Hazel walked out of the tincture room with the latest drawerful of bottles as Hemlock and Hawthorn walked in. Hawthorn was filthy, and he dragged his feet as Hemlock helped him towards the sofa, his head hanging as if it were too much to bear.

“What happened?” she said. “I heard commotion out there. I’ve been trying to pack up everything I can find so we can leave.”

“Resplendent victory happened,” Hawthorn said in a sudden display of renewed vigor. “Victory!” He stumbled over his feet and fell onto the sofa.

“Is he drunk?”

Hemlock chuckled and shook his head. “He just cooked his brain a little, but he’ll be fine.” At Hazel’s perplexed look, he added, “I’ll explain it all later, but the townspeople have gone and I don’t think they’ll be coming back. So we should have some time.”

Hazel let out a long breath as she set down the drawer of tinctures on the floor near the door along with three others. “I can’t say I’m not thankful for that. I have no idea what I’m looking for here. My only plan was to grab everything not nailed down to take with us and sort out later. I could really use the extra time.”

Hemlock smiled. “Well, you have it.” He nodded towards Hawthorn. “I’m going to find him some new clothes. I’ll be right back.” He walked out the door as Holly walked in. She started for Hazel, but then noticed Hawthorn curling up on the sofa, and headed towards him instead.

She pushed Hawthorn’s legs aside, sat next to him, and prodded at his arm. “I don’t think you should lie down, in case you fall asleep. You probably shouldn’t fall asleep so soon after cooking your brain.”

Hazel asked, “Why does everyone keep saying he’s cooked his brain?”

“Well, he didn’t actually cook it, but it’s not like he didn’t give it a good go.”

Hemlock came back with a bundle of folded clothes. He took them over to Hawthorn and roused him out of his half-asleep stupor.

“What took you so long?” Hawthorn murmured.

“Sorry, but I’m unable to summon your cherished vestments with a snap of my fingers.”

“Do work on that.”

Hemlock let out a sharp breath that almost passed for a laugh. “Sure.”

Hawthorn got to his feet and swayed as he began to unbutton his coat. Hemlock reached out to steady him. Holly just stood there, looking on.

Hazel said, “Holly, I could use some help searching the mill outside.”

Several moments passed before Holly started and turned to look at her. “What?”

“Come help me outside. Hemlock can help Hawthorn get dressed without you looking on like a creepy window lurker.”

“I wasn’t lurking,” Holly said as she headed towards the door, casting one quick glance back at Hawthorn as he peeled off his dirty jacket.

“No, but you have the creepy part covered well enough.”

Holly opened her mouth again, but Hazel said, “Oh, just come on.”

Once they were outside, Hazel said, “I thought you said you weren’t interested in Hawthorn anymore.”

“I’m not, but,” Holly lowered her voice to a whisper, “he’s still very pretty.”

Hazel shook her head and opened the door to the mill. Inside, the few narrow windows were shuttered and the room stood dark. A little flame blossomed in Holly’s cupped hands.

Her wavering light showed a cramped, circular interior dominated by a pair of great millstones, one stacked atop the other. A thick wooden shaft that turned the bottom stone—when the mill was in use—disappeared into the low timber ceiling that served as the floor of the second level, accessed by a narrow set of stairs along one part of the wall. The air smelled stale and dusty but also tinted with a pleasant nutty aroma.

“Well,” Holly said, “what are we looking for?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just see what we can find.”

Holly ran a finger along the hopper that fed grain into the stones. “Why would Father come here?”

“I don’t know, Holly. The reasons why Father has done anything in his life are well beyond me.”

The two sisters poked around the ground floor of the mill, but all they found was dust and remnants of old flour and a scattering of tools hanging from pegs. They took the stairs to the second floor but didn’t find anything there either.

“There’s nothing here, Hazel,” Holly said as they ascended to the third and final floor. The space in which they had to stand was narrow and cramped as the low ceiling arced to a point a few feet above their heads. They had to keep near the wall, as the shaft that came through the floor was capped at calf height by a wooden gear almost the size of their kitchen table at home. It connected perpendicularly to an even greater gear pinioned by a shaft that led to the windmill sails outside. Holly peeked through the little window that accommodated the shaft connecting to the sails.

