Just as Hawthorn let down his crystalline wall and retrieved his jacket, a carriage came rattling down the road behind them. The carriage slowed as it approached, and Tum glowered down at them from his perch next to the driver.

“You think you can just ditch old Tum? Placate him with dolls and leave him in the cellar? Not nearly enough beer to ditch me in a place like that. So if you want to keep on my good side, you’d best think again the next time you’re of a mind to be playing your tricks.”

“We weren’t trying to trick you, Tum,” Holly said. “We meant to come back. We—”

Tum put up a hand. “Tricksters’ tongues wag only lies. Old Uncle Tid told me that one. You calling my uncle a liar?”

“I… what?”

“Get in the carriage and let us be done with it. I’ve still words to share with Miss Hazel, so let’s go find her before my mood changes.”

Hawthorn opened the carriage door. A rotten draft of air wafted out, and inside on the floor lay a heap of Francis’s wheat dolls. A few tumbled out and landed in the dirt.

Holly clapped a hand over her nose and mouth. “Ugh, what’s that smell? And where are we supposed to sit?”

“You should have thought of that before you crossed me.” He thrust a finger in the air. “Never cross a cellar gnome. Not if you want to live to tell about it.”

Hawthorn, covering his nose with a handkerchief, said, “The only thing threatening our lives is the stench emanating from my once pristine coach. Did something die in there?”

Tum sniffed. “I may or may not have broken a jar of those pickled eggs in the coach. Not that it should matter. In my day, we were lucky if a jar of eggs broke on our heads, and then if we were really lucky, we got to eat the glass afterwards.”

“That makes no sense,” Holly said.

Tum waved his hands. “You coming or not? Time’s wasting, it is.”

They clambered inside. Hawthorn shoved most of the dolls out onto the road, ignoring Tum’s shrieking protests. Then the carriage started moving, and both Holly and Hawthorn unlatched the catches on the windows and stuck their heads out into the cool, clean air.

Hazel and Hemlock hurried along the road. They had managed to escape the town undetected with the help of a few well-timed spells that had diverted unwanted attention. Well, from the people that had remained behind anyway. Hazel kept a sharp eye out for the mob that had left in case they came back.

So when she saw a pack of people on the road ahead, she grabbed Hemlock’s arm before he had a chance to react, and they both darted into a field and flattened themselves in the tall grass. They remained there even after the shuffling footsteps and murmuring of voices had faded in the distance.

“Well, that was—” Hemlock began, but Hazel clamped a hand over his mouth as she strained to listen.

“I think a carriage is coming.” She removed her hand, and they both peeked over the grass in time to witness their carriage rattle along the road while Holly and Hawthorn both hung halfway out of the windows.

“Do they think they’re on a joyride?” Hazel said and got to her feet to run after them.

“Would that surprise you?” Hemlock said as he followed her.

“Hazel!” Holly shouted. “Tum, stop the carriage!”

“Tum stops for no one!” he shouted back.

The carriage careened down the road, leaving Hazel and Hemlock behind. There were some unintelligible shouts, then the carriage stopped. Then somehow it managed an awkward turn on the narrow road and headed back.

Holly hopped out of the carriage before it stopped and ran over and hugged Hazel. Then she pulled away, put her hands on her hips, and gave her a severe look. “What were you thinking with that stupid plan of yours? Did you have a plan for when it didn’t work out? Because it didn’t work out, did it?”

“It didn’t work out because I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut,” Hazel said.

Hawthorn had also left the carriage and stood next to Holly. “Shocking. Perhaps you should stop putting yourself—and all of us—in situations where keeping your mouth shut is imperative.”

Hazel scowled at him, but before she could say anything, Holly grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the carriage. “We’d better get out of here before the townspeople come back. They got a good scare with the voles and weasels, but I doubt it’ll last long.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain later. Come on.”

“We need to go back to Emmond’s house,” Hazel said as she freed her arm from Holly.

“Um, no?” Holly said. “We need to leave. Right now.”

“Listen to your sister,” Hawthorn said. “At least one of you has sense.”

“Hazel,” Hemlock said as he shot Hawthorn a sharp look. “I don’t think going back would be a good idea.”

“It’s a terrible idea!” Hazel said, throwing up her hands. “But we still need to do it. There’s something there connected to Father. I know there is.”

“Ah, yes,” Hawthorn said. “Your ‘vision’ from a necromantic potion. It’s not enough for you to dabble in the dark arts, now you feel compelled to drag us all into the mire with you?”

Holly elbowed him. To Hazel, she said, “You don’t know it’s the same place.”

