They traveled across town to a cramped little district where the buildings were built too closely together, all bending with the weight of years pressing upon them. Hawthorn hopped out of the carriage, and the others followed him into a rickety-looking establishment that had a sagging roof and wooden walls blackened by pitch that gave off a slightly burned and pungent smell.

Inside, the burned smell was replaced with pleasing aromas of cooked meat, onions, and herbs. The walls were spared the pitch treatment from the outside, and the naked wooden walls were adorned only with pots of herbs and trailing vines that supplied a rather homely feel.

The room had a few tables scattered about, all of them filled with patrons holding on to steaming mugs or slurping soup from chipped clay bowls. Behind a counter stood a little old woman who was barely tall enough to peer over the top of it. Great copper kettles surrounded her, all containing simmering soup that fogged the windows behind her with their steam.

She squinted at them from behind a pair of thick glasses as they approached. Then her face split into a luminous smile. “Hawthorn, my boy! What brings you here?”

“Hello, Ada.”

Ada came around the counter and put out her hands, and Hawthorn took hold of them.

“Little Hawthorn,” she said, blinking up at him several times. “Unchanged from the last time I saw you. You still fooling around with those silly glamours?”

Hawthorn grinned. “You know me. I always like to look my best.”

Ada tsked. “You always were a handsome boy. Probably more handsome now as a man. You shouldn’t hide that.” She blinked as she took in the others. “You must be Hemlock. You’ve the look of your father, make no mistake.”

Hemlock shifted his feet. “You and Hawthorn know each other?”

“Oh, aye. Little whelp’s been coming here with Lupinus for years.” She turned back to Hawthorn and squinted at him. “When was the last time you were here? It’s been a while.”

“Before Father died.”

Ada spit on the floor then smeared it with her foot. “Sad business, that. But the inevitable end for us all, I suppose. But enough of my rambling. I’m guessing you came here to eat and not reminisce with an old woman.”

Hawthorn flashed her a bright smile. “You were always too clever for your own good.”

Ada scoffed and slapped his arm. “And you were always too charming for your own good. That charm get you in trouble yet?”

Hawthorn grinned. “Not yet.”

“Then you’re luckier than a hog in a midden heap. I’ll take you to the back.” She turned and headed through a door that led them down a narrow hallway before herding them into a cramped but cozy room with a single round table. An oversized window nearly took up an entire wall, washing the snug room with light and turning it pleasantly warm.

They situated themselves around the table, and after a few minutes, Ada returned, carrying a great round tray filled with various bowls and mugs. She set them out on the table.

“I’ve brought you a bit of everything. You all look like you could use a good warm lunch. If you need anything else, I’ll be out front, so you just let me know.” She turned and left.

Holly was the first to grab a bowl. She sniffed it, then passed it to Hazel before grabbing another. She passed on two more before finding one of the mugs to her satisfaction. She sipped from it as she glanced at the others.

Everyone remained silent. Hemlock ignored the soup Holly had set in front of him as he glowered at Hawthorn.

“Care to tell me what’s going on, brother?” Hemlock said. “You’ve been here before. Why lie about that? Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

Hawthorn sighed. “To avoid this very conversation. Father brought me here from time to time when I was younger. I never asked him to, but he did. So there it is.”

“He was trying to spare your feelings,” Holly said.

Hemlock glowered at her. “You knew? Does everyone know except me? Have you all had a good laugh playing me for a fool?”

“No, I—”

“Not everything is about you, Hemlock,” Hawthorn said. “You’ve always been so sensitive about Father and me. Can you blame me for wanting to avoid all this nonsense?”

“Nonsense?” Hemlock said. “Is it nonsense to want to be included? To feel like I belong in a family? Because I never have, Hawthorn. I expected this sort of thing from Father, but it’s worse that you’re still doing it even though he’s long been in the ground. You truly are his heir, in every conceivable way.” He got up and left.

Silence fell around the table. Hawthorn stretched his neck and straightened the cuffs of his shirt. He fixed his gaze on Hazel. “Shall we get on with it then?”