“It’s starting to get dark outside,” she said. “Are we going to spend the night here? Because, you know, I’d rather not.”

Hazel said nothing as she looked around the cramped chamber. There were no tools or cupboards or anything else that looked out of place. There wasn’t even so much as a scuff on the floor to indicate their father had ever come here. Hazel let out a long breath as she peered out the tiny window alongside Holly. What was she supposed to do now?

The sun sank towards the horizon, turning the sky golden and sending shadows from the trees to stretch across the wild, untended grass. As the fading light slanted across the windmill sails, a small, boxlike object cast its own shadow.

Hazel narrowed her eyes as she tried to get a better look. “What is that out there?”

“What’s out where?” Holly said as she craned her neck and brought her head closer to Hazel’s. “I don’t see anything.”

“There’s something on one of the sails.”

“Where?”

“On the uppermost one to the right.” Hazel pointed. “There, near the edge.”

Holly wrinkled her nose as she squinted out the window. “I don’t see it.”

“Never mind about that. How do we get that sail down within reach?”

“Um, I don’t know. Get it to turn. With some wind. We need wind.”

A slight breeze stirred outside. Hazel worked a spell that intensified it, but the sails remained still. “They didn’t even budge.”

“Try it again.”

Hazel did but with the same result. She turned around to eye the machinery in the mill. “Is there a brake that’s keeping the sails from turning?”

She and Holly poked around the gears and shafts.

“Here’s a lever,” Holly said, and before Hazel could reply, she pulled on it. There was a clanging sound, and a wooden band rose from the great gear that joined the smaller one just above the floor. Outside, the sails lazily rotated about an arm’s length before they stopped again.

“Closer,” Holly said.

“But not close enough.” Hazel summoned more wind, but the breeze was still too gentle.

“You need to step it up a bit.”

“I thought I was,” Hazel said. “Obviously, the nuances of conjuring wind intensity is a skill I’ve yet to master.”

“Go get Hemlock,” Holly said. “Maybe he can help.”

“Help with what?” Hemlock said as he walked up the narrow set of stairs into the tiny loft.

“Hazel needs help conjuring up some wind.”

Heat crept into Hazel’s cheeks, and she folded her arms. It was silly, feeling so defensive about such a trivial matter, but she couldn’t help it. “I can conjure the wind just fine. I just need more of it.”

“There’s a little box or something on one of the sails,” Holly said. “I can see it now, right there.” She pointed.

Hemlock adjusted his glasses and nodded. “All right. Sounds simple enough. Go outside and get ready to grab whatever’s on that sail as it goes by.”

“If they get going too fast,” Holly said, “here’s the brake.” She patted the iron lever.

“Good to know.”

Hazel and Holly made their way outside and positioned themselves inside the sails’ arc. The sails themselves were massive—the bottommost ones brushed the tips of the knee-high grass.

The wind kicked up, and after a few moments, the sails eased into motion. The joints creaked and groaned. After a few seconds, the one with the box swung low to the ground. The sail wasn’t moving particularly fast, but even so, it swung by and out of reach before Hazel had a chance to grab the box.

“It’s moving too fast,” she shouted up to Hemlock.

“Right!”

She waited for the sail to come around again. Holly hunkered down as she readied herself. The wind calmed, but the sails kept on at the same speed. When the sail with the box made its way back down, a groaning sound resounded from within the mill, and the sails shuddered before slowing to a stop.

The box on the sail was about as wide as a ring box but twice as long. It looked to be built into the wood of the sail itself and didn’t want to come off.

“I can burn it off,” Holly said.

“Not when we don’t know what’s inside it,” Hazel said.

Hemlock joined them, but he remained silent as Hazel poked around the box.

There was no way in, not that she could tell. The sails were massive slats of wood, and the little box looked to be a natural part of that.

“Maybe it’s not supposed to come off,” Holly said. “Maybe it belongs there.”

Maybe she was right. Hazel’s stomach sank. She had been so certain that she would find something here.

