Key of Holly, Lock of Hawthorn: Lock of Hawthorn

The night before the equinox was dark as pitch, with the sky hooded with a thick cover of clouds. Charlotte's little burglar's lantern seemed to be the only light in the woods as she trekked her way awkwardly along the path she'd scouted before in daylight. She knew these grounds, and what the earth got like in March, and had taken a pair of sturdy men's boots for the purpose, but now she wished she's procured a pair of trousers as well. 

But this was her home, and she was not about to kit out like a jungle explorer for a stroll around her family's grounds, even if it was the middle of the night, thank you very much!

The lake lay calm and soothing, the shoreline still clinging to ice even as the middle had melted, and her feet found their way. Off to the side, she knew the copse of trees was hiding the statues of the three wise women, the Eldest Oak, and the well of voices. She felt a pang thinking of their disapproval, and her mind shied away entirely of thinking what her mentor would say if she knew what Charlotte was doing tonight. 

On the other hand, would any of her ancestors have done any less? The promise of whatever lay ahead was too much to resist. She was, after all, a magician, and magicians could never resist a mystery. 

No doubt Esserve had counted on this. 

Charlotte's light fell upon the old gate at last, almost invisible behind the foliage. "Why, it's nothing but an old field-gate!" she exclaimed. The wood was rotten in places and overgrown with moss in others, and the wall around it, once built of mod and rocks, had fallen into ruin around it. Even so, when she shone her light on it, just where the two sides of the gate met, there hung a lock of brass. gleaming and clean like something just polished for sale at the village shop. 

And, as she touched it and held it to the light, she could see the hawthorn leaves molded into the metal. 

She paused for a moment, to look back across the grounds. There was nothing much to see but a grey sky and black land; there on the third floor of the manor, there was the faint glow of light from one of the upper windows. Likely papa had not been able to sleep, again, and was pacing about the writing-room, smoking and thinking and yawning. 

Briefly, Charlotte regretted not having said good-bye. 

She puffed out a breath of air, gathered herself, and turned to the problem at hand: The lock, and whatever secrets that may open up for the coming year. 

She fished the key out from her leather messenger bag and pushed it into the lock. A turn, and another, and a click, and the two sides of the lock fell open, and the gate squeaked as a breeze of wind made it swing on its hinges. 

The air had the distinct scent of burning wood and flower herbs, and the tips of her fingers tingled with magic.