Post Chapter Seven - Hazel

The flowers wilted in her hands, bright petals of light falling to the ground with a sizzle. Yet, she picked them. Over and over she gathered the delicate blooms, forming a fist full of flowers that she could take to her mother. As if she were a little girl running home after playing in the field. She hummed to herself, sniffing what she had collected, feeling the serenity of nature play against her skin.

“Hazel!”

She was wet. Soaked to the bone as salt water filled her nose and the stench of fish surrounded her. She coughed loudly, gasping for air as strong arms surrounded her, pulling her from the dark. She struggled against the hold, her skirts weighing her down. She wanted to go back to the flowers. Mother would be upset if she didn’t receive the flowers.

“Hazel? Haze, come on. Breathe!”

With a gasp, she opened her eyes. A deep chocolate gaze stared down at her. The familiar shape of a jaw. A nose that she shared with him.  Rolling to her side, she coughed out seawater, her fingers curling in the cobblestones and her nails bending back. Malcolm patted her back, trying to rid her of the rest of the water. Her chest stung, and her nose felt raw.  Where had the flowers gone?

Pushing her hair from her face, she sat up, looking around. She was at the fish market. Down near the quiet was located, where the water lapped gently against a broken dock and the discarded chum rotted. There were a few workers hovering nervously by, staring at the two siblings, but no one seemed to be moving to help.

“What the hell happened?” Malcolm said. “What were you doing?” There was raw panic in his words and she couldn’t understand why.

“I was picking flowers,” she said softly, squinting through her salt crusted lashes.

“In the ocean?”

With a frown, she looked at him. “No. Of course not. I was in a field. Picking daffodils.” The pollen had stained her fingers.

“Hazel, look around you. Does this look like a field?”

No. Of course it didn’t. But that didn’t negate what she had seen. What she had been doing. “I wanted to make a bouquet,” she tried to explain. “There’s a beautiful vase on the windowsill. It’s the one you made. I wanted to fill it.”

“What vase are you talking about?” Malcolm was hovering close, always within arms reach. “I haven’t even been home for years. And I certainly haven’t been there while Lucinda has been there.”

Hazel sighed. “Stop calling her Lucinda. She’s our mother, Mal. You need to be respectful.”

“To someone who has tried to kill me? No, thank you. And you might need to start examining what’s she done because she’s got her clutches in you far further than she has before.”

“You know those are misunderstandings.” Getting to her feet, she brushed her skirts off. As if she could rid herself of the water. It was then she had to face the fact that she was nowhere near a field. That the daffodils didn’t exist. And whatever she had been holding in her hands was far more reminiscent of something slippery and half rotted.

“Hazel,” Malcolm’s voice called to her from somewhere far away. “Haze.” When his hand landed on her arms, she snapped back, staring him in the eye. “You were in the water,” he said, trying to keep his voice under control. “You could have died.”

“I was fine, Malcolm.”

“Okay,” he started. “Okay. But, to me? It didn’t look like that. I came out here to see my sister thrashing in the waves and no one helping her. I’m scared.”

She blinked. Of course, she didn’t want Malcolm to be scared. How many times when they were little did they admit that to each other. Times when they were hiding under their bed. When the world got dark. They had always found solace in each other. The two of them against the world during the early days. If one of them admitted that they were scared, the other was supposed to listen without fail.

Stepping forward, she wrapped her arms around him, her clothes soaking through to his own. He held her tight. Almost crushing. Hazel had to come to terms with the fact that he might actually be terrified right now.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” she whispered.

“You aren’t the one that needs to be apologizing. I don’t think you did this. Or, you didn’t on purpose. I–”

“I don’t want to hear your theories on mother,” she pleaded. She wanted to be here with him. Lessen his fear. Not rehash an argument that never went anywhere.

Malcolm let her go. “I was going to say that I don’t want to let you out of my sight,” he told her. “I’ve been a terrible brother, and I’m not sure why. But when you are in my sight, I know who I am.”

Her mouth twisted as the memory assaulted her. He had been absent lately. Abandoning her. Yet again. “Why are you even here, Malcolm?”

“That is a long story.”

“I would listen.”

But he didn’t say anything. Both of them knew it was because he thought Lucinda was listening in.  Shaking her head, Hazel gathered her skirts, wringing them out. Water sloshed at her feet, a few long strands of kelp sticking to her stockings.  

“I need to get back to the shop. I’m sure I wasn’t supposed to be away this long.”

But before she could walk away, he snatched her her hand. “Hazel, please,” he practically begged. “I have to do something right now. But come back with me. Then we will go together to the shop, okay?”

The offer was tempting. Their mother had been trying to get him to come home. But he was always surrounded. By Milo. By the Night Market. It was hard to get him away long enough for Lucinda to have a conversation with him.

“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll go wherever it is you need to go, but you need to go see mom. Have a conversation with her.”

Indecision crossed his eyes. He had been avoiding Lucinda. Especially alone. But there was an opportunity she saw within his gaze. One that she didn’t quite understand.

“You’ll go anywhere I ask you to if I go home?”

Hazel nodded.

Reaching out, he took her hand. “Alright then. I’ve got to show you a door.”

A chill ran through Hazel. A door. That didn’t sound quite right. But who was she to question when Malcolm was finally returning home after all these years.