The sun dipped below the horizon, lighting the sky on fire in brilliant shades of orange and red.

“We should go,” Holly whispered.

“Where? We’ve nowhere to go.”

Holly said nothing. She put a hand on Hazel’s shoulder, but Hazel couldn’t bring herself to meet her sister’s eyes. Then Holly turned and headed back inside the house.

Hemlock stood next to her but remained silent. The fire in the sky faded, cooling to a deep, pristine blue. A few stars winked into existence, studding the fabric of the young night like luminous pearls.

On the box, a faint, silvery script began to glow.

“What is that?” Hemlock said.

Hazel leaned in to get a closer look. “I don’t know. It looks like a symbol of some sort. A circle that’s been intersected with a cross and crowned with a tiny star.” She leaned back. “Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

“No, never.”

What could it mean? Did it mean anything? Maybe it was like the Witness mask—a relic from a bygone age that only held superstitious significance for those who cared to remember it. Was it a mark of protection? Or maybe a spell to bring bountiful harvests?

Her attention fixated on the cross that divided the circle into four parts. Four was a significant number in magic. There were the four elements of fire, water, air, and earth. There were four Divinities—the Ladies of the Sky and Sea, Lords of the Trees and Sun. Yet if Hawthorn was to be believed, there was also a fifth element, a fifth divinity. Was that what the little star meant? Outside the realm of nature yet still belonging. A Lord of Ether. A Lady of Night and Stars. A siphoner of souls.

A chill crawled up Hazel’s neck. This couldn’t be a coincidence—finding a potential necromantic symbol in a place similar to what she had seen in her vision. Again, she tried to remove the box, but it remained immovable. Growing frustrated, she cast a Weaving spell that altered the sail behind the box. The wood cracked as it softened, but the box itself began to darken as if it had taken to rot. The glowing symbol began to fade. Fearful she might destroy it—and whatever it might contain—Hazel canceled her spell, and the symbol regained its muted glow.

Necromancy. Leave it to a rotten art to rot perfectly sound wood. She tried her spell again, only this time she altered it, souring the wood herself, twisting it into something ugly, something dark. She focused her spell directly onto the box. The circular symbol glowed brighter, and the box fell to the grassy ground.

Hazel picked up the box and opened it. Inside was a lock of golden hair, tied together with a stiff white ribbon. Underneath it lay a slip of paper. Hazel took the paper and unfolded it, but it was too dark outside to read.

Hemlock summoned a glowing moth that fluttered around her hands, illuminating in its soft light the following message:

It is time.

“Time for what?” Hemlock asked.

Hazel stared at the paper as a cold veil of realization settled over her. “It’s time to meet.”

“Who?”

“My father,” she whispered.

“How do you know?”

Hazel said nothing. She took the lock of hair and dropped the empty box on the ground. The hair was like spun flax. Just like Holly’s hair. Just like their mother’s. With shaking hands, she untied the ribbon and pulled it free. On one side of the stiff fabric was a scrawling of writing in charcoal ink:

In the Star Shrine anchored beyond the Sea, a love tempered in death will bring you back to me.

Hazel felt light-headed, as if all her blood had pooled in her feet.

A love tempered in death…

Memories of Willow’s sickness came back to her. The way her mother had weakened until she faded away. The empty silence that followed. The itching that had nagged in Hazel’s mind and taken her to the tumbledown cottage on that first new moon.

…will bring you back to me.

Her father had trapped her mother’s soul, and now Hazel was holding a lock of her mother’s hair that had been bound in a ribbon that spoke of the deed. Was it part of the spell? Was this somehow part of the key of undoing her mother’s geas? Or was it an act of pride that made her father pen these words in ink? For the first time in her life, Hazel wished she was a necromancer. So that she could understand. So she could undo what had been done.

Hazel’s hands trembled so much she nearly dropped the ribbon and hair. Gently Hemlock took the ribbon from her, and she put the lock of hair in her pocket.

He read the writing. Then, sparing a single glance at her, he turned and hurried back into the house. Hazel followed.

