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“Sophie,” Lettie began, with precise enunciation and what she probably believed was a vast store of patience, “if you stay indoors any longer, you will turn to stone. I prefer my sisters made of flesh and blood. Please go outside.”
Sophie didn’t understand what everyone was getting so worked up about. It wasn’t her fault that there was always work to be done around the shop; customers didn’t stop wanting hats just because Sophie willed it so (unfortunately) and in the intervening months since Lettie and Martha had left for their own apprenticeships, she’d had nowhere else to go even if she’d wanted to. And there was nothing wrong with occupying oneself with a hobby to cope with the crushing emptiness of one’s solitary, dusty existence.
She fiddled with her sleeve cuffs for lack of anything else to do. Lettie had done a circuit of the shop when she first arrived, eyes widening with increasing dismay at the ratio of hats to people, before dragging Sophie away from her workbench and seating them both on the single moth-eaten couch in the back room, where they were now sitting in slightly awkward silence side-by-side.
Sophie tried not to think about what they looked like together. Two very pretty girls, people would agree, but one is in a beautiful ruffled red dress, elegantly sculpting her body, hair coiffed in dark curls, tumbling artfully down her bare back, while the other is unfortunately wrapped in a shapeless gray thing that buttons up to her chin, like some kind of schoolteacher.
Lettie gave a great sigh and took Sophie’s hands in her own, looking forcefully into her eyes. “Come to Mrs. Fairfax’s tomorrow morning. We’re having a honey sale, like a little farmer’s market thing, it’ll be a good chance to meet some people and get out into the sun. The shop can be closed for one day, it won’t be the end of the world.”
A visceral wave of anxiety washed over Sophie. She retracted her hands, face screwing up. “I don’t know, Lettie. What would I even tell people when they ask me why I’m not buying anything? ‘My sister thought this was a matchmaking faire’? ‘I’m mingling’?”
“You make something up! Or just tell the truth, that you wanted to get out more!”
“But I don’t want to get out more.”
“Sophie!” Lettie threw her hands up in frustration, then visibly calmed herself down, running her fingers through her curls in a soothing manner. “I just don’t want this shop to be your whole life. You deserve to go out and seek your fortune as much as any of us.”
Privately, Sophie thought, I’m the eldest, I’m doomed to fail, but she kept that part to herself. It would only get Lettie started again. She gave a reassuring smile. “Thank you, Lettie. But I really am happy here. Not everyone has to go out and train in magic under a respected witch to feel fulfilled,” she said, bumping Lettie’s shoulder. Lettie slumped, the fight draining out of her.
“If you say so. But I do really want to see you at the market tomorrow, so come out and visit, would you?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Sophie walked Lettie to the door, waving goodbye to her until she disappeared down the street, and then shut the door with a sigh of relief, closing herself into the shop once more. She had no intentions of going to Mrs. Fairfax’s. In truth, Sophie had discovered something about herself in recent weeks that was quite discouraging to learn: if she had been at some point, she was no longer a sociable person at all. Small talk intimidated her, making new friends seemed an impossibly daunting task, and the overall muchness of people these days frequently overwhelmed her. Leaving the shop on short ventures to deliver hats was alright, but anything more adventurous than that and she began to feel all quakey and jittery inside like a tower of blocks stacked by a toddler.
No, Sophie had thoroughly lost her ability to talk to living people.
Which was why, instead of going to see Lettie tomorrow, she was going to the cemetery.
It truly wasn’t as macabre as some might make it out to be. She didn’t go there to practice dark magic or anything sinister. It was just comforting, in some ways, to be among people without being among people.
So in the late evening, after closing the hat shop for the day, Sophie packed herself a picnic basket full of food, a purse with needlepoint materials, draped a gray shawl around her shoulders, and she walked to Market Chipping’s town cemetery.
The fading light of the sunset shooed people off the streets and into their homes for the night, so she was alone. The chirruping of dusk insects and tentative songs of nocturnal birds beginning to wake accompanied her down the winding streets, a soothing orchestra of natural sound. She gained more confidence as she made her way to the outskirts of the town, the space between houses growing roomier and roomier as she went.
A few months ago, she would have been far too frightened to leave the house this late at night, what with Wizard Howl roaming the hills and the Witch of the Waste on the prowl, but Howl’s moving castle had gone silent many weeks ago, around May Day, and some braver townsfolk had ventured up to confirm what they all suspected: he was gone. Likely moved on to better pickings of girls in the capital. The Witch had also gone quiet around the same time. Enough time had passed since those events that Sophie felt she no longer had anything to fear from her town in the night.
The cemetery itself rose into view. Penned in on all sides with flowering trees, it was marked only by a bright yellow painted gate at its entrance. Sophie politely let herself in and shut the gate behind her.
She took her sandwich out of her basket and ate it as she ambled through the rows of ornate headstones, looking for unusual names or interesting epitaphs. Most of the headstones were decades if not centuries old; Market Chipping residents could afford to bury their dead in the more attractive burial places in the hills now, so this cemetery went mostly unused.
This was why Sophie was struck by the plot of land towards the very back of the cemetery, where the oldest headstones were, that was so fresh it might as well have been completed moments before.
The dirt atop it was recently tilled, piled in disorderly brown heaps with seemingly no rhyme or reason. It bore no headstone, and was marked only by a wilting bouquet and a folded scrap of paper. Sophie bent down and picked up the paper.
“‘Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me, will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee’,” she read aloud. “How morbid!” She felt a pang of sympathy for whoever this poor soul had been, that someone would leave such a grim note on their grave.
She tucked her skirt underneath herself and sat down beside the grave, setting down her basket and purse. “Not even a headstone to know you by!” she remarked with feeling. “Even the worst criminals get their name on a headstone.” She thought for a moment. “I think you may have been a Rudolph. No, wait, I’ve got it: Alex. Yes, I’ll call you Alex. That way, if you’re actually a woman and not a man, the name would still suit. Personally, I hope you’re not a woman,” she added, taking a bite out of an apple slice from her basket. “I can’t imagine anyone would bury a girl so cold-heartedly like this.”
Perhaps Alex had done something so terrible in life that no one could bear the thought of giving them anything to be remembered by. Still, Sophie felt to her core that it was wrong to not give a grave a headstone, no matter how bad a person was. Even if it was just a rock with a name and nothing else.
Consideringly, she picked up the bouquet, wincing when some of its withered petals flaked off as she did. Clearly, Alex had been dead long enough for these flowers to wilt. It made her feel better to know that someone out there cared enough to place the bouquet here, even if they hadn’t topped it up with fresh ones. She set it back down along with the note; callous as it was, it was still an epitaph.
“Perhaps neither of us were destined to be remembered for anything,” she said morosely. “I almost wish you could wake up and speak to me. If I knew your name, I could make you a real headstone.”
Sighing, she looked up at the sky. Twilight was upon them now, the world bruising indigo, and there was a slight chill on the breeze that made her wrap her shawl more securely around herself. She should get back home before it got too dark; the streets could be a bit confusing in the dark and she didn’t want to get lost.
She reached over and patted the grave soil gently. “Well, good night, my friend. I ought to be going.”
And that was when something grabbed her wrist.
Sophie screamed. Protruding from the grave was a filthy, rotting hand, holding her in a vicelike grip. She struggled, trying to pry herself free, but the hand was very strong and it held her fast, pulling her back down to the ground. Panic overwhelmed her and she cried out again, hoping someone might hear her and rush to help, but even as she thought it she knew it was unlikely; no one ever bothered her here, and she’d seen no one out on the streets on the way.
“Let me go!” she screamed at the hand, pounding it with her fist. As soon as she struck it, the hand spasmed in surprise and released her. The force of her own momentum tossed her back in the grass, stunning her.
There was a muffled groaning sound underneath the grave. Frozen with fear, unable to tear her eyes away, Sophie watched as a second hand wormed its way out of the soil, both hands pawing at the dirt like something was trying to drag itself free. Slowly, the top of a head appeared; then a curtain of clumpy, sodden hair; then a neck, broad shoulders, a torso—finally, a man collapsed into the grass on his hands and knees, a humongous shower of dark soil falling from his body. He swore, colorfully, spitting out mouthfuls of dirt as he did so, and then looked up, directly at Sophie.
She stared. The corpse stared back. It was a disaster.
Then he spoke. “You!” he said, in a voice that creaked and groaned like a squeaky door hinge. “You woke me up!” He sounded almost accusing.
Well, Sophie could be accusing right back. “I thought you were dead!”
“I was dead! You talked life into me!”
“That’s not possible! I’m not a necromancer!”
“Then what in the blazes are you?” The corpse seemed just as confused as she.
“I’m Sophie Hatter.” She spread her hands helplessly. She did not know what else to say. “I work in a hat shop.”
The corpse sat back on his haunches. He looked down at the state of himself—despite being alive again, he was still very much corpselike—and grimaced. He started to brush the soil off of himself, looking near tears when he appraised the condition of his hair, matted with mud and hanging in unattractive clumps. He was dressed in a blue and silver suit that may have looked very fancy on a living person, but at the moment was stained with all manner of bodily fluids, and also more dirt. Sophie felt another pang of sympathy for the sorry state of him.
This sympathy evaporated a moment later, when he spoke again. “You’ve done a very poor job with this incantation, you know,” he said snottily. “You’ve only made me alive enough to talk and walk.”