“I know it’s the only place we’ve come across that resembles what I saw. We have to go back.”

When no one said anything, Hazel lifted her chin. “Fine, I’ll go back myself.” She started down the road, but Hemlock stopped her.

“Nobody’s going off alone. We’ll go with you.” He looked at the others. “Right?”

Holly wrung her hands, but she nodded. “Right.”

Hawthorn remained distinctly silent. Holly swatted him on the shoulder, and he sighed and said, “Right.”

They all headed towards the carriage. Hazel covered her nose. “Ugh. What’s that smell?”

“Your charming gnome had his way with the carriage,” Hawthorn said.

“It’s not too bad if you stick your head out the window,” Holly said.

“I’m not sticking my head—” Hazel began, but then her throat clenched shut when Hawthorn opened the carriage door and the smell of vinegar and sulphur hit her like a wall. “Show me how.”

What a sight they must have been, Hazel thought as she leaned nearly halfway out the window. Four adults hanging out of a moving carriage like drunken revelers.

Hemlock smiled at her as the carriage rattled along. “It’s rather refreshing, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes,” Hazel said. “Very refreshing what with all the gnats and flies bouncing off my face.” She grimaced. “I think I swallowed one.”

Hemlock laughed and closed his eyes as he lifted his face towards the sun.

Thankfully, the trip back was blessedly short. For once, Hazel didn’t wait for the carriage to stop and hopped out as soon as it had sufficiently slowed. Holly yelped and clapped, then did the same.

Hazel looked around. None of the townsfolk were in sight, though they’d probably show up soon enough. She hurried up the steps and, holding her breath, eased the door open and poked her head inside. The room stood quiet and dark, save for the diffused streams of sunlight filtering through the linen curtains.

“Hello?” Hazel called, but no answer came. She stepped inside and headed to the cramped tincture room where Emmond had proposed his ridiculous plan.

She opened one of the desk drawers and rifled around through sheaves of paper. She glanced at a few of them, which looked to be nothing more than bills and invoices and inventory lists for nearby farms. She opened another drawer and found an array of steel-tipped pens and sealed pots of ink. Another drawer held a bundle of Francis’s dolls, and Hazel slammed the drawer shut a bit harder than she intended. The desk held nothing of interest that she could find, so she turned her attention to the cabinet.

Inside she found an array of ointment pots and jars and little bottles similar to the ones on the shelves lining the walls. None were labeled though. How was anyone supposed to find anything if nothing was labeled? She picked up a narrow, cylindrical jar about as big around as her thumb and twice as tall. She pulled out the cork stopper and sniffed the contents and nearly dropped the thing when her eyes stung and watered and she staggered back in a fit of coughing.

“Careful,” Hemlock said as he stood at the door’s threshold.

Holly poked her head in. “What’re you sniffing at?”

Hazel wiped her eyes. “I don’t know. You’re the Hearth witch, maybe you’d do a better job going through all this stuff.”

“Maybe, if I knew what I was looking for.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately we don’t have that luxury.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“The point is to find something that stands out that will hopefully give us a hint to where Father has gone.”

“You do hear yourself, right? You do realize how nonsensical that sounds?”

Hazel snorted. “You’re the queen of nonsense. This should be your area of expertise.”

But Holly was not amused. “There’s nothing here!”

Everyone turned quiet. Hemlock, flanked by the sisters, tried to press himself into the door’s threshold as he studied his feet. Hawthorn stood out in the main room, shaking his head as he otherwise pretended not to notice their argument.

Hazel tightened her jaw as she stared at Holly. Holly’s cheeks had turned a deep red, but she stood her ground and glowered back at Hazel.

The silence broke when Tum tottered inside the house. “Hate to break up the party, but we got a band o’ those townsfolk coming up the way, so we might want to skedaddle, if you catch my meaning.”

“We need to go, Hazel,” Holly said.

“Excellent idea,” Hawthorn said and followed Tum out the door.

“We can come back later,” Hemlock said. “After they leave.”

“You mean after they ransack the place?” Hazel said. “I don’t think so.”

“Hazel, please,” Holly said.

“You can leave if you want. I’m staying here.”

Holly planted her hands on her hips, but before she could say anything, Hemlock took her by the arm and led her out.

“She’s lost it,” Holly said as Hemlock gently led her across the main room. “Her mind’s finally snapped, and she’s gone the wrong way round the bend.”

They reached the door, and Hemlock opened it and led them outside.

“I mean, you agree with me, right?” Holly said. “We shouldn’t be staying here.”

