“The moon is a week in its waxing cycle,” Hazel said. “How can you summon Mother without a new moon?” She clung to a desperate hope her father wouldn’t be able to summon Willow. The idea of it filled her with a peculiar dread she couldn’t explain.

Ash smiled a patient, tolerant smile that grated against Hazel’s nerves. “It’s true that the cycle of the moon and the positioning of the sun and stars affects the magic we cast in different ways. But we are not beholden to those cycles. To have a command over necromancy is to have a command over ether—the very substance of creation. You will find that the moon holds very little power over you when you can master the substance that holds it in the sky.”

He moved the candle further down the table, away from the mirror, then refreshed the basin with more water from the ewer. The surface of the mirror flickered as if with passing shadows. Ash stood before it, but it did not give him his reflection. Instead, the mirror stood dark, occasionally lightening beyond the glass as if clouds had departed from an unseen sun, to only become shadowed again the next moment.

Ash peered into the mirror and said, “Willow.”

The hair on Hazel’s neck prickled and she suppressed a shiver. The room darkened, matching the shifting shadows of the mirror so that Hazel was no longer certain she wasn’t in the mirror. Her skin crawled in a way that made her feel like she was being watched. But she resisted the urge to turn around. She didn’t want to acknowledge her father’s magic—let it have any power of her.

The air in the room chilled—an unnatural kind of cold that Hazel knew all too well. She tensed and focused her attention on keeping her breathing steady and calm.

Ash turned away from the mirror and towards Hazel. “Willow,” he said again.

A rustling sound came from behind, like a long skirt brushing over dried leaves. Hazel turned and found her mother, her skin pale and tinged slightly blue, just as it had been the last time Hazel had seen her. But she also exuded a gentle luminosity, as if she stood in sunlight even though there were no windows in the room.

Willow fixed her gaze on Ash. She hadn’t seemed to notice that Hazel was there.

Ash extended a hand, and to Hazel’s surprise, Willow took it. Her mother smiled at him as if they were enjoying an afternoon stroll.

“Mother,” Hazel said.

Willow’s gaze drifted over to Hazel. Her smiled wavered and her brow furrowed as if a distant, unpleasant thought had momentarily surfaced. But then it faded and she returned her attention to Ash.

“You see?” Ash said as he kept his gaze on Willow. “She is perfectly well. She is perfectly happy.”

“No,” Hazel said, “she is perfectly out of her mind.”

Ash frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

Hazel thrust a hand towards her mother. “Look at her! She is not herself. She doesn’t even recognize me. You’ve done something to her.”

“I’ve given her a second chance. I’ve given her an existence she otherwise wouldn’t have had. An existence that is arguably better than the one you and I continue to endure. Never again will she have to worry about growing old and feeble, of worrying about sickness and disease siphoning her strength. Now she is free to be whatever she wants.”

“You mean she’s free to be whatever you want. This is not who she is. This is not my mother.”

“You’ve never truly known who she is. Not like I have. It does not surprise me that you do not recognize her as I have known her.”

“You are deluding yourself. This is how you want her to be. It proves how wrong you were to bring her back. She can never truly be herself, not when a necromancer has full control over her like this. You need to undo it. Now.”

Ash frowned, shook his head, and returned his gaze to Willow. “No. You do not yet understand. You always were a smart and clever girl, Hazel, but in this you are quite ignorant.”

Hazel clenched her hands. She cast a Dissolving spell to release her mother’s apparition, but nothing happened. She hadn’t really thought it would work, but she needed to try something.

“Honestly, Hazel,” Ash said. “Desperation does not suit you.”

Willow remained silent, gazing upon Ash like a starving man might look upon a loaf of bread. It infuriated Hazel. This was not her mother. But she could do nothing to stop it.

With tears stinging her eyes, Hazel turned and hurried from the room.

“It’s quite a funny story, really,” Holly said to the three necromancers that stood scowling in the doorway. Any minute now they were going to throw Holly and the brothers out of the Shrine. And who knew where Tum was. But Holly’s mind went blank. How was she supposed to fix this?

She turned to Hawthorn. “Isn’t it funny?”

Hawthorn stared blankly at her for one terrifying moment. Then he turned to the necromancers. “Oh, it’s hilarious. It all started with an orange tree…”

“And a cellar gnome,” Holly added.

“Disgusting creatures. But the oranges are lovely.”

Holly nodded. “Oh yes, very delicious. Anyway, this cellar gnome… um…”

“Came here,” Hemlock said, casting a sideways glance at Holly. “We think you might have an infestation.”