“How was I supposed to know I was performing an incantation?” Sophie demanded. “I was only speaking to what I thought was an unmarked grave. And you should be grateful to me for bringing you back at all, even if it was an accident.”
“Grateful! Hah!” The corpse hauled himself unsteadily to his feet, showering her with sod. “You think I should be grateful for this?” He pointed at his face. A piece of skin from his cheek sloughed away on cue and hit the ground with a wet splat. “I’m hideous! How do you expect me to go out in public looking like a shambling zombie?”
“Well, I don’t know what a ‘zombie’ is,” Sophie said, “but it’s clear to me that whoever buried you was well within their rights to leave you here without a headstone, if this is the kind of person you were before you died. This flea’s death took life from thee indeed.”
The corpse went still. “What did you just say?”
Sophie harrumphed. “This flea’s death—”
“Where did you hear that?”
This is the rudest corpse I’ve ever met, Sophie thought. “It was on a paper left on your grave. It’s over there.”
The corpse whirled and bent down, scooping up the scrap of paper. His eyes scanned over it, growing wide. When he finished reading it, he crumpled it in his fist, looking furious. “The nerve of her,” he snarled, tossing it aside. “The indignity of it all.” He began to pace back and forth over his own grave, muttering, seemingly having forgotten Sophie entirely. She scowled and collected her things, pulling herself to her feet. She’d had just about enough of being lambasted for resurrecting a man badly when she’d never done anything of the sort before, much less by the resurrected man himself. All the laws of decency dictated that one should be thankful for being alive, but the rotted figure striding to and fro across the dirt was clearly of the most indecent sort, no matter what his advanced attire indicated, and Sophie was ready to be home and away from this nonsense.
But she was still raised with manners. “Excuse me,” she interjected, “I can’t say it was a pleasure meeting you, but I did feel sorry for you, so I hope you have a good life regardless.”
She turned on her heel and began to walk away.
The corpse called after her in a frantic voice, “Wait! Hold up there!”
She stopped and turned around. The corpse caught up to her, staggering over his long legs, and wheeled to a halt, arms waving wildly for balance. He’d parted his muddy hair out of his face and she could see his eyes for the first time, glinting and marble green.
“I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a sticky situation,” he said apologetically. She crossed her arms and waited. “I offended someone very powerful, and as far as she knows, I’m still dead. I need to lay low for a while before I try to strike back, and unfortunately, I can’t go back home at the moment.”
Sophie saw where this was going. I can’t bring a corpse back to the shop, she thought dismally. He looks so ghastly, he’ll drive all the customers away!
“I didn’t thank you properly before,” he wheedled, tilting his head. “It was very kind of you to speak life back into me. You’re a powerful witch, even if your technique needs refining.”
“I don’t know how I did this, but I’m not a witch,” she insisted. Still, his appeasements settled her sour mood somewhat, even if they were blatantly false.
The corpse waved her words away. “Immaterial. So, what do you say?”
Sophie pretended to not understand. She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t remember you asking me for anything.”
The corpse frowned. Then his shoulders slumped, defeated, and he held out his grimy hands in entreaty. Crumbs of dirt trickled down his front. “Lovely Miss Hatter, would you be so gracious as to house me until such a day that I am strong enough to leave the warm embrace of your generous hospitality?”
It didn’t take much for her to relent. She sighed. “Alright then. But you have to do exactly as I say when we arrive. I don’t want my stepmother seeing you and asking questions.” Something else occurred to her. “Also, I don’t believe I caught your name.”
He smiled. His teeth were surprisingly white, considering everything. He sketched a low bow. “Wizard Pendragon or Jenkins, depending on the town, but you can call me Howl.”
Sophie gawked at him in horror. Wizard Howl, eater of girls’ hearts, grinned back. She’d made a terrible mistake.
This is a terrible idea , Sophie reflected for the nth time as she unlocked the parlor’s back door, heart racing. They’d made it back to the shop without incident, barring the few times she’d dragged him backwards into alleyways or beneath store awnings into darkness whenever she thought she heard someone on the street, but all that paranoia amounted to nothing more than jumping at shadows by the time they wound up on the back porch of the Hatter residence, nearly home safe.
Howl had remained blessedly silent thus far, but Sophie didn’t trust it. She didn’t trust him—but she felt she did owe him for bringing him back to life so poorly, and besides, he couldn’t do much harm in the house without access to his various wizardly appliances. One way or another he would be out of her hair eventually. She could endure a rude and muddy housemate until then.
Although, they should probably do something about all that mud—as she stepped into the house and he followed her in, he shed clods of dirt with every tiny movement, creating an extremely noticeable trail delineating exactly where he’d been and where he was going.
He beat her to it. Holding up the trailing end of a sleeve, he wrinkled his nose at the ruined fabric. “I don’t suppose you have hot water, Sophie?”
“Of course we have hot water. But I’m not so sure it would be good for your skin.”
“Cast another spell and fix me up all the way, then.”
“I don’t know how.”
“You can talk life into things! Just talk it into being.”
Sophie very much doubted this. But it wouldn’t hurt to try. She eyed him. “Okay. Howl, I demand you stop decomposing at once.” Nothing visible happened. She felt very embarrassed.
“Go on,” Howl encouraged. “I think it’s working.”
She pushed her embarrassment down and took a deep breath. “And... stop looking like a corpse! You have to be a living, breathing person again, and that means no more of this rotting business. All the bits inside you better start working properly again too.”
To her amazement, Howl’s body obeyed—his skin sealed up before her eyes, smoothing over and sealing up wherever any holes used to be, filling in the gaps and rearranging itself until it glowed with health beneath the layer of soil. She could see better now that he had a very narrow and handsome face, and his glass green eyes now shone with lively clarity.
“There we are,” he said in a satisfied way, running his hands down his front with relief. More dirt hit the floor as a result. “Much better. Now, about that bath?”
She led him upstairs to the bathroom, and once he’d been given a towel, some spare clothes that once belonged to her father when he was young, and shown where all the bottles and such were, he locked himself inside and began to run the water. She stood outside the bathroom door for a long moment, at a loss, before shaking herself and heading back downstairs to the kitchen. She put the kettle on, then began to toss together some kind of slapdash meal with whatever was available in the cupboards. Fanny hadn’t been shopping in several days and they were running low on a few items.
By the time Howl finished in the bathroom, it was nearly two hours later and Sophie was sitting sleepily at the kitchen table, yawning over two plates of egg salad and sliced ham. The absurdity of her situation had dimmed into a dreamlike haze of nonsense, and she was beyond caring.
Howl looked vastly improved after a bath and a change of clothes. His hair fell in soft brown ringlets around his clean face, and without showers of dirt trailing him everywhere, he moved with an easy sort of confidence, transforming the plain workers’ clothes he’d been given into very dignified garments. He looked like a proper wizard. Sophie pushed one of the plates towards him meaningfully when he came to the table.
They ate in exhausted silence. Sophie imagined he was probably not nearly as tired as she; being brought back to life must feel like waking up from the deepest rest of your life. Still, it was late, and she did not fancy the idea of leaving him with free reign over the house in the night, when Fanny could arrive at any moment. After clearing their plates, she brought him back upstairs to where the bedrooms were.
“My stepmother sleeps in the master bedroom on the ground floor, and she never really has reason to come up this way,” Sophie explained as she walked to the end of the hall. “These rooms used to belong to my sisters, but they’ve both moved out.” She didn’t really want to give Martha or Lettie’s room to Howl, but it was either that or making him up a cot to sleep in her room, and entertaining that notion for even a moment probably had her poor father spinning in his grave. There was also the broom closet. She thought about that one seriously for a bit.
Finally, she caved and opened the door to Lettie’s room. “Here we are,” she said, stepping back to let him inside. Howl looked supremely out of place among the cream yellow walls and girlish neatness of the room, as tall and broad and wizardly as he was.
“You’ll stay in here until I tell you it’s alright to come out,” she told him sternly. “There are books on the shelf to entertain yourself if you get bored or can’t sleep. Fanny cannot know about this, so if you need something, it will have to wait unless it’s an emergency, do you understand me?”
Howl nodded solemnly. “I do swear to be a model house guest.”
For some reason, this did not inspire confidence. Sophie sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. “Alright then. Good night.”
“Good night, Sophie.”
She shut the door. Then she went to her bedroom, collapsed face-first into the sheets, and immediately fell into a deep sleep.
When Sophie woke in the morning, the events of the previous night suddenly seemed to be nothing more than a preposterous fantasy brought on by acute sleep-deprivation. Of course she hadn’t accidentally raised a wizard from the dead and then made him egg salad for dinner. That would be deranged.
But when she left her bedroom and went downstairs, she found the trails of mud leading from the back door to the bathroom that Howl had tracked in were still there, and his ruined blue and silver suit was neatly folded on the toilet lid. Sophie took all this in and tried not to become hysterical.
In the kitchen, Fanny was merrily chopping up a watermelon and humming, sunshine streaming through the open window and casting her in bright morning light. She caught sight of Sophie and smiled warmly.
“Good morning, dear,” she said, hacking off a tough piece of melon with a grunt. “Would you mind opening up the shop for me this morning? I’ve got an appointment down in the Folding Valley with a potential new client that I just can’t miss.”