Hemlock stopped as they reached the bottom of the steps at the base of the porch. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Hazel’s dug in, and she’s not going to change her mind. Arguing about it isn’t going to help us at this point. Not when we’ve got an angry mob headed our way. We need to decide what we’re going to do about that.”

Holly threw up her hands. “I don’t know! I don’t know what to do that will scare them away again. I don’t think they’ll be chased off twice by weasels and moles.” She scratched her head. “I could try to bring a pack of wolves over, but that’s trickier. A lot trickier.”

“So,” Hawthorn said as he came over to stand next to them. “We have a choice of either getting mauled by an angry mob or by a pack of wild wolves. Brilliant.”

“I pick the wolves,” Holly said.

“Nobody’s getting mauled,” Hemlock said. To Hawthorn, he added, “Have you ever done a keyhole illusion?”

Hawthorn arched an eyebrow. “A couple of times. Why? Have you?”

Hemlock shook his head. “I’ve read about them, but no, never tried one.”

“What’s a keyhole illusion?” Holly said.

Hawthorn held up a hand at her. To Hemlock, he said, “You’re not suggesting we try one, are you?”

Hemlock remained silent a moment as he met Hawthorn’s gaze. “You have any other ideas?”

Hawthorn chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “Well, this should be interesting. Do you have an illusion in mind?”

Hemlock nodded. “I created an illusion of the Witness earlier, and it worked for a little while. But it was too simple, too crude, and they saw through it. If we can work a keyhole illusion of the Witness, well, if that doesn’t send them running for the hills, nothing will.”

Holly waved a hand between the two brothers. “Hello? Will someone please tell me what we’re talking about?”

Hemlock took a breath and turned towards her. “A keyhole illusion is basically a cross between a conjuration and an illusion and requires two practitioners in Wyr magic to pull off.”

“Only the tricky part,” Hawthorn added, “is that whoever does the conjuring bit risks breaking his own mind.”

“What?” Holly said. “How?”

Hemlock rubbed the back of his neck and said, “The summoner, in this case… conjures the entity within him, rather than externally.”

“He becomes the conjuration, essentially,” Hawthorn said.

Holly’s mouth hung open. “I don’t understand. Is it a spirit? This sounds like necromancy.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Hawthorn said. “No souls are involved—it’s not at all the same.”

“The discerning difference between a conjuration and an illusion,” Hemlock said, “is that others must be present to observe the illusion for it to work.”

“But since others can’t see what is inside oneself,” Hawthorn added, “it must be a conjuration in this particular instance.”

“But what will it do?” Holly asked. “Why can’t you do the conjuration outside yourself?”

Hawthorn said, “Despite the complexities in summoning them, conjurations are simple creations. You can create a conjuration of a giant or a fierce beast, but they will not necessarily act as you wish. They have no souls, no wills of their own. They are not alive, and just like an illusion, they can sometimes be seen for what they are.”

Hemlock said, “But if you summon a conjuration within you, well, it’s like it changes you. You… become what you summon. At least mentally. Externally, you’ll look the same.”

“Which is where the second person comes into play to apply all the necessary outwards illusions.”

“Oh, I see,” Holly said. “So you basically give the thing your soul. Tell me again how it’s not like necromancy?”

Hawthorn gave her a flat look. “I’m not giving it anything. Lending perhaps is as far as I would go. And you would be surprised how thin a line separates many of the disciplines from one another. But this is strictly a Wyr spell, I assure you.”

“Though it is forbidden,” Hemlock said.

Hawthorn chuckled. “Ah, yes. The Conclave wasn’t at all pleased at the rising number of drooling warlocks cooking their brains from attempting keyhole illusions.”

“But why the conjuration at all?” Holly said. “Why not just act the part?”

Hawthorn shrugged. “I suppose one always could take that approach, but you will never get the same kind of authenticity by acting. For all intents and purposes, we will be bringing the Witness into the world in a way that acting could never replicate.”

“It’s why it’s called a keyhole illusion,” Hemlock said. “Because they say it’s like looking through a keyhole into another world.”

“Or like bringing another world through a keyhole,” Hawthorn said. “It depends who you ask.”

From further down the road, the murmuring of voices and the scuffling of footsteps grew louder.

“I’ll do the conjuration,” Hemlock said. “You do the illusion.”

“Absolutely not,” said Hawthorn. “You’ve never done this before. I’ll do the conjuration.”

“It’s my idea; it’s my risk to take.”

“And all of us are at risk if it’s not done properly. We have one shot at this, and we don’t have time to argue.”