“If you have an infestation,” Hawthorn said, “the entire place will need to be emptied. Once they get in your walls…”—he made a dismissive wave of his hand—“it’s all over.”

One of the necromancers, the younger looking of the three, said, “What does this have to do with an orange tree?” The big, muscular necromancer standing next to him jabbed him with an elbow.

“I was getting to that,” Holly said. She glanced at Hemlock and Hawthorn. “Right?”

Hawthorn drew himself up to his full height. “Of course everyone knows that orange trees are needed to get rid of cellar gnomes once they get dug in. They don’t like the fruity aroma.”

“Or the tartness,” Hemlock said.

“Yes,” said Hawthorn, “the tartness is most vile to those of a subterranean disposition. If you’re going to rid yourself of this infestation, I dare say you’ll have need of an entire orchard of orange trees.”

“Oh my,” the young necromancer breathed. The muscular one shoved him.

“Enough of this,” said the necromancer that had been in the room when Holly and the others had walked in. He seemed to be in charge. “How stupid do you think we are to believe such nonsense?”

“He believes it,” Holly said, pointing at the younger necromancer. His cheeks flared bright red, and he was unable to meet the other necromancers’ gazes.

“You’d better believe it too,” Hawthorn said. “We’re not lying about the cellar gnome.”

“I said enough!” the lead necromancer said. “You will explain yourselves. Immediately.”

“But we are explaining ourselves,” Holly said.

“You should really strive to listen when others speak,” Hawthorn said.

The necromancer’s face reddened almost as much as his younger companion. Holly tried to think of something to get them out of trouble. It was three against three. Maybe she and the brothers could club them over the head and steal their robes. Then maybe they could move around the Shrine without any problems. It was the sort of plan that was more likely to fail spectacularly than not, but even those dismal odds seemed more promising than their current situation.

As Holly tried to figure out how to convey to Hemlock and Hawthorn that they should all be clubbing the necromancers over the head, Tum came strolling by in the hallway.

He stopped behind the necromancers’ legs. “What’s all this then?” He had a portion of a great tapestry wound around him like a blanket, leaving the bulk of the fabric to drag along the floor behind him.

The necromancers turned. The younger one cried out in surprise.

“Great severed stars!” the lead necromancer said. “Is that our heraldry you’re wearing?”

Tum glanced at the tapestry he had swaddled himself in. “Heraldry? Wouldn’t know anything about that. But it is some nice and snug fabric, let me tell you. Thick and sturdy.”

“You will unwind it from your person at once!”

Tum screwed up his face. “Unwind it from my what?”

“Give it to me,” the necromancer said as he reached down towards Tum.

“Gotta go!” Tum said and ran down the hallway. The muscular necromancer grabbed hold of the tapestry as it swished along the stone floor behind Tum and stopped him short. Tum gave the fabric a quick tug back, realized it was a battle he was about to lose, then relinquished his prize and disappeared from sight.

The necromancer-in-charge took the tapestry from his colleague and petted it lovingly as he frowned at Holly and the others as if they had just inflicted the most grievous injury upon a loved one.

“In case you didn’t realize,” Hawthorn said, “that was a cellar gnome.”

Holly couldn’t help but grin. “And he’s just getting started.”

The lead necromancer took a moment longer to glare at them. Then he handed the tapestry to the younger necromancer behind him.

“Get that to the laundress. Keeper only knows what’s been done to it.” He turned to Holly and the others and thrust a finger at them. “You stay here.” He and the other necromancers backed out of the room, and he slammed the door shut. There was a scratching sound near the knob, then a slight click.

Holly tested the door once the necromancers’ footfalls had faded, but it was locked. “Well, now what?”

“Now I regret never having taken up Weaving magic,” Hemlock said.

“Please,” Hawthorn said. “Things are hardly as desperate as that.”

Hemlock folded his arms and fixed his brother in a steady gaze. “How do you figure?”

“That we are standing here having this conversation proves that things aren’t so dire.”

“Somehow the notion of your being unable to speak doesn’t strike me as a dire situation.”

“Stop bickering, you two,” Holly said. “Honestly, you’re worse than Hazel and me.”

Hemlock shuffled his feet. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“You should be,” Hawthorn said. “Weaving magic. I mean, really.”

Holly pinched him, and he cried out.

“You knock it off and start looking for a way to get us out of here,” she said.