“Of course I can.”
“Oh, would you look at the time! I’ve got to run.” Fanny quickly wrapped up a few slices of melon, tucked them into her satchel, and bustled by Sophie with a hasty kiss to her cheek. “I’ll see you later, have as much watermelon as you like!”
“Bye, Fanny.”
The door slammed open and then shut again. Sophie waited ten seconds, then peered around the corner, looking up the stairs, and shouted, “Howl, you can come down now!”
A few minutes later, Howl appeared at the top of the stairs, confirming once and for all that last night hadn’t been a dream.
“Good morning,” she said as he swept past her, into the kitchen. “There’s watermelon on the counter and various other things in the cupboards. Feel free to help yourself.”
“Why thank you.” Howl picked up a slice of watermelon and took a bite, leaning against the countertop. Regrettably, he was even more handsome in the daylight. Sophie grabbed her own melon slice to occupy herself.
“So,” she began, after taking a small bite, “what now?”
“Hmm,” Howl said. “This watermelon is perfectly ripe, you must have a very good eye for these things.”
“I’m not talking about the watermelon, I mean the very powerful someone you’ve offended. Was she the one who killed you?”
Howl got a pinched look on his face. “Are you this blunt with every dead person you bring back? Maybe it’s a terribly traumatic subject, did you consider that?”
“It can’t be that traumatic if you’re sitting here being sarcastic about it.”
“I can be sarcastic about anything, it’s a gift.” Howl turned away from her and began to rifle through the cupboard above his head. Sophie huffed in frustration.
“I think I have a right to know who I’m harboring you from.”
“‘Harboring’,” Howl echoed, pulling down a packet of chocolate from the top shelf. He grinned with self satisfaction and began to peel the wrapper. “You make it sound so clandestine. I’m only staying here because I’ve been compromised. Rest assured, no harm will come to you while I’m here.”
“Can you at least tell me her name?”
He chewed on a square of chocolate thoughtfully. Sophie was also being thoughtful. She was thinking very hard about slapping the chocolate out of his hands. Finally, he said, “You’d know her as the Witch of the Waste.”
Sophie did remember the Witch of the Waste. Some months back, there had been gossip in the shop about how she’d murdered the king’s personal magician, Wizard Suliman, as well as Prince Justin. Finding their bodies on the edge of the Waste had been massive news. No one could pin her down for anything, though—much like a certain wizard in Sophie’s kitchen currently—and so she was never put on trial. As far as Sophie knew, she was still at large. And apparently still out killing wizards.
“What does she want with you wizards that’s worth murder?” Sophie asked, frowning.
“Oh, I don’t know. I imagine she’s simply bitter about no longer being relevant. In any case, she’s taken something very important from me that I need to get back.” Howl finally seemed serious for the first time. He gazed absently somewhere in the distance, glassy eyes narrowed. Then he refocused on her with a sudden intensity. “Sophie. I need some way to send out a message without garnering too much attention. Do you have a mirror I can borrow?”
“There should be a hand mirror in Lettie’s top drawer, if she didn’t take it with her.”
Howl slipped around her and vanished up the stairs, returning moments later with a small ornate silver-backed mirror. He placed it face-up on the kitchen table. “I need…” He tapped his chin, then whirled and began to rummage through all of the cupboards and drawers, slamming them shut when he didn’t find what he was looking for. Finally, he emerged with the pepper shaker, a napkin, and whisk. Sophie watched with bewildered interest as he tossed these unrelated things together in a slapdash but obviously experienced manner over the mirror.
He bent over the mirror, blew on it—scattering pepper everywhere—and said, “Michael Fisher.” The mirror’s surface abruptly rippled, beginning to writhe and gleam like quicksilver. He continued, “Hatter’s Hat Shop in Market Chipping. Utmost urgency.” Straightening, he grabbed the mirror’s handle, raised it up, and dashed it against the table, shattering the glass and making Sophie jump.
“What was that for?” she gasped, staring at the shards of glass and pepper all over the table and floor.
“Any longer and we would have risked being tracked.” Howl dusted himself off carelessly. “This is safer. Michael is my apprentice. He’s a smart boy, he’ll listen to his instincts. Not much else I can do until then.”
“Alright, but—you can’t go around shattering mirrors all over the place. If you make too big of a mess, Fanny will ask questions.” Sophie went to the closet and fetched the broom. She thrust it in Howl’s direction. He cringed away from it like a startled cat. “So you’ve got to clean up after yourself.”
Put out, Howl glumly accepted the broom and started to sweep up the glass. Sophie looked up at the clock and gasped.
“I’ve got to open the shop! Howl, don’t leave the house. I have lunch at noon, I’ll be back, just stay put!” She dashed off, hastily throwing on a neutral blue frock and tying up her hair before hurrying into the shop.
It was a busier day than usual; with summer rapidly deepening, the thing people wanted most was a cooling hat to shade themselves, and so Sophie was relentlessly occupied with trimming and blocking hats throughout the morning, making up for the slack of their dwindling employees. She didn’t even have time to talk to the hats—which, considering her newfound ability to speak magic into things, was probably for the better. She did find herself thinking about all of the hats she’d spoken to over the last year: how many had she unknowingly instilled with charms? Was her magic completely undiscerning? It seemed she didn’t even have to try to perform incantations. After all, she had resurrected Howl completely by accident.
By the time her lunch break rolled around, she was brimming with questions that she knew Howl probably wouldn’t answer. But when she stepped back into the house, he was nowhere to be found.
“Howl?” she called, wandering through the living room. She searched the entire ground floor, finding nothing, before setting up the stairs. Lettie’s door was the only one firmly shut.
She knocked on the door lightly. “Howl? It’s lunchtime. If you want something to eat, we’ve got some leftover sandwiches.” Then she felt like admonishing herself. She wasn’t Howl’s mother, she didn’t have to dote on him like a servant in her own house—suddenly annoyed, she turned to leave, when there came a low moan of abject misery from behind the closed door. She paused. “Howl?” Testing the knob, she found it unlocked. She opened the door.
Howl was lying facedown in Lettie’s bed, limp and unmoving. His hands were fisted in his brown hair.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Sophie.
He made a muffled sound, then turned his head to regard her. He looked very unhappy indeed. “This is my play’s last scene. Here heavens appoint my pilgrimage’s last mile.”
“What?”
“It’s my hair,” he said pitifully.
Sophie was quite bewildered. She thought it looked fine. “What about it?”
“Dishwater and mud, that’s what it is.” He rolled over onto his back with a heavy, forlorn sigh. “When the Witch killed me, all my hair spells vanished too. I’m hideous.”
“No,” said Sophie, “you were hideous when there were pieces of your face rotting away. You look normal now.”
Howl put his hands over his face and groaned again. “Don’t look at me. At least when I was decomposing I had an excuse. Girls like blonde or raven black, not—” he tugged at his hair, “—this .”
“You think girls are so shallow that the only thing we care about is the color of your hair?” Sophie was offended now. “I say you should be more concerned about your personality.”
“I can change my personality,” Howl whined. “What am I supposed to do about my hair when I can’t leave the house?”
“Nothing, I suppose. And it’s not like it matters when I’m the only person who will be seeing you like this.” Sophie put her hands on her hips. She’d had a lot of experience corralling whiny children when her sisters were younger. “Now, there’s no use complaining about something you can’t change. I’m going to have lunch downstairs, you’re welcome to join me.” With that, she left, shutting the door behind her.
Howl did join her for lunch—though not without a great deal of sulking—and they ate cucumber sandwiches on the back porch, where they were sheltered from prying eyes by the tall gated fence and the porch awning. Howl could be pleasant company when he wanted to be; his manner of politeness while also being insulting made him maddening to talk to, but Sophie had also never felt so invigorated before. Something about him woke her up inside, reminded her that there was a vast and incredible world right outside her door. She hadn’t believed anything as interesting as this could ever happen to her, the eldest daughter, destined for failure.
And the next day in the shop, Sophie got an idea.
“What is this?” asked Howl, amused. He picked up one of the shirts and regarded it curiously.
“Your disguise,” announced Sophie. She had assembled a pile of inconspicuous outfits ranging from plain-colored button-ups to pretentious poet shirts, all paired with black or neutral-toned men’s pants. Among these outfits, she’d also included several wigs of varying colors and styles. All this she presented to Howl with a proud smile.
“This is very thoughtful, but I’m afraid I don’t see the point.”
“It’s not doing you any good to be cooped up alone in the house all day,” Sophie explained, “so I thought you could come work in the shop with me during the day. That way, you can keep yourself busy while you wait for your apprentice to arrive.”
“It’s true that idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and all that.”
“What?”
Howl chuckled. “You wouldn’t get it. Anyway, this is a good idea. I’m not wearing one of these, though.” He was holding one of the wigs pinched between two fingers, mouth twisted in a restrained moue of distaste. “It looks like corn on the cob.”
It was very yellow. Sophie took it from him and put it in the reject pile.
So from that moment forward, Howl joined her in the hat shop during the day. She told his clothes very firmly that their wearer should be the most average person on the planet, entirely impossible to identify, and this seemed to work to keep people from paying too close attention to him. People could engage him in conversation, but easily grew bored or distracted, and customers often ignored him for the other employees. She could tell he felt slighted by the lack of attention—because he never stopped complaining about it when they were alone—but he also knew it was for the best. He was still terribly frightened of the Witch.
