The weeks were passing by. The Apiarist was a whisper, a story, a superstition born from child rhymes that appeared as if from nowhere.

Three drops of honey on the windowsill,

Black bees of despair may stay still.

She was working every day, answering silent calls of human need. And that need was almost everywhere. It was soothing to imagine, to believe, that your misery might be open to a bargain. A little chant travelled from kids to parents, the echo of it lingering on minds:

Lie to yourself one, two, three,

The lost widow comes for thee.

Or be honest, four, five, six,

So the grief no more sticks.

She spent very little time down in the Palace in those days. Her scarce lectures happened more outside than in the dark halls. However Shadow made sure to seek her every few days, showing her more and more of the world unseen by mortals. But just as dutifully he kept evading some questions that weighed on her.

The forest Hazel was walking through was covered with the deep late winter snow. Grey sky promised more very soon and the travelling spirit wrapped her scarf tighter. A heavy silence of snow bearing trees made her reconsider her plans, a hot cup of tea in the Palace becoming truly irresistible. It was still early afternoon, a good chance was to catch Shadow there as well. She could use a bit of company after meeting a long row of mortals who felt her, but didn’t see her.

Slightly warmer breeze lifted a snowy dust, dancing around her feet for a moment. Hazel stopped in her tracks. Someone or something was close. She hadn’t met any other spirit yet, but she heard the tones of magic in the air.

“Dear me, if it isn’t the new one?”

A laughter swirled around Hazel, pulling away a few remaining leaves from the branches with a soft gust of wind. It was a pleasant voice, brimming with amusement and curiosity - but a little bit snooty on the edge.

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The Apiarist straightened up, cautious.

Stranger appeared leaning against an old oak nonchalantly - as if she had been standing there for eternity, just waiting for Hazel to come.

She was beautiful. That was the first thing that crossed Hazel’s mind. Tall, elegant woman with impossibly golden eyes and dark auburn hair. She was perfect in every way - and exactly in a way normal people aren’t. Flowing dress in warm autumn colours made her guess who was standing in front of her.

The spirit closed the distance between them, circling Hazel like a peculiar exhibit: “My name is Samhain, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” she smiled like an eager predator, “and you - Shadow’s new hobby. I didn’t know he’s into minions or pets, true,” Samhain inclined her head,dragging the last word pitifully, “but I guess, everyone needs a change from time to time… Even him. And you are indeed… interesting.” The autumn spirit finally stopped moving, raising an eyebrow: “You can speak, can’t you?”

Hazel, painfully aware of every imperfection of her own, from messy wavy hair, over a bit too long nose to every wrinkle around her way too ordinary eyes, held her gaze firmly: “You seem quite capable of taking care of both sides of the conversation alone, Samhain.”

The tall spirit paused for a moment, then her smile widened - but didn’t quite reach her eyes: “Sharp. So it’s true what they say about you.”

“Depends what that is.”

“That you are a real new spirit. First in two centuries.”

Hazel couldn’t conceal her surprise, reflecting in the twitch of her shoulders. Shadow told her that there were others like her, mortals turned spirits, but the way Samhain said it - she made the Apiarist sound exceptional.

A sharp, pointy smile: “He didn’t tell you. What a rarity you are - and why.”

He didn’t. Every instinct in Hazel argued for being wary though: “I’m new and still learning. There’s a lot I don’t know yet.”

Samhain leaned closer, putting her under scrutiny: “Are you defending him? Interesting. Given the risk he put you through…And the rumor has it you were a mortal victim to the war. His war.”

“His war?” Hazel echoed weakly, confused and terribly uncomfortable.

“Oh yes,” Samhain nodded, “it seems dear Shadow chose very carefully what not to tell you. No wonder though. Being in his place, I’d be picky, too.”

Bleak winter sun peeked through the clouds, making the autumn spirit glow as a distant memory of golden October woods.

“You may have the power, Apiarist,” she said with a soft sympathy, “but you are right. You don’t know a lot… And maybe you need better friends. Those who speak truth for the beginning.”

Hazel gulped. She took a step back, crisping snow under her feet disrupting the shimmering autumn magic.

“You seem very… interested in me, Samhain.”

The tall spirit smiled, without a shade of pretension this time: “If you knew what you really are, you wouldn’t be surprised. After all - it’s no wonder Shadow keeps your leash short. He won’t be very happy to know we met.”

Hazel’s bees hummed quietly, dark against the white and grey background. The snow started to fall slowly. Her voice was strained, when she asked:

“What do you want from me?”

Samhain gave her a long look, resting her hands on her hips, as if she was judging an art piece: “Nothing for now. Just getting to know you… But when you’ll realise you need it, then I’m offering a strategic friendship.”

“If, you mean,” Hazel tilted her head.

“When,” Samhain said, “but for now… go on, hurry to him. Be a loyal pet,” she spread her arms, gesturing to all of Hazel and her black dress with a smirk, “so fittingly wrapped in his darkness already - but ask those questions finally.”

The snow swirled, the sun was gone.

Hazel came back to the Palace in a heavy storm.