Hawthorn lifted his chin and smoothed his hair. Then with an air suggesting it had been his intention all along, he walked over to the sofa and started poking around the cushions.

Holly tested the door again. Still locked. Not that she had expected a different result, but it would have been nice. She reached into her pocket and brushed her fingers against Chester’s soft fur. She could send him out scouting; maybe he’d find something that could help them. Then again, what if he couldn’t? Sending Chester out gathering in Zinnia’s house was one thing, letting him loose in a necromancer lair was quite another.

Hemlock said, “You could always burn down the door.”

Holly nodded without looking at him. “It’s so unpredictable though, fire. Not that I’d care if we burned the place down. But… what if Hazel’s in here somewhere? What if we couldn’t find her before that happened?”

“Most of the building is stone, so I doubt that’d happen.”

“There’s the tapestries, though, and all the furniture. That’ll go up fast. And then all the smoke it’ll create. How are we supposed to find Hazel in a smoky building?” She rubbed her forehead and then took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I’ll do it if I have to. But I’d rather we find a different way first.” She glanced over at Hawthorn rummaging around the sofa. “How’s it going for you, Hawthorn?”

“Disgustingly abysmal, thank you for asking. You’d think these necromancers would animate a corpse or two to do the cleaning for them. But so far I’ve found a petrified biscuit, two copper pennies, and a note with sloppy handwriting making a dodgy attempt at poetry.” He shivered as if spiders crawled up his spine. Then he looked at Holly with a pleading expression. “Don’t make me go back.”

Hemlock raised an eyebrow at her and nodded towards the fire burning in the hearth. Maybe he was right. Maybe burning the place down was their only option.

Just as Holly was about to pull fire from the hearth and hurl it at the door, a faint scratching sound came. Then the doorknob turned, the door swung open, and Tum stood on the other side, grinning.

“Well, well,” he said as he rocked on his heels. “Look who’s needing old Tum now.”

“How’d you open the door?” Holly said.

Tum tossed up a key and caught it again. “Did you know that one key will open up all the doors in this place? Mighty handy, that. And they got keys all over. This one I got from a desk drawer that I convinced to open with a fire poker.” He peered around. “You got a fire poker here?”

“I think so…,” Holly said, then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. We don’t need a poker. We need to find Hazel.” She leaned out the door as Tum walked inside. The corridor was empty.

“What happened to the necromancers that were after you, Tum?”

Tum scampered over to the sofa and sniffed the stale biscuit Hawthorn had dropped. “What’s that?”

“The necromancers. Where did they go?”

Tum waved a hand towards the door as he continued to scrutinize the biscuit. “They’re a few corners back. Didn’t see me dash under a table and into the linen closet. Was looking for the cellar, but I don’t think they got a cellar here.” He blinked at Holly. “What kind of people don’t got a cellar?” He nibbled on the biscuit and winced.

“Did you see Hazel at all?”

Tum tossed the biscuit on the ground and started to root around the couch cushions. “Miss Hazel? No, no. Miss Hazel’s not here.” He found a penny and pocketed it.

“What? How do you know she’s not here?”

“Heard one of the necromancers talking while hiding in the linen closet. Said something about a witch that had gone to some ocean. Figured it must’ve been Miss Hazel, right?”

It did sound like Hazel. “We need to check here anyway, just to be sure. And if she’s not here, well, we need to find out how to get to this ocean.”

“Whatever we’re doing,” Hawthorn said as he watched in horror as Tum rooted around the couch cushions, “we’d better do it quickly before the black-robed brutes return.”

Holly nodded. “All right, let’s go.” Then an idea came to her. She turned to Tum. “Can you take us to the linen closet first?”

They all snuck down the dim hallway as they trailed after Tum. The gnome darted around corners and through chamber doors, giving no perceivable concern that they might run into necromancers who would be rather displeased to find them lurking where they didn’t belong.

Holly got distracted by a shadow further down the hall when Tum darted around a corner and disappeared. She rounded the corner after him, but he was gone.

Hawthorn nudged her and nodded towards a door that had been left ajar. She snuck towards it, inched it open a touch more, revealing a spacious closet full of blankets and linen.

“This closet is bigger than my room at home,” she said breathlessly.

“You and your sister should really find better living arrangements,” Hawthorn said. “This closet isn’t that remarkable.”

Holly ignored him. It looked remarkable to her. All these towels and blankets, curtains, napkins, and… yes, there they were. Spare robes. Grinning, she grabbed an armful from the shelves and dumped them on the floor before she began sifting through them.