Hiding the existence of a third houseguest from Fanny also turned out not to be very difficult at all. She was often gone during the day, off flouncing around Chipping Valley or shopping down in Porthaven, and when she returned she was so distracted telling Sophie all about her day that she failed to notice things such as there being far too many dishes in the sink for two lone women, or the fact that they never had hot water anymore because Howl used up all of it. Sophie was just relieved that her impulsive decision to bring a corpse home wasn’t backfiring yet.
In the shop, gossip continued to filter in about the state of the country: with Prince Justin and Wizard Suliman both dead, it was said that the king was drafting every sorcerer in the land to hunt down the Witch of the Waste. One by one, each of these sorcerers was vanishing too. Unrest was stirring in the capital, with rumors that the king was even considering bringing in the royal army to do something about all this—a worrying piece of gossip that had Howl and Sophie both bending their ears to listen in, exchanging concerned glances.
Then, on the fourth day of Howl’s stay, everything changed.
The shop was closed for a holiday. Fanny hadn’t left until nearly noon, meaning Howl hadn’t been able to leave Lettie’s bedroom for far longer than he was used to, and by the time he was allowed to come downstairs, he was practically vibrating with repressed energy. Sophie tried to come up with things to do indoors, but the truth of the matter was that Howl had exhausted all avenues of entertainment the Hatter household could provide, and Sophie was at her wits’ end with him.
So she took a page out of Lettie’s book. “You need to go outside,” she said.
Howl looked up from where he was disassembling one of their chairs for spell ingredients. “If you’ll recall, there’s an evil hag on the prowl at the moment, and I’d really like to not be killed again. I need my apprentice before I can leave.”
“I didn’t say I was kicking you out, even though that would be the sensible thing to do. I have a few errands to run, and you may as well come along. I can add more layers of notice-me-not to your clothes if it would make you feel better,” she added, trying to entice him. She didn’t want to have to explain to Fanny why all the chairs in the house were little more than piles of scrap.
Howl put his tools down and she knew she’d won.
They left cautiously. Sophie thoroughly locked up the house and the shop on their way out, and Howl drew protection spells on the soles of their shoes, just in case.
It was a bright, sunny day, and the fresh air seemed to be good for Howl. It was good for Sophie too—she hadn’t been out much since taking Howl in and it was nice to be somewhere that wasn’t the shop. The Witch of the Waste still hovered in the back of their minds, but an encounter with her on such a nice day seemed far-fetched, and gradually they both relaxed.
First, Sophie took them to the grocery to pick up more food. They bickered over the fruits, the bread, the potatoes, nearly came to blows over the eggs, and drove all other shoppers out of every aisle they happened to be in. Next, they argued over scarves in the fabric shop. (The clerk, who’d known Sophie all her life, asked her slyly, “Who’s your handsome beau?” To which Sophie had turned bright pink and hissed, “None of your business! And he’s no one’s beau!”) And lastly, when they stepped into Cesari’s, Sophie shoved a muffin into Howl’s hands to silence him before going up to the counter to see Martha.
Her sister brightened when she saw her. “Sophie! Carrie, can you cover for me?” She ducked around the counter and grabbed Sophie’s hands, pulling her in for a hug. She looked healthy and rosy with happiness, a type of joy Sophie had never seen on her before. “This is the least busy we’ve been in weeks, can you believe it? Come on, let’s sit down.”
They took a booth near the window, to Sophie’s discomfort, but at least from this vantage point she could see what Howl was up to. He was dutifully eating his muffin and leaning near the door, long legs crossed languorously. Every time someone passed near him, he ducked his head as if to try and hide his hair. It wasn’t working.
“You look different,” Sophie said to her sister, trying to pinpoint it. “Happier. What’s going on?”
Martha blushed. She twiddled her thumbs round her knees and bit her lip. “Okay, you caught me. I’ve met someone.”
“But you’re still so young!”
“Don’t worry, he’s my age,” Martha assured her. “He’s really polite and kind, and he’s been courting me properly with all sorts of gifts and magic spells. He was a wizard’s apprentice, you know, so he’s very knowledgeable.” She frowned, slumping a little. “I feel so bad for him. He’s been trying to stay positive for me, but it’s been really hard these past few weeks.”
“What happened?”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The wizard who was teaching him died,” she whispered, and Sophie almost jumped out of her seat. Her eyes compulsively darted to Howl, who didn’t seem to have noticed. Martha continued, “I guess it was really horrible. He’s been so upset, I just don’t know what to do. I thought about asking Lettie if Mrs. Fairfax has any more openings, but I don’t want him to think I’m sending him away. Oh, Sophie, I’m so glad I can talk to someone about this.”
“That’s,” Sophie croaked. She cleared her throat. “That’s terrible. What did you say his name was?”
“Michael. Michael Fisher. He’s lovely, you really ought to meet him; he went out a few hours ago to run an errand but he should be back soon.”
“No, no, I wouldn’t want to rush him. Well, Martha, it was wonderful seeing you, but I should get back home, these groceries need to be stored before they spoil.” Sophie rose from her seat, trying not to look like she was escaping. Her heart thrummed in her chest. Martha got up and hugged her again, tightly.
“Thank you for visiting, I’ve missed you so much. Come back sooner next time, okay?”
They exchanged goodbyes, and then Sophie dragged Howl out the door.
He let out a yelp. “Forceful as a hurricane, that’s my Sophie,” he was saying inanely as she began towing him down the street.
“Be quiet, I’ve got to tell you something.” She yanked him into an alcove for privacy, forcing them to press up against each other to fit, then said lowly, “my sister is courting your apprentice.”
Howl’s eyes widened. “What—”
“She said his name was Michael Fisher and that he left to run an errand. Do you think he finally got your message?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “We have to get back to the shop. That’s where he would be headed.”
“Alright. Calmly, though.”
They set off at a brisk but orderly pace, taking corners faster than normal and hastening to a near run by the time the hat shop was in view. Howl broke away from her and sprinted up to the front door, skidding to an abrupt halt and looking around the stoop and the surrounding shops for any hint of his apprentice. Sophie caught up to him a moment later; he was gasping for breath, wild-eyed and jittering. She’d never seen him like this before, and it unnerved her.
She dropped the groceries and grabbed him by the arms to stop him from spinning around again. His head jerked down, shoulders drawing up. “Howl, breathe,” she said firmly. “You won’t do your apprentice any good if you faint.”
He took in a slow, shaking breath, going still in her grip. Her hands had slipped down to his wrists, and she could feel his pulse against her fingertips, rabbiting beneath the skin. After a moment, she released him. His arms fell back to his sides. He took a step back, putting space between them, looking unmoored.
They lingered there on the front step of the shop in silence, waiting for Michael. After nearly half an hour, Sophie picked up the groceries slowly, bundling them into her arms, before unlocking the shop doors so they could go inside. It seemed clear to her that Michael wouldn’t be coming today. Reluctantly, Howl moved to follow her.
“Wait!” came a frantic call down the street. They both whirled around. A teenager was hurrying towards them, steps clattering over the cobbled street. “Excuse me,” he gasped out, scrambling to slow down and nearly tripping. Sophie hurried down the steps and caught him before he could fall. He was neatly dressed with a white cap on his head, dark skin and deep brown eyes, and he had an almost painful look of anticipation on his face.
“I’m very sorry, miss,” he said, straightening. “I just felt... well, you’ll think this is silly, but I feel like I need to be here for some reason. It’s of utmost urgency.”
“Michael,” Howl said, grinning very wide.
Michael Fisher looked up at his name, but squinted without comprehension at Howl. “Do I know you?”
Sophie remembered the charms she’d put on his clothes. “Oh, hang on.” She turned. “Clothes, shame on you, let him be recognizable right now.”
The charms fell away. Michael balked like he’d been shot. “Howl?” he choked out, eyes brimming with tears. Howl took a step towards him, and instantly Michael surged forward and threw himself into Howl’s arms, sobbing. Howl dragged him in close and squeezed him, eyes shut.
“I thought you were dead,” Michael wailed. “I watched her kill you!”
“You weren’t mistaken. This kind girl here talked me back to life.”
Michael broke away from Howl and rounded on Sophie. She shrank back, but he just swept her into a hug as well, still crying, but now laughing a bit with relief too. “Thank you miss, thank you—”
“It was really quite an accident,” Sophie tried to explain, feeling undeserving of the gratitude, but none present were paying any attention to her protestations. She felt Howl’s arms wind around the both of them and decided that this might as well happen, and she might as well enjoy it.
Eventually, they all managed to bundle themselves off the street and inside the house, where Sophie set about putting away the groceries while Howl and Michael talked in the living room. She felt they deserved some privacy; Michael had still been sniffling when she excused herself. When she joined them, Michael was exclaiming, “I had no idea you could cast a suggestion spell from so far away. Is it a variation on scrying?”
“I actually combined a few divining ingredients with a mirror,” Howl explained, lounging along the sofa across from Michael. When he caught sight of Sophie, his face lit up. “Sophie! Please, join us. I don’t believe I properly introduced you two.” Sophie picked up Howl’s legs and shoved them aside so she could sit down next to him. Michael watched them with blatant curiosity. “Sophie, this is my apprentice, Michael. Michael, this is Sophie Hatter, accidental necromancer.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Michael said earnestly. “You’re Martha’s sister, right?”
