Hazel Albright - New Short (Patreon)

Hazel sighed as she set down her basket. Broken glass lay at the bottom of the thick woven wicker, while blue-black sludge burned a hole through the bottom. She would have to weave another one before market day tomorrow.  Along with creating a stronger vial to contain her brews.  She wondered if she could make unbreakable glass.

“How’d it go?”

Malcolm was sitting at the small table near the back of the shop. They had only just managed to get the hexes cleared from the area. Her, Milo and Malcolm had to rip up floorboards and replace some of the side wall.  A lot could be said about her mother, but there was one thing that held true even after death. The woman was thorough.

“It was okay.” She pushed the basket aside, trying to hide it behind a large cluster of jars filled with the latest honeysuckle harvest.  It tipped off the counter, however, sending a clattering array of multicolored glass across the mahogany floors.  A sizzling pop sounded as the sludge began working on the recently mopped boards, eating away to the foundation of the shop, where blood still stained the concrete.

Malcolm frowned, standing and walking over to his sister as she frantically grabbed a few poultices from behind the counter and dumped them over the scorch marks. An ashen smear would mar the floor until she could afford a board replacement, but at least the rot was no longer spreading.

“Why are there so many broken bottles?” Malcolm was looking down at them; the jagged bits of blue and green that he knew had been whole when his sister had set out this morning. She had gone to sell at the local co-op. Trying to show the rest of the market that her goods were different from their mothers. That she wanted to heal. To help. Not to kill.

“Hazel,” he started hesitantly.  She didn’t look him in the eye. Hazel had seen the blind rage within Malcolm’s gaze far too often over the years. She didn’t want to see it again. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you gone alone,” he muttered, berating himself more than he was her.

Sweeping up the rest of the glass, Hazel pushed her curls from her face. “It’s fine, Malcolm.  Change takes time.  They look at me, and they only see mom.”  They had taken the tonics from her basket.  Thrown them on the floor and stomped them to bits.  Her stall, the little wood one she had woven wildflowers among, had been burned in her absence.  Smeared within the soot were the words “Begone Witch”.  It was good that Malcolm had not come with her this morning. He would have lost his mind and started a scene.  And a scene was the last thing that Hazel needed.

“You’re not mom,” he said firmly. “Anyone that takes two seconds to talk to you can see you’re not mom.”

“Mom wasn’t always like mom either,” she whispered to him. Dumping the glass in the bin by the counter, she sighed.  She couldn’t be certain, of course, but she had always imagined her mother in her youth. Vibrant. Resilient.  In love with love and life.  Why else would she have had children?  “It’s okay. It really is.  I understand why they are the way they are.”

“There is absolutely no excuse for them being the way they are. It’s ridiculous, Hazel. You should just get rid of this place and be done…”

“No.”

Her words snapped through the air like a whip.  Around her, several flames guttered to a stop and the room grew dark, the willow wisps outside the window flitting away.  Hazel eyed the change, wrapping her arms around her waist.  She was not her mother. She was not her mother.

Warm arms wrapped around her. Ones that had gained so much muscle the last few years.  Changed into something strong and capable.  They had both grown up when the other wasn’t looking.

“I know this place means something to you,” Malcolm whispered, resting his head on top of her own. “And if this is where you want to be, I’ll help you get it all changed up.  But Hazel, if someone hurts you, if this gets too dangerous, you can’t just keep doing this to prove a point.”

“What else do I have, Malcolm?”

“What do you mean, what else do you have? You have me. You have Milo.  You…”

She pulled back when he trailed off, giving him a soft but sad smile. “All I have ever known was this shop.  I worked here from the time I could walk. I love this place, and I hated seeing what mom did to it.  You have your art and that new job you think I don’t know about. Milo eventually is going to leave once he can get enough money.  I want this. I want his place. The Night Market deserves to see the truth about these walls.”

“It’s hard to see the truth when the path here is guarded by vengeful spirits and the cackling echo of our mother's final words.”

There was nothing to say to that.  It had taken both of them days to even traverse that alley again and when they did, they could only hear their mother's shouts following them until they ran from the alley, tears coating their cheeks.

“Let me come to the market with you tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Let Milo come with you to the market tomorrow.”

“An even bigger no.”  Puling away, Hazel straightened her apron and took a determined breath. “I’m going to do this. People in this world just need a little kindness. If I caved so quickly, then I am no better than them.”

“You are a hundred times better than them.”

“Which is why I will rise to the occasion and heal them all with a good heart.  It’s what the world needs, Malcolm. We don’t fight hatred with more hatred. We fight it with love and understanding.”

Kissing her forehead, Malcolm sighed. “You’re better than all of us, Hazel.  By miles.”

“Thank you. And yes, I am.”  Digging in her leather satchel, she grinned at him.  “I got you some new paint, by the way. With the few tonics I did sell. I was hoping you could capture how the garden looks at night. When the pink wisps are playing.”

Malcolm stared down at the powders in her hand.  There had been a time they had to steal just for him to create.  Steal and hide. That was their childhood.  Or Hazel knew it to be Malcolm’s, at least.  Steal and hide and hope that their mother didn’t tear up the floorboards to burn his pictures in the hearth.  It was the first thing Hazel had done to erase the nightmare.  Every picture Malcolm had ever drawn was pinned to the wall now in some odd conglomeration of wallpaper that was an eyesore to her brother, but a reminder to herself of how far they had already come.

Taking the paints from her hand, Malcolm nodded at her. “I’ll paint,” he said.  “While you harvest.”

Hazel grinned.  “Good. I was thinking I could bring some chilling tonics to the market tomorrow. The heat is starting to get bad, and I’m sure everyone would appreciate a bit of cold.”

Above them, filtered light shined through on the two Albright siblings as the wisps watched over them through painted windows.  The day had been long, and the years ahead would be longer. But as Hazel looked towards her brother, she felt relief.  As long as she had Malcolm, she knew she could keep fighting.