breathing of the others as they slumbered. She clenched her eyes shut, telling herself to sleep as well. But sleep wouldn’t come.

  She got up, found a lamp, and lit it from the embers of the fire. Then she broke off a piece of honey cake, put it in her pocket, and walked outside.

  The clear, crisp night smelled like rain and leaves and rotting wood. She shivered but dared not go back in for a shawl. She hurried down the road, the handle from the lantern slightly creaking as it swayed to and fro.

  Barren, tangled vines webbed across the sterile stone of the cottage. She slipped past the waterlogged door, went to the hearth, and built a small fire from the pile of sticks and twigs in the corner. Rainwater that had leaked through th
e roof overflowed from the ewer. Hazel poured some of the water into the bowl, then took the cake from her pocket and crumbled it into the liquid.

  She waited.

  Hazel held her breath, listening, but there was only the cry of a distant owl and a scratching and rustling of leaves out in the brush. Everything else remained frightfully silent. Yet still she waited.

  But Willow didn’t come.

  Hazel exhaled. Was she relieved? Disappointed? She didn’t know. Part of her felt… empty. As if her heart had deflated and nothing had rushed in the void to fill it. Standing there, in the decaying cottage to which her mother would never return, she felt so very alone.

  And yet she wasn’t, was she? She had the love of her sister. Of Hemlock. After everything she’d done. Without them, she likely would have never been able to overcome her father. And that… warmed her. It helped push back some of the sadness shrouding her heart.

  She didn’t know what the future held, but she knew she didn’t have to face it alone. That meant something. That gave her strength.

  Hazel extinguished the fire with the cake water and tidied the ewer and basin on the table. She lingered a moment, not wanting to leave, feeling as though she would never return. But then, with a single look back, she left the cottage and returned to let the hearth fire of her home—of her family—warm her hollowed heart.

  Dear Reader

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  Acknowledgments