Hazel thrust a finger at him. “You wait there.” She got up and walked out to the main room, but Hemlock wasn’t there. She went outside and found him sitting on a squat barrel underneath the drooping eave of a particularly ramshackle building further down the way. His head was lowered as he rested his weight against his knees, so he didn’t see her as she approached.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He looked up at her and then away again. He stared out towards the street a long while before saying, “Somehow it always manages to take me off guard how much of an ass Hawthorn can be. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

“Does it matter so much that he lied about coming here?”

Hemlock shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s everything. It’s lifelong years of being overlooked and of having to brace the brunt of Hawthorn’s smug indifference. And I’m… tired. I don’t know why I’ve continued to care. I’ve tried not to, but…”

“Everyone wants to feel like they matter.”

Hemlock said nothing.

Hazel leaned against the building. The wooden slats were damp, and a chill began to seep through her clothes, but she remained anyway. “Mother always favored Holly. She tried to pretend like she didn’t, but I could tell. Her face never lit up when she looked at me like it did with Holly. Even now, after her death…” She shook her head. “Some things never change.”

“Your sister adores you though.”

“I can only wonder why. I haven’t always been a good sister to her. I’ve tried, but… well, sometimes it’s hard to do the right thing, to say the right thing, especially when you don’t know what the right thing is.”

Hemlock screwed up his face as he looked at her. “Are you defending Hawthorn?”

Hazel scoffed. “I wouldn’t go that far. But he is your brother. I’d be willing to wager that somewhere beyond that puffed-up exterior of his he cares about you. He probably just doesn’t know any other way.”

“You are defending him!”

Hazel winced. “Good grief, I am.” She took a breath. “I’m not saying you don’t have a right to be upset—you have every right. Had I been in your place, I doubt I’d have handled things nearly as well. But he is your brother. Your mother and father are both gone. He’s all you have left.”

“I thought I had you.”

“I can never fill that part in your heart that belongs to your brother. Just as you can never fill that part of mine that belongs to Holly. You owe it to yourself to find a way to mend this rift.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?”

“Try harder.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m done trying. I’m just… I’m done.”

Hazel tightened her jaw. These brothers, pigheaded the both of them. She marched back inside the soup shop and to the back room, grabbed Hawthorn by the sleeve of his brocade jacket, and hauled him out of the chair.

“Unhand me, you shrew,” Hawthorn said. “You’ll rumple the fabric or stain it with those sweaty paws of yours.”

Hazel ignored him, tightening her grip on him as she dragged him outside.

Hemlock got up as they approached and glowered at Hazel. “I’ve nothing to say to him.”

“That will be a refreshing change,” Hawthorn said. “I’ve no need for a wife with your nagging at me all the while.” He smoothed out his jacket once Hazel let go of him.

“Enough of this,” Hazel said. “You two can’t stand each other, is that it? Well, let’s have it out then. Let’s air out every grievance you have with each other.”

To Hazel, Hemlock said, “I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work. Not with him. He’s got his head so far up his ass that’s it’s a wonder he can walk.”

“Ah, yes,” Hawthorn said, “the ass quips. Your standard fallback of insults. One would think you’d find more material after all these years.”

“Why? Your sorry ass proves to be most ample in that regard.”

“My ass is many things, but ample is not one of them.”

“You see?” Hemlock said to Hazel. “There’s no talking to him. Every­thing’s a joke. Everything is cheapened and made superficial. I’m sick of it, and I’m done.” He turned to leave, but Hazel got in his way.

“Why have you come here, Hawthorn?” she said, looking at him past Hemlock. “Why do you care whether or not Holly and I find our father?”

Hemlock tried pushing past her, but she put a hand on his chest and gave him a sharp look that took some of the fire out of his eyes. He stiffened his back and stared past her, but he remained still.

“I didn’t have much choice,” Hawthorn said. “You’ve dragged me into this whole business of finding your father.”

Hazel narrowed her eyes. “Don’t give me that. You’ve helped us, and you didn’t have to. Why?”