“What are you doing?” Hawthorn said.

She held up a robe, looked Hawthorn up and down a few times, then tossed the robe to him. “Give that one a go.”

“This… this sack?” Hawthorn said, dropping the robe back onto the floor. “You’ve clearly lost your mind.”

“You don’t put that on, I’m going to lose it on you.” She tossed a robe to Hemlock. He caught it and started unbuttoning his jacket to change. She sifted through the pile a bit more and found one that looked likely to fit her even though it was crudely made. These necromancers really needed better seamstresses.

When he saw the others ignoring him, Hawthorn reduced his protests to incoherent mutterings as he and Hemlock removed their jackets and pulled on the robes over their shirts and trousers.

Holly’s dress was too full in the skirts to wear the robe over it, so she shooed the men out, took off her dress, and pulled the robe over her shift. She then took their discarded clothes and hid them behind stacks of towels and bedsheets.

When she walked out, the two men flanking the door in their black robes gave her a fright until she realized it was Hemlock and Hawthorn. She scrunched up her nose as she eyed the elder brother.

“What’s that?” she said, pointing at a crudely fashioned white rosette pinned near Hawthorn’s collar. “Is that lace? Where did you get lace?”

“He tore it off one of his handkerchiefs,” Hemlock said.

“It’s completely ruined now, I’ll have you know. But it’s worth it if it keeps me from looking like a rejected night soil shoveler, like the rest of this…”—he waggled his fingers towards the empty hallway—“necromantic rabble.”

“I don’t look like a night soiler!” Holly said as she looked down at herself. “Do I?”

“I’m pretty sure night soilers don’t wear robes,” Hemlock said. “It’s far too impractical. And messy.”

“Whatever they look like,” Hawthorn said, “I will not be counted among them, you can be assured of that.”

Holly felt a pang of envy at Hawthorn’s rumpled rosette. Why did he always look so much better than her? It wasn’t fair. She was about to ask him if he had any leftover lace when she remembered why they were there.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go see for ourselves if Hazel’s really here or not.” She headed down the hallway. Hemlock and Hawthorn trailed after her. Tum was, of course, still gone. But Holly couldn’t be bothered about that; she needed to focus on finding her sister.

“Perhaps we should split up,” Hawthorn said. “We’ll cover more ground.”

“No,” Holly said. “Nobody’s leaving anybody behind. We stay together.”

They carefully navigated down the hallway, briefly checking rooms and chambers but found them all empty.

“This is entirely too convenient,” Hawthorn said. “Where is everyone?”

“Perhaps they’ve all gone out,” Holly said. “Do necromancers have picnics?”

“Or maybe they’ve all gone wherever Hazel’s gone,” Hemlock said.

Holly frowned. She didn’t much like the sound of that. They continued on.

The Shrine had confusing, winding corridors. They didn’t seem to have an end, and each hallway looked just like the next. Even the rooms they checked were starting to look the same.

“Are we going in circles?” Holly said. “I can’t tell.”

“This is ridiculous,” Hawthorn muttered. “We’re wasting time.” He tried to cast a spell, but nothing happened.

Hemlock and Hawthorn both sucked in sharp breaths.

“What happened?” Holly said. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Hawthorn said. “I can’t do magic here.”

“They must have wards in place,” Hemlock said.

“We need to leave.”

“Not without Hazel,” Holly said.

“She’s not here,” Hawthorn said.

“You don’t know that. Not for certain.”

“We’ve checked everywhere. She’s not here. Hemlock, tell her.”

But before Hemlock could say anything, the blue flames in the sconces on the walls flickered and died, plunging the corridor in darkness. The air turned sharp and cold, as if they stood outside in the midst of winter.

“What’s happening?” Holly whispered, but Hemlock and Hawthorn didn’t reply.

The cold air coalesced around her, taking a shape she couldn’t see—but she could feel it. It passed her right arm, making her skin tingle from the chill. Then it came and stood in front of her. Holly’s eyes watered in the stinging, cold air. She reached out, and her hand passed through a cold so intense it almost felt like it had burned her. She yanked her hand away and stumbled back.

But the coldness was also behind her and then to her sides. It surrounded her, and Holly’s heart hammered so hard it was all she could hear.

“Hawthorn?” she said, but there still was no reply.

Then a warm breeze fluttered by. It brushed against her face, smelling like sweet grass and sun-soaked pine. It made her relax, just for a moment, so that when the coldness consumed her, she didn’t have time to scream.