Hawthorn sat upright on the sofa, sipping a clear liquid from a glass vial and wincing at the taste. Holly sat next to him.

“It’s disgusting,” he said.

“It’s willow bark extract,” Holly said. “It’ll help with your headache.”

He sipped more of the liquid when Hemlock walked up to him and handed him the ribbon. Hawthorn read it, then shook his head and looked up at him. “What is this?”

“You’ve been to Sarnum before,” Hemlock said. “You know the place. What is this sea he’s talking about?”

“Who’s talking about what?” Holly asked.

“Father,” Hazel said. “About Mother.”

Holly’s mouth fell open, and Hawthorn tightened his jaw. He read the ribbon again and then took a deep breath. “The only sea I know about around here is the Sea of Severed Stars.”

“I didn’t know there was a sea nearby,” Holly said.

“It is not a sea of water.”

Holly shrank back a little. “Then what is it?”

“There is a prevalent notion in necromantic circles of a connection between stars and souls. Both are objects over which the Shapeless One reigns. Some even believe stars and souls to be one and the same and will use the words interchangeably. Which would make this sea…”

“A sea of severed souls,” Hazel said.

Hawthorn nodded.

“Is that even possible?” Holly asked.

He shook his head. “I have no idea. I certainly hope not. I hope it’s just a colorful name for a murky pond in someone’s back garden that has been overly embellished throughout the years. But if I were to wager a guess in what ‘sea’ that note was referencing, then that would be it.”

“Where is it?” Hazel said.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

Hawthorn gave her a sharp look. “This is a closely guarded secret that only practitioners in necromancy are meant to know. The only reason I know anything about it is because some necromancers’ tongues are too easily loosened when plied with enough wine. But even they would not reveal the location, not for any price or promise. If you want to find out where it is, you’ll have to become a necromancer.”

Everyone fell silent.

“How would I do that?” Hazel asked in a near whisper.

Everyone stared at her.

After an unbearably long moment of silence, Hawthorn said, “Necromancers have their own version of our Circle and Conclave called the Shrine. Perhaps if you appealed to them, they’d take you in.”

“This is madness,” Holly said. “You can’t become a necromancer, Hazel!”

“What happens if they do take me in?” Hazel said. “What will they do? What will they… want me to do?”

Hawthorn shook his head. “I have no idea.”

Holly said, “Hemlock, talk some sense into her!”

“We’ll find another way, Hazel,” Hemlock said.

“Like what?” Hazel said. “Tell me of this other plan you’ve devised that will lead us to my father. I’d love to hear it.”

When Hemlock said nothing, Holly said, “The potions!”

“What?” Hazel said.

“The potions Odd made, remember?”

Hazel rubbed her forehead. “How will those help us?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we drink them and find out. It’s got to be better than becoming a necromancer.”

After a while, Hazel nodded. “Fine, but not here. We should return to Sarnum first. I don’t want to be here when the townspeople finally regain their nerve and come back.”

They took the tinctures and potions and carried them out to the carriage. The doors stood wide open, and Tum and the driver fanned the air with swathes of clothing.

“Is that my dress?” Hazel said.

“Dunno, maybe,” Tum said. “But that’s not the pressing issue here.”

“Here we go.”

“The issue is that I haven’t gotten paid in… well… a while. I’m out of a jar o’ eggs, a pile o’ dolls, and there isn’t any beer to be found anywhere. What have you got to say about that?”

“Absolutely nothing. We have bigger problems than your sobriety. So you can either help us load up these potions or find your own way back to Sarnum.”

Tum stopped fanning and eyed her. “Potions, you say? What kinds of potions?”

Hazel thrust the drawer of tinctures at him. “Look for yourself.”

Tum grinned and tottered away with his newfound loot.

The egg smell clinging to the carriage had faded to tolerable levels, and once the driver had lit and hung the lanterns, they were on their way. The waxing moon shone brightly above, washing the grassy hills in shifting shades of grey.

The night stretched on. Holly and Hawthorn slept slumped against each other. Hemlock dozed with his forehead resting against the window. But Hazel remained awake, watching as the whitewashed world rolled by and faded into darkness.