“That’s right,” Sophie said. “Did she mention me?”
“All the time. Lettie, too. She cares about you a lot.” Michael rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “But I think she noticed I wasn’t listening, because she stopped. It was just—” He swallowed, hard. “I’d watched Howl and Calcifer die, and I wasn’t... doing well.” He looked on the verge of tears again.
“Calcifer, that old fool,” Howl muttered, frowning. “I knew he’d never give up a fellow fire demon. I just wish his nature hadn’t cost him in the end.”
“Do you think... well, since you came back…” The hope in Michael’s voice was palpable.
Howl shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not. She wants hearts, and Calcifer had mine—fire demons aren’t known for sharing. No, if he isn’t dead then he’s little more than a shade by now.”
Sophie felt like she was missing quite a lot of context from this conversation. “Who’s Calcifer?”
When Howl made no move to answer, she turned to Michael, who sniffed and discreetly swiped at his face. “He was Howl’s fire demon. They had a contract that they couldn’t talk about, but part of the deal was that Calcifer had Howl’s heart. His magic kept the castle running and protected us from the Witch. But she found us somehow, and her fire demon killed Howl and took his heart. I barely made it out alive. I’ve been living with Martha at Cesari’s ever since.”
“You’re lucky she thought you were a no-good apprentice,” Howl remarked. “Otherwise she might have tried to take your heart too.”
“What’s the Witch want with all these wizard hearts anyway?” Sophie asked. She thought that Howl being heartless was the perfect explanation for everything about him.
“I have a strong suspicion it’s less the Witch these days than her fire demon, Angorian. If that’s the case, she needs more hearts for fuel since she’s nearly burned up her human to the dregs.” Howl pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got a migraine. Good Sophie, would you bring me an ice pack?”
“I certainly will not.”
“Cruel woman.”
“I’ve got it,” Michael interrupted, getting to his feet. Sophie gave him the directions to the ice box. He returned with the ice pack and gave it to Howl, who pressed it to his forehead with a deep, hyperbolic sigh of relief.
Sophie prodded Howl’s leg. “What does this fire demon need so much fuel for? Aren’t demons terribly powerful on their own?”
“Fire demons all start out as falling stars,” Howl said. “It’s in their nature to burn out eventually. But they can prolong their lives by decades, even centuries, by taking a wizard or witch’s heart. If Angorian is collecting hearts, she must want something more than a long life.”
“How are we going to stop her?” Michael asked.
Howl made an indistinct noise beneath the ice pack.
“You are planning on stopping her,” Sophie said, warningly.
“I had no intentions in that arena, no.” Howl sat up abruptly, forcing Sophie to lean back to avoid smacking their faces together. “Can’t a murdered man avoid his murderer in peace?”
“I wish you wouldn’t speak so carelessly about it,” Michael said tightly. Sophie imagined it must have been horrifically traumatizing for him to watch his mentor die, and felt a spark of anger on his behalf.
“You’re one of the last sorcerers in the country with any substantial power,” she said to Howl, “and I daresay you have a responsibility to stop her before anyone else suffers your fate. You’ve slithered out of facing things so far, but here’s the shape of it: heart or not, you know right from wrong, and you know what the right thing to do is.”
For a long moment, it seemed like Howl was going to get angry, but then all at once he wilted, slumping back down onto the sofa like he’d been divested of his spine. “I faced her once and lost, horribly,” he said in a small voice. “And without Calcifer, I’m far weaker than I used to be. No, I don’t see any way out of this that ends happily for me.”
Sophie could not think of anything else to say. She did not know how to rouse his spirits when he seemed so despondent, and everything he was saying was true; he had not performed any particularly complex bits of magic since she’d met him, and if he’d lost before at full strength, he would certainly lose as he was now. Looking at Michael, he seemed similarly stumped. Howl pressed the ice pack over his eyes silently.
“Maybe we ought to get some rest and think on it,” Sophie suggested. It was growing late outside, and Fanny would be home soon. “Michael, would you like to stay for dinner?”
“That’s alright,” he said graciously. “I should be getting back to Martha. Thank you. I’ll come back in the morning first thing, Howl, okay?”
Howl did not respond. Michael bit his lip, then gathered his things and left.
Alone with Howl, Sophie was suddenly exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to eat something and go to sleep. She plucked at his sleeve. “You should go upstairs. Fanny might be back any second.”
He removed the ice pack, revealing his bleary, glass-green eyes. He looked tired too. “My dearest Sophie,” he sighed, reaching up and clasping her hand. She wrapped her fingers around his on instinct. “I imagine you’ve never been frightened in your life. You just blaze right over the terrors in your path like a righteous angel.”
She laughed sharply. “Nonsense. I was so frightened to talk to people that I didn’t leave my house for six months.” He looked at her dubiously. “Oh, yes—I scurried around my own town like a church mouse, trembling in horror at the idea of making small talk.” Strangely enough, she’d only started gradually regaining her confidence after meeting Howl. He brought out the best—and the worst—of her, it seemed.
Howl huffed, briefly squeezing her hand before releasing her. She pulled her hand back, feeling oddly bereft.
“You said something about dinner?” he said, lifting his eyebrows inquisitively. She rolled her eyes.
“You’ll have to serve yourself. I’m not your maid, you know.”
“As I am oft reminded.”
Sophie slept restlessly that night, dreaming of a woman, likely meant to be the fire demon, Angorian, wreathed in flames and holding Howl’s frantically beating heart in her hands, Howl dead at her feet. She woke up with her pulse thundering in her ears, and had just barely managed to settle her nerves by the time Howl bounded downstairs, dressed miraculously in the blue and silver suit he’d crawled out of his grave in.
“How did you manage that? It was ruined!” Sophie exclaimed.
“Wizard,” he said, nose upturned, and flounced away into the bathroom. She scoffed.
True to his word, Michael returned first thing, knocking politely on the front door. Sophie wondered how such a well-mannered young man could be produced under the tutelage of the human embodiment of a peacock. He asked where Howl was, to which Sophie told him, to which he merely sighed, as if a three hour bathroom routine was perfectly normal and not at all disgustingly vain.
“Calcifer used to supply hot water to the castle whenever we asked for it,” Michael told her, digging into the pancakes she’d cooked for breakfast. “I think Howl hasn’t realized that normal people don’t have limitless spring water magically routed to their pipes.”
When Howl deigned to join them, he looked refreshed and specially groomed, hair falling in gentle waves and skin perfectly clear. He was sparkling with radiance. It was extremely annoying. Sophie chewed her pancake with resentment.
“We’re going to Kingsbury today,” he announced, sliding a pancake onto his plate and drizzling it with strawberry syrup.
“What for?” asked Michael.
“Since we don’t have the castle doors, we’ll have to rely on seven-league boots, which I’ve already made.” Howl held up a pair of clunky brown things that looked like they had been cobbled together with shards of terracotta. Sophie thought about Fanny’s potted begonias in the backyard. “I’m thinking one each for Michael and I, and I’ll carry Sophie.”
She blanched. “You will do no such thing.”
He ignored her. “Only two steps, Michael, remember that. After we arrive, we’ll walk the rest of the way to Mrs. Pentstemmon’s.”
“Your old teacher?” Michael said, at the same time Sophie said loudly, “Howl, you’d best expunge from your mind the notion of carrying me—”
“Then it’s settled!” Howl said, having not settled anything, and rose to his feet, stuffing the last bit of pancake into his mouth. “Off we go, then. Eat and walk, Michael, you learn something new every day.” He ushered Michael out of his chair, then Sophie, then herded them both out the back door.
Grumbling, Michael slipped his foot into the seven-league boot. So did Howl. Then he looked at Sophie expectantly.
She crossed her arms. “Is there no other way to bring me along?”
“I’m afraid not. Come on, I’ll be perfectly proprietous.”
“You are incapable of anything of the sort.”
But she stepped forward anyway, stiff as a board and nervous for reasons she couldn’t explain. Howl’s expression was open and bright. He smirked and then bent at the knees and effortlessly swept her up in his arms. Sophie yelped, flailing, but Howl held her steady, one arm braced against her back and the other beneath her knees, as he said, perfectly proprietous. He smelled inexplicably like hyacinths, even though Sophie knew for certain there was no hyacinth perfume anywhere in the Hatter house.
“Alright?” he asked with an infuriatingly smug grin.
She tried to look dignified and probably failed. “Hmph.”
Michael was staring at them weirdly again, but neither of them noticed.
“Okay, Michael,” Howl said, straightening. “First step—”
They stepped in unison. The world rocketed past in a dizzying blur of sound and color, stealing Sophie’s breath and making her flinch, clutching at Howl’s suit for stability. Everything went violently still as they halted in the midst of a thickly wooded forest, birds calling above them and a soft wind rustling through the trees.
“—And second,” Howl finished, stepping once more. Sophie shut her eyes for this one, only opening them again once she felt them come to a stop.
They were in Kingsbury.
The city gleamed with gold and marble, lit vibrantly from the inside with the constant chatter of people strolling down streets, carriages clattering over fine brick, and hearty laughter ringing in the distance as plumes of blue smoke shot into the air, filling the sky with trailing patterns. Sophie took it all in with her mouth hanging open. She’d never left quaint Market Chipping, all her life, and this level of richness astounded her.