“Of course I had to. Can you imagine the mess you all would have made without me?”

Hemlock rounded on him. “Of course, without you we’re all just a group of bumbling idiots. Nothing and no one has any worth until you decree that it has. How foolish of us for not realizing that.”

Hawthorn fixed him in a cool gaze. “Indeed.”

Hemlock’s face twisted, and again he turned to leave, but Hazel grabbed him by the arm.

“Hazel, let go.”

“Why do you care whether or not we make a mess of things?” Hazel said to Hawthorn as she tightened her grip on Hemlock’s sleeve with everything she had. “What does it matter? Is it because of Holly? Do you want to be near her?”

Hawthorn’s smug look dissolved into a dumbfounded stare. “I… What? N-no, not exactly.”

“Then why?”

Hemlock pried her hand away, so she latched onto Hawthorn instead, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and giving him a shake. “Answer me!”

“I wanted to be included!” Hawthorn shouted as he wrenched himself out of her grasp. “Mercy alive, woman, you can be a loud little thing.”

Hemlock, who had been walking away, now turned back. “Oh no. You don’t get to feel left out. Not about this. You don’t get to make everything about you!”

Hawthorn glared at him. “You think you’re the only one who’s felt left out in life? You think you’re the only one who’s ever been lonely? You’ve always been so jealous of me and Father, but you didn’t miss a whole lot. Do you think he was affectionate? That we shared some bond? The man barely spoke to me and only when it suited him. Even on our trips here together he kept me at arm’s length. Combine that with a younger brother who despises you, and what did you expect me to do? Grovel at your feet so I can take more of your scorn? Have you look down on me with that air of superiority you’re so fond of? You’ve always thought you’re better than me. Smarter. You’re an arrogant jackass, just like Father.”

Hemlock’s face blanched, as if he had taken a blow to the stomach. “I… I never despised you.”

“Yet you’ve held no love for me either. You’re not the only one who’s felt excluded from family, Hemlock.”

The two brothers stared at each other, and Hazel remained frozen as she held her breath.

Holly wandered out of the soup shop and walked towards them. “Why’re you all out here? Are we leaving?”

No one said anything for a long while as Hemlock and Hawthorn continued to stare each other down. Then Hawthorn turned towards Holly and brightened. “I hope you haven’t eaten all the soup. I’m starving.” And then he walked back into the shop.

Holly glanced between Hazel and Hemlock, shrugged, and followed Hawthorn inside.

Hemlock, without looking at her, said, “What just happened?”

“I have no idea. But maybe we should follow them inside.”

Hemlock continued to stare outwards before he slowly shifted his gaze to her. “What?”

She smiled and took his hand. “Come on.” She led him back inside and to the little room. Ada threw them a quizzical look as they passed, but said nothing.

Hawthorn took a great interest in his bowl of soup when they entered. Holly sipped from her mug as she glanced between them. Hemlock stood there, staring at the table yet not seeming to actually see it. Hazel nudged him, and he started and sat down in a chair.

Holly raised her eyebrows at Hazel, but Hazel shook her head. Hemlock proceeded to stir his soup with a spoon, staring at the food as if divining its contents.

Hazel’s soup was a thick chowder, both warm and filling. “So, Hawthorn,” she said as she ate. “What was it you were going to tell us about the Grove? Some history with Sarnum?”

Hawthorn looked up at her, then glanced at Hemlock, but his brother kept his gaze on his soup. Hawthorn cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. Long ago—”

“How long?” said Holly.

“Um, about seven hundred years.”

“Then you should say that.”

“Holly…,” Hazel said.

“What?”

Hawthorn raised a hand. “Seven hundred years ago, there was no Grove, and there was no Sarnum. There wasn’t much of anything really, just small townships and communities, each paying homage to their own patron god or goddess.”

“What kinds of gods and goddesses?” Holly asked.

“The same ones we pay homage to today. The Ladies of the Sky and Sea, and the Lords of the Trees and Sun. Yet there was another that we in the Grove have long since forgotten: the Shapeless One, the Nameless Father, the Barren Mother, Keeper of the Stars, and Siphoner of Souls.”