Hemlock glowered at Hawthorn, but before he could say anything else, Hawthorn started his spell. He spoke a series of unfamiliar words, and the familiar glint in his eyes faded and was replaced by something wholly foreign. A chill bore into the base of Holly’s neck, and she took a step back.

“WHO DARE STANDS BEFORE ME UNPREPARED?” Hawthorn’s voice boomed as he spoke. There was a sliver of his usual voice present, but the rest sounded like someone else. Hemlock worked his illusion, and right before Holly’s eyes, Hawthorn transformed.

He grew taller in stature, his purple-black coat replaced with a long, black tattered cloak. His beautiful features were eclipsed with a horrid waxen mask, similar to the one Holly had seen earlier. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. She hadn’t really thought it possible, but Hawthorn was gone. This was the Witness.

“YOU WILL ANSWER ME,” the Witness said as he took a step towards her. “OR BEAR MY WRATH.”

“I…” Holly began.

Hemlock, standing behind the Witness, waved towards the road.

Holly nodded and took a deep breath. “They stand before you unprepared!” She thrust an accusatory finger at the throng of people just as they topped the hill.

The Witness rounded on them, and as he did, the entire group froze. For one hopeful moment it looked like they might run away. But then a man stepped forward.

“It’s all a trick!” he said. “This isn’t the Witness!”

That solidified the courage in the rest of the group, and they charged forward.

The Witness lifted his arms, and the entire group ran into an invisible wall with a series of grunts and cries of pain. Several of them staggered back and fell down with bloodied noses.

The Witness bent down next to a man on the ground cradling his jaw and grabbed the back of his head. The man seemed to shrink within himself as the Witness brought his face close to his. He stared into the Witness’s eyes, and then he began to scream.

“It’s him! It’s the Witness!”

Panic broke out among the crowd. Most were trying to cover their eyes as they scrambled to their feet, resulting in a clumsy dash as the townsfolk collided into one another as they ran for all they were worth back down the road.

Holly let out a breath, then the Witness turned on her.

“YOU,” he said. “YOU MUST ATONE.”

She staggered back. The illusion fell from the Witness, and he looked like Hawthorn again, but he still came towards her with a gleam in his eyes that Holly didn’t recognize.

“Hemlock?” she said as she backed up against the porch.

Hemlock worked another spell, and the foreign gleam in Hawthorn’s eyes faded, replaced by one of befuddlement. Then he fell over.

Holly ran over to him. She fell to her knees and scrabbled at his coat and patted his cheek.

“Hawthorn? Wake up. Please wake up.” She looked up at Hemlock and felt a pang of panic at his distressed expression.

“How do we wake him up?” she said.

Hemlock shook his head as his mouth hung open. “I… I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Do something!”

“I—”

Hawthorn groaned and put a hand to his head.

Holly helped him sit up. “Are you all right?”

He stared at her and mumbled something incoherent.

“He’s cooked his brain!” Holly said.

Hemlock said, “Just… give him a minute.” He squatted down and put a hand on Hawthorn’s shoulder. Looking into his eyes, Hemlock said, “You’ve ruined your best jacket, brother.”

Hawthorn’s expression remained vacant as his jaw slackened.

Hemlock tightened his grip on Hawthorn’s shoulder. “Not to worry though. I’m sure Holly can sew you a new one out of the curtains.”

Hawthorn continued to stare at his brother for several heartbeats when his brow twitched into a frown. “Curtains?” he murmured, his voice raspy and strained. “On me?” He let out a sharp wheeze that might have been a laugh. “Only if you put it on my cold, turgid corpse.”

Hemlock smiled and gave his brother’s shoulder another squeeze. “He’s fine.”

Holly wrapped her arms around Hawthorn and hugged him tight. Then she shoved him. “You stupid idiot! What were you thinking, doing a spell like that?”

Hawthorn grinned. “I was magnificent, wasn’t I?”

“No, you were creepy. Don’t do it again.”

“Creepy because I was magnificent. You’ve never seen anything like it before, have you?”

“No, and I don’t want to. So promise you won’t do it again.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

Holly grabbed one of his ears and twisted it.

“Ow!” he cried. “Let go, you torturous harpy.”

“Promise!”

“Fine, I promise. Now unhand me.”

Holly pursed her lips and let go. “Well, all right then.”

Hemlock hid a smile behind his hand.

Hawthorn smoothed his hair and attempted to brush his jacket clean, but he gave up and sighed.

“Come on,” Hemlock said as he clasped Hawthorn by the forearm. “Let’s find you some clean clothes.”