It took her an embarrassingly long time to realize Howl was still carrying her, and doing so without complaint. She shoved at his chest, cheeks burning, and said in a cracking voice, “You can put me down now.” Howl chuckled and set her down gently on her feet, letting her regain her balance before releasing her.
Michael scooped up the seven-league boots. “For being made out of clay pots, these were shockingly comfortable,” he remarked.
“I’m not an amateur,” Howl sniffed. “Anyhow, I believe we’re just a few blocks from Mrs. Pentstemmon’s home.”
They set off down the street. Sophie rapidly realized that she was severely underdressed for public life in Kingsbury; everyone they passed seemed to be wearing at least three layers of finery or draped in all manner of jewels and broaches, despite the very hot weather. Sophie’s faded charcoal dress did no favors for her in either department.
Howl, on the other hand, fit right in with his fancy blue and silver suit, striding along with a wizardly air that moved people right out of his way. By virtue of association, this meant people also moved out of Sophie’s way, a phenomenon she had never experienced but was quickly developing a taste for.
Mrs. Pentstemmon’s house was a tall and elegantly peach fixture at the end of a narrow street. The bustle and noise of Kingsbury faded the closer they drew to the house, so by the time they were on the front steps, it was nearly dead silent. Sophie shivered despite the warm day. Howl rang the doorbell; a soft, beautiful tone resonated from the bell and echoed through the house. They waited. When no one answered, Howl frowned deeply, ringing the bell again. More silence.
“Something isn’t right,” he murmured, passing a hand over the knob. There was a faint click, and the door swung open soundlessly. He turned to Michael and Sophie, concern written all over his face. “Stay behind me,” he ordered.
They edged in behind him as he swept inside.
Indoors, the house was just as sophisticated as the outside, and equally empty. It seemed more like a palace than a home. Their steps echoed on the marble floors eerily. Howl craned his neck to see around a corner, then led them up a polished white staircase to the second story. Sophie wished she had a weapon of some sort, opening and clenching her fists restlessly as she walked; beside her, Michael’s eyes darted around, a furrow between his brows.
Finally, they drew to a halt in front of a blue and white door. Howl laid his hand against the wood, but immediately retracted it like the door had burned him. He was very pale.
“Howl?” Michael whispered anxiously.
“The Witch was here,” Howl said distantly. “Gone now.”
He opened the door. Inside, on the floor, Mrs. Pentstemmon was sprawled on the dark wood, dead.
Michael and Sophie gasped. Howl rushed to her side, going down on one knee and pressing his fingers to her wrist. Then he waved his trembling hand across her still body, as if to wake her—but it was too late. She remained motionless. The Witch had beaten them here. A stifled sound of pain escaped Howl as he bowed his head, covering his face with his hands.
“Oh, no,” Michael breathed, shrinking backwards, but Sophie pushed past him into the room, coming to kneel next to Howl.
He was trembling minutely, white as a sheet. Despite how clearly distraught he was, he wasn’t crying; his eyes roved over Pentstemmon’s body, but stayed as glassy as they usually were, if unfocused. Sophie suspected that if he had his heart back, that would be a very different story.
She looked down at Pentstemmon. She’d never seen a corpse before—at least not one that she hadn’t woken up. Which gave her an idea. “Maybe I could speak to her,” she started tentatively, glancing sideways at Howl for a reaction. “I brought you back, didn’t I?”
This seemed to revive Howl. He let out a shuddering breath and nodded.
Sophie turned back to Pentstemmon. It’s not necromancy, she told herself, it’s just a stern talking-to. To a corpse. “Mrs. Pentstemmon,” she said forcefully, “you’ve got no business being dead. You’re a spry old woman and you ought not to let anything get you down, not even dying, so wake up right this instant!”
Mrs. Pentstemmon shot upright with a ragged inhale. Howl and Sophie both tumbled backwards in shock. The old witch coughed harshly, eyes wide with fright, before she spotted them—her eyes went as round as saucers.
“Howell?” she breathed.
His expression went slack with raw relief. “Sophie,” he said, voice tinged with awe, “you are a wonder.”
Once they had calmed Mrs. Pentstemmon down and explained the situation, she sent Howl down the hall to make tea for everyone. This was extremely funny to witness and Sophie didn’t try to hide how amused she was. She and Michael sat with Mrs. Pentstemmon in her sitting room, merely a yard away from where she’d been lying dead moments before, which must have been supremely strange for her. But Sophie had long since raised her peculiarity threshold to hitherto unseen heights, and none of this really fazed her anymore.
In life, Mrs. Pentstemmon was just as stately as she had been in death. If anything, she’d simply become more intense, like a concentrated beam of light in the shape of an old woman. Sophie quailed a bit under her sharp gaze.
“This is an impressive bit of spellwork,” Mrs. Pentstemmon said, meeting Sophie’s eyes evenly. Oddly enough, her eyes held the same quality as Howl’s: they glimmered darkly like glass marbles. “What you lack in skill you make up for with immense power.”
“Thank you...?”
“Have you known you were a witch very long?”
Sophie shook her head. “Only since I resurrected Howl on accident. I had no idea I could speak life into things.”
“It’s a good gift, a kind gift.” Mrs. Pentstemmon made a thoughtful sound. “Many view necromancy as a dark art, a form of death-magic that is easily corrupted. But in your voice, it becomes an act of restoration, a returning of agency and animation to that which has gone to rest. I don’t see anything dark about that.”
Sophie hadn’t considered she might be practicing black magic and was relieved to know she was not.
“What is dark, however,” Mrs. Pentstemmon continued with narrowed eyes, “is whatever Howell has been dabbling in over the past few years.”
“Do you mean his contract?” Michael asked meekly. It seemed he was even more affected by Mrs. Pentstemmon’s austere bearing than Sophie was.
“He made a deal with a fire demon,” Sophie explained. “He gave his heart away to keep Calcifer alive.”
Mrs. Pentstemmon closed her eyes. Sophie and Michael slumped in relief. “His heart,” she murmured, rubbing a hand over her chest absently.
“I’m back,” Howl announced unnecessarily, bearing a silver platter with four steaming cups of tea. He placed the platter down between them, then tossed himself into the nearest armchair, stretching out his legs.
Mrs. Pentstemmon looked him over with slight surprise. “You haven’t dyed your hair.”
“I know,” he muttered, tugging at a brown strand. “It’s been a great source of anguish.”
“I prefer it like this.”
He grumbled.
Sophie reached over and picked up a cup of tea. She took a sip; it was soothing and herbal.
“I don’t believe I thanked you for returning me to life,” Mrs. Pentstemmon said to Sophie. “It must be said, I am very grateful.”
“At least you mean it,” Sophie said, recalling Howl’s complete lack of gratitude.
“There are, unfortunately, urgent matters to discuss as well. The Witch of the Waste is no more.”
Howl sat up. “She’s dead?”
“Drained, it seems, by her own fire demon. She’s little more than a husk.” Mrs. Pentstemmon sipped her own tea. “Her fire demon has been slaughtering sorcerers up and down the country, stealing their hearts and keeping them for itself. I’m afraid it has taken mine as well.”
Howl swore, then winced at the look his former mentor gave him. Michael looked ill.
“Do you have any idea what it’s planning to do with all those hearts?” Sophie asked.
“It’s ambitious and power-hungry. It wants to rule, and it won’t stop until it has exhausted every avenue towards that goal.”
“You think it might go after the king,” Michael realized.
“Not might,” Mrs. Pentstemmon corrected. “It will, and likely very soon. The stronger and more experienced a sorcerer is, the more powerful their heart as a source of fuel. Now that it has mine, as well as Ben and Howell’s, it will be even more difficult to defeat.”
This whole situation was beginning to feel dreadfully hopeless to Sophie. Howl was too cowardly to face Angorian, Mrs. Pentstemmon was in no shape to fight anyone, and Sophie was strong but untrained—she vehemently doubted her ability to do anything meaningful. Michael was only a wizard’s apprentice, and barely fifteen years old. It seemed that the last line of defense was the royal army, but what good would they be against such a powerful fire demon?
They would find out soon, because moments later, a distant explosion shuddered through the house. They all cried out in alarm, clutching onto their seats; Sophie’s tea slopped over the rim and splashed on the floor. Howl launched to his feet only to sway unsteadily as the house rocked again. Outside, Sophie could hear people screaming.
“I’ll bet that’s her,” Howl said, before sweeping out the door without another word. Sophie, Michael, and Mrs. Pentstemmon raced after him.
They all staggered through the trembling house; they kept having to stop and support Mrs. Pentstemmon when she faltered, and by the time they’d made it down to the front door, Howl was already halfway down the street, head tipped upward as he scanned the sky.
“Howl!” Sophie shouted. He turned, began to yell something—with a deafening sound like a drowning cat, something streaked overhead in a ball of white fire, soaring out of sight and crashing somewhere with a great boom. Sophie and Michael ducked, covering their heads, while Mrs. Pentstemmon stayed straight-backed and proud.
“It’s her!” Howl yelled at them, running back their way. He nearly slammed into them, grabbing Sophie’s hands. “She’s attacking the palace. I’ve got to go help them.”
“I thought you weren’t going to fight her!”