“A lord of necromancy?” Hazel said.

“Some say a lord, others say a lady. Some say that it’s neither, a being that’s transcended beyond the limitations of gender. But it’s not necromancy that it guides, it’s ether, the element of the Otherworld, that intangible substance that permeates us all and cannot be measured. That is the element that guides necromancy, just as air guides Wyr, and fire guides Hearth. And the Shapeless One is the deity of that element.”

Hemlock came out of his stupor and stared at Hawthorn. “You’ve studied necromancy?”

“I’ve studied the theory of it but never the practice. Father forbade it, but he said it wouldn’t do to be willfully obtuse. Necromancy exists in the world, and the best way to fight it is to understand it.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Would you have wanted to know? Would it have helped your estimation of me to know that I studied such things?”

Hemlock said nothing and looked back down at his soup.

“What does this have to do with the Grove and Sarnum?” Hazel asked.

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that necromancy is a grim discipline. It focuses on manipulation of spirits and the dead, of the darkness that seeps into the cracks of the world. Yet for all its grimness, it’s highly complex. It’s similar to Wyr magic in that regard. And, as with the Wyr discipline, there are many who thought—that continue to think—that the discipline’s complexity makes it superior. This was further compounded by the nature of the discipline’s element. Ether: the fifth element. Quite literally quintessential. This brought about the mindset among necromancers that there are only two types of people in the world: those who practice necromancy, and those who are too inept to do so.

“As you can imagine, all this was not met well with non-necromancers. Regardless of the deity one pays homage to, respect still needs to be afforded to all. Equally. But necromancers continued to disparage and disregard the other deities of the other elements. An unmendable rift formed among the people until the only recourse was to split from the necromancers. Those who followed the ways of earth and air, water and fire, headed north and settled in what is now the Grove. The necromancers remained behind and built their walled city so that they could practice their dark arts in quiet seclusion.

“It was decided long ago in the Grove to forbid necromancy in all forms, fearful of repeating past events. Father always thought it foolish. That only through ignorance will the errors of the past be repeated, but he never spoke out about it. He simply taught me in secret instead.”

“I can see why he and Pyrus were friends,” Hazel said.

“Indeed. Though I never knew Pyrus’s thoughts on the matter. He left the Conclave before I joined. But it does make sense.”

“But how does this help us?” Holly said. “What does it mean that Hazel can work necromancy on her own?”

“It’s difficult to say. There are avid followers that might say she’s been chosen by the Shapeless One.”

“What?” Holly said. “That can’t be true.”

Hawthorn shrugged. “I doubt it is. I’ve never been fond of such literal representations of the Divines at any rate. But there are some who believe it.”

“But I had also worked Wyr magic before I learned about it,” Hazel said. “Does that mean I’ve been chosen by the Lady of the Sky as well?”

“I have no explanation for your magical aptitude. But if I were to wager a guess, I’d say you’re better at intuiting the nuances that each discipline has. There are similarities between them. Perhaps you are just better at making the leaps between the gaps than most people are.”

Holly beamed at him. “You think she’s good at magic. What happened to ‘Wyr magic is for the menfolk’ nonsense?”

Hawthorn shifted in his chair. “It was a position I had not been challenged on until your sister. Prior to that, I believe I was quite accurate in my assessment.”

“You were wrong, you can admit it.”

“I…”

“Go on”—Holly poked him—“admit it.”

Hawthorn took a breath and fixed his gaze on the ceiling. “I suppose I was wrong,” he mumbled.

Holly grinned like she had just snagged a pie from a windowsill. “There now. That wasn’t so hard.”

Hawthorn kept his gaze upwards as he shook his head.

“What happened to the scattered communities and townships?” Hazel asked. “Do they still exist?”

“I believe some do, yes. Though I’ve never been to any town outside the Grove other than Sarnum.”

“Can we go to one?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ll ask Ada. She might know where the closest township lies.”