“I have to lie to myself about these things! I’m too scared otherwise!”
“Howl!” Michael screamed. “Go!”
Howl jolted, releasing Sophie’s hands, before whirling on his heel and breaking out into a run. Seconds later, a hot wind swirled down around him and lifted him off the ground, sending him soaring off into the sky and out of sight. Sophie stared after him, breathing hard; beside her, Michael looked frozen with terror. Mrs. Pentstemmon’s expression was grave.
“I have to go help him,” Sophie said. “Michael, stay here with Mrs. Pentstemmon.”
Before either of them could talk her out of it, she hitched up her dress and began to run.
Kingsbury was in chaos. People ran to and fro, shouting and shoving, gone mad in their haste to escape the fighting; In the streets, soldiers raced in the same direction Howl had gone: towards the palace. Sophie followed them.
The frenzy grew thicker the closer they drew. Up ahead, Sophie could see soldiers fighting against terrible clattering constructs that reared up and lashed out with sharp metal claws, looking like Howl’s clay seven-league boots with malicious intent. Angorian must have made those to occupy the army while she took on the palace.
One of the metal constructs let out a bone-shaking roar that rattled through Sophie’s body. She flattened herself against a building, panting, and tried to gather herself.
She didn’t actually have a plan. As usual, her impulsivity was going to cost her, and this time the cost would be her life. What was she thinking?
Someone—a civilian, she thought—stumbled past her and tripped, hard, slamming into the pavement with a groan. He’s going to get trampled by the soldiers! Sophie thought, and lunged down, grabbing his arm and pulling him up and off the street. He looked dazed, like he’d hit his head on the way down.
She did the only thing she could think of. “Shoes,” she commanded his loafers, “take him as fast and as far away from all this as you can! Go, now!”
The man yelped as his shoes instantly started pedaling him down the street, in the opposite direction of the fighting.
Sophie grinned. Maybe she could be useful after all.
She darted from house to house, telling the bricks to make themselves impenetrable to damage, telling doors to board themselves up against intruders, telling people on the street to run and not look back until they were safe. When she came across a pile of industrial detritus in an alleyway, she told it, “Make yourselves useful and attack those metal monsters! Don’t hurt the soldiers!”
When she encountered soldiers, she told their wounds to seal up and their aches to vanish. She tried to steer clear of the actual battles, not wanting to be in anyone’s way, but at one point when she rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a gnashing, screeching metal construct, she quickly shouted, “You’re rusting and falling apart!” And within moments, it had collapsed into a heap of rusted scrap metal.
Slowly but surely, it began to feel like they could actually win, despite the monumental odds.
Then scatterings of soldiers around her began to gasp and point up at the sky. Sophie craned her neck to look.
A flash of color like a bolt of lightning surged overhead, followed rapidly by a spiraling white fireball that collided with the lightning midair, sending them both crashing downwards into the curved roof of a house in a spray of shingles. Magic simmered in the air, setting Sophie’s teeth on edge. On the roof, there was a brief struggle before the lightning coiled and shattered into a ball of yowling cats, toppling off the roof and rocketing away, followed by a clanging chorus of flaming bells that crashed and clamored down the street in hot pursuit.
Howl and the fire demon, Sophie realized, and felt sick with fear.
They skipped and skittered down the street towards where Sophie was leaning over a porch balcony, banging about in such a frenetic way that she was suddenly very concerned about them colliding with her. All at once, however, the ball of cats screamed and shot up the side of a building on the opposite side of the street, transforming into a surging ocean wave that showered a million tiny droplets into the air and seemed to vanish. The fiery bells whirled and twisted, shifting halfway into a woman with sleek raven-black hair and an inhumanly beautiful face. She looked this way and that, sneering, before her flames fanned out into a plume of rich mahogany feathers and she melted into a massive bird, still shedding ashes everywhere as she took to the sky. A wave of hot air swept through the street in her wake, burning Sophie’s face and making her eyes water.
Howl seemed to be holding his own, but Sophie knew he couldn’t keep this up forever. He didn’t have his heart or his fire demon, and he was facing a creature that was fueled with dozens of sorcerers’ power. She needed to help him directly. She needed... allies.
She grabbed the first person she saw, which happened to be a young soldier with wild blonde curls and mint green eyes who squirmed in fright when he saw the harried look on her face.
“Don’t hurt me, Miss Witch,” he begged, putting his hands up.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Listen, where’s the Kingsbury cemetery?”
“W-What?”
“The Kingsbury cemetery, don’t make me ask again.”
“It’s—that way,” he stammered, pointing east. “Not far, barely a few streets—”
“Thank you, goodbye!” Sophie released him and started to sprint.
If there was one thing she had learned from all this, it was that her talents lay in a certain place, and it was about time she used them for something really important.
The Kingsbury Cemetery, sure enough, rose up after just a few blocks, all wrought-iron rails and golden fences and sweeping white archways. She broke the lock on the gate and forced her way through, racing past the verdant gardens and winding pathways and fountains until she reached the plot of land she was looking for. Rows and rows of headstones for dead sorcerers. In a magic-strewn city like Kingsbury, they always buried the royally-employed magicians separately; even Sophie knew that.
She planted her feet, squared her shoulders, and shouted louder than she had ever shouted before, “WAKE UP!”
There was a single, ringing moment of silence. And then the dead began to wake.
Skeletal hands burst from the soil, clawing at the air. In the more recent graves, bits of flesh and rotted skin sloughed off as the corpses scrabbled to yank themselves free, dragging themselves out of the clinging soil and into the bright daylight. One by one, every magician in the cemetery surged forth, groaning and teeth chattering, hauling themselves up like Sophie’s words were fish hooks inexorably reeling them up from the ground.
When the last sorcerer had gathered clumsily to their feet, they all stared at her expectantly. She stared back, gasping, feeling almost hysterical.
She dragged in a deep inhale. “You have a job to do,” she said boldly, and turned, pointing up at the horizon. In the far distance, Howl and Angorian were still tussling in the air, spitting and shifting and tumbling head over heels in a cloud of indistinct shapes, shedding magic residue everywhere. “A demon is trying to take your city. You have to help that wizard up there, and you’ll stay in one piece no matter what that demon hits you with. Got it?”
The assembled undead nodded in unison. It was deeply eerie. Sophie took in another deep breath, trying not to hyperventilate, and watched with a vicious satisfaction as her horde of corpses began to surge unflinchingly out of the cemetery, towards the fighting.
The completely rotted ones, the ones that were little more than bones, stayed on the ground, jangling together hollowly and collapsing into their fellows, growing larger and larger until they could match Angorian’s metal constructs in size. Meanwhile, the fresher corpses shifted into undead falcons and eagles and whirlwinds and spools of needles and all manner of things, spiraling up into the sky to join Howl. Sophie watched as they smashed into Howl and Angorian’s tight orbit and tossed them apart, giving Howl room to recover while they occupied the demon.
Angorian—now half-woman half-tornado—let out a shrill howl and dove towards the ground, trailed by dozens of jeering undead goshawks. Sophie cheered and pumped her fist as they spun and twisted out of sight.
Sudden exhaustion nearly brought her to her knees, but she managed to stay standing through sheer force of will. There was nothing else she could do at this point besides go back and help the soldiers, but she thought they were rather well-off now with the backup she’d sent their way. All that was left was to wait and hope Howl came out on top.
When someone tapped her on the shoulder, she nearly screamed.
It was one of the corpses. He looked ghastly, but she could still identify some of his features, meaning he hadn’t been in the ground too long; she could make out faded ginger hair and suggestions of a craggy face, now rotted away into weeping, exposed tissue and pale bone. His murky eyes shined like marbles. He gave her a small smile that only made him look worse.
“Why aren’t you with the others?” she asked, frowning.
“Pardon me, madame,” he said politely. His voice was clotted and creaking, likely from the soil. “My name is Benjamin Suliman, Royal Wizard, and I believe I can help.”
“Oh! You’re the one the Witch of the Waste killed first.”
“Quite right.” He shrugged sheepishly. A piece of his ear detached and hit the ground wetly. “Before she took my heart, she bragged profusely about her master plan, likely thinking I wouldn’t be around to tell anyone about it.”
“If it’s about the hearts and the king, we all know already.”
“Yes, but there’s something else. She can’t be too far from her power sources or she’ll start to lose steam. She has to cart all our hearts around with her.”
Sophie said impatiently, “What does this have to do with anything?”
Suliman said, “Our hearts are somewhere nearby. I can feel mine tugging at me, even now.” He pressed a necrotic hand to his chest. “If we can find her original heart—the Witch of the Waste’s—we may be able to kill her.”
“But she already used up the Witch of the Waste. There’s nothing left of her.”
“A contract like that runs deeper than the physical. If anything of the original heart remains, she can be killed with it. She made a fatal mistake, using those other hearts for merely fuel—after all, you can’t make a new contract with a dead wizard.”
Sophie felt herself begin to thrum with anticipation. “Take us there, then.”
“Gladly.”
They wound their way through a street that was desolate and littered with debris. Suliman picked his way over piles of warped metal nimbly despite his state, seeming not to notice the pieces of skin he left on everything he touched and the grotesque warping of his soft flesh with every too-quick movement. Sophie followed him, listening for any warning that Angorian and the sorcerers might be about to swoop down upon them again. But the skirmishing seemed very distant now.
Suliman led her into a circular inlet of elaborate homes that were mostly untouched by all the commotion. They walked up to an unassuming white house with carved lioness statues framing the stairs, where Suliman rapped his knuckles in a certain pattern against the door and fizzled out the lock. He swung the door open.
To Sophie’s immense surprise, behind the door was a space not much larger than a broom closet.
“Very complex illusion,” said Suliman by way of explanation. He knelt down and pulled something out of the closet.
It was a brazier. Around waist-height and shaped with curving iron bands, the coals at the base of it burned softly orange, sending up gentle wisps of smoke that smelled like a field of flowers. Suliman dragged the brazier out onto the porch, into the sunlight.
“Where are the hearts?” Sophie asked, puzzled.
Suliman laughed. “These are the hearts.”
Sophie leaned closer, peering down the brazier. Indeed, what she had mistaken for coals were instead lumps of molten flesh that vaguely resembled human hearts. She wondered which one was Howl’s.
Reaching out, nearly touching the brazier, Suliman had scarcely moved when a great roar sounded from above—they both looked upwards and saw Angorian hurtling towards them, a massive, flaming dragon with razor-sharp teeth heading directly for them. Behind her, the undead sorcerers plummeted down after her in a riot of feathery bodies.
Suliman let out a shout and dove out of the way; Sophie lunged after him, following suit. Unable to stop her momentum, Angorian smacked into the porch railing and went skidding down onto the street head-over-heels. The sorcerers poured down onto the ground, shifting into their human forms as they went. Following up behind them was Howl.
He looked sweaty, filthy, and thoroughly spent. His blue and silver suit hung from his body in tatters. He stumbled a bit when he landed, nearly falling but catching himself on the brazier. When he saw Sophie, his face contorted with fear.
“What are you doing here?” he shouted. “You have to—”
“There’s no time!” Sophie shrieked from where she was sprawled on the street beside Suliman. To their right, Angorian was hauling herself to her feet, growling, eyes locked on the brazier. “You have to destroy her heart!”
Howl seemed to realize what he was leaning on, because he quickly shoved his hand into the bed of smoldering hearts and began rummaging around in them. Suliman groaned as he did so, clutching his chest, and Sophie patted his shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting manner.
Angorian stalked towards Howl with murderous intent. Her dress swayed around her body like dancing flames. “I’ll be a god,” she panted hoarsely, in a voice like a forest fire. “A god among my kind and yours.”
“Not interested,” Howl said, still clawing through the brazier frantically. “Please hold.”
The fire demon lunged.
Every undead sorcerer tried to grab her and missed; she crashed into the brazier and knocked both it and Howl over, toppling all three of them into the pavement with a mighty clang! as the brazier tipped onto its side and spilled the hearts out on the street, scattering them everywhere.
In the midst of the hearts there was one that stood out starkly: as black and shriveled as a boiled stone. Sophie sat up, seeing her chance.
Howl and Angorian were still struggling on the porch. She had him pinned against the rail, bending him almost double, and Sophie could see the panic on his face as he fought to overpower her.
“Her heart!” Suliman cried, and Sophie scrambled to her hands and knees and threw herself forward, snatching up the Witch of the Waste’s old heart. It was cold and dead against her overwarm skin, and as soon as she touched it, Angorian snapped up like she’d been electrified, eyes zeroing in terrifyingly on Sophie.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she snarled, and wrapped her hands around Howl’s throat. Sophie froze. The demon chuckled, looking down at Howl and sneering. His face was turning red as he choked and gasped, struggling against her hold.
“Stop it!” Sophie cried, but her voice broke with terror.
“Destroy the heart!” Suliman urged, at the same time Angorian said, “Put the heart down, witchling, and I won’t hurt him.”
Sophie knew this was a lie, and yet she trembled with fear anyway. Howl’s struggles were growing weaker, and she didn’t know if she could bring people back a second time. She looked down at the heart in her hands—little more than a dead husk at this point—and felt suddenly sorry for it. It hadn’t asked to be used like this, to be given away so carelessly and burned up into nothing. Sophie steeled herself, resolve sharpening to a point inside her.
“You want to rest,” she whispered to the Witch’s heart. “You’ve had enough of this contract, and enough of this demon. You can let go; I’ve got you. I’m setting you both free.”
The heart crumbled into black sand. Angorian gasped once, and then vanished into nothing more than a puff of soot. Howl collapsed against the rail, coughing and sucking in great lungfuls of air. Sophie breathed out a sigh.
“You cut that very close,” Suliman said shakily, climbing to his feet. He offered her his hand; she grimaced and waved him off with a thank you. She got up and stumbled over to Howl.
He was pale and limp, sitting in a protective curl against the door to Angorian’s illusory house. Now that she was gone, all that remained was the door: dark oak and white trim. Beyond lay a beautiful garden. Sophie knelt in front of Howl, cupping his face in her hands; at her touch, his glassy eyes opened, and he managed a thin smile.
“Ah, my dear Sophie,” he murmured. His eyes slid shut again wearily. “You really know how to cultivate dramatic effect. You almost let me die for it.”
“I wouldn’t have let you die. Who else is going to clean up the mess you all made, duking it out over the city?”
He opened one eye to a slit, scowling. “You are a cold and heartless woman and if I drop dead of exhaustion sweeping up trash then you will be very sorry.”
“I think you may be confusing the two of us.” Then Sophie remembered. “Heartless... Howl, your heart!” She shook him to wake him up, and once he was blinking at her with a semblance of awareness she repeated, “Your heart, it’s here, Suliman’s got them all over there.”
This seemed to snap him awake. He sat up unsteadily, letting her support him as they stumbled off the porch together and towards Suliman, who had collected all of the sorcerers’ hearts into a small pile by the iron brazier. He must have found his already, because his eyes were vivid and clear when he looked at her, and his decomposing smile was broad and bright. Sophie made a mental note to fix him up later.
She deposited Howl on the street next to all the hearts. He picked up one immediately from the center of them and brought it close to his chest, peering down at it with a soft expression. He blew on it gently; the simmering coal glowed yellow for a moment before dying back down. He sighed.
“I’d hoped that perhaps Michael was right, and Calcifer was alive,” he said quietly, cradling his heart. “But I imagine the first thing Angorian did was kill him after she did away with me.”
Sophie had never met Calcifer, but the grief on Howl’s face was palpable. She had no idea if it was even possible to bring a fire demon back to life. But she gathered her last vestiges of energy and spoke gently to his heart, though there was every chance it might fail: "Calcifer? If you can hear me, you ought to live, alright? As long and as free as you'd like."
Nothing happened. But then, gradually, the smoke coiling around Howl's heart coalesced into a dim blue shape, pulsing slightly like a heartbeat, before detaching from the heart entirely. It spun around, growing bluer and bluer, now tinged with green and red and all sorts of other colors, growing hotter as it gained definition, and then it spoke in a sizzling whine, "This has been the worst week of my entire life."
"Calcifer!" Howl exclaimed, expression wrenching open with vulnerability. "Old friend, I thought she'd had you."
"As if," the fire demon sniffed haughtily. "Do you have any idea how humiliating it was for me to hide inside your heart like that? It's gross and squishy in there!"
Howl laughed. "Well, you have Sophie here to thank for your freedom."
Calcifer whirled to face Sophie, insomuch as a fire could face anyone. "Really? You're the one who let me out? I suppose I should thank you, then."
"No need," Sophie said. "I'm just glad you're alright."
Howl was still cradling his heart. Without Calcifer, it seemed even dimmer and smaller than before. Carefully, Sophie set her hand over his, feeling the faint warmth of his heart. Together, they slowly pushed it into his chest until it disappeared beneath his skin. Howl gasped, bowing forward and clutching his chest. When he sat back up, his skin was flushed with life and warmth, and his eyes were a vibrant, striking green.
Sophie smiled at him helplessly. His own smile was equally so. He clasped her hands in his.
“I’ve been terribly inconsiderate, haven’t I?” he said.
“Yes.”
“And appallingly rude.”
“Also true.”
“Sophie,” he said solemnly, and she raised an eyebrow, another smile worming across her face. “You are awfully nosy, and blunt, and you bully me everywhere.” Strangely, these words did not sound like insults in his mouth. “You wield extremely volatile magic like a sledgehammer. Every day, I remain utterly baffled that we crossed paths as we did.”
“You would still be in an unmarked grave if it weren’t for me,” she pointed out.
“Batter my heart, Sophie,” Howl said. “If it’s all the same to you, I think it’s high time I was introduced to Fanny.”
“And given your own bedroom.”
“Possibly even a house.”
“A moving castle?”
Howl considered this. “In all honesty, I’ve recently grown rather fond of a hat shop.”
Sophie laughed. “Honesty? You’re incapable.”
“I’ve been known to dabble in it.”
On the street around them, dozens of undead sorcerers were trying to capture Sophie’s attention. Ben Suliman was saying to no one in particular, “Now, what do you reckon we do with all of these hearts?” Calcifer was spiraling above their heads in a whirl of red flame, laughing and exclaiming, "I can breathe again! I can move! Hah!" And at the end of the street, Michael was running towards them, calling their names.
But all these things were lost on them, for they were smiling and smiling and quite unable to stop.