Page 22 of Flowerheart

“Yes.” When Xavier looked up, there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “If you’ll give us only a few minutes, sir, Miss Lucas will prepare the potion for you.”

My face grew cold. I darted over to his side. “I will?” I whispered furiously.

Xavier nodded. “I’ll show you how to make it. You’ll do just fine, I’m sure.”

Glancing at the customer, I remembered with great dread Xavier’s comments about magic and strength and excessive emotion. Would my downpour of grief an hour ago be enough to keep my magic at bay? “Master Morwyn,” I said under my breath, “does your lesson involve me sobbing in front of a stranger?”

Calm as ever, he turned to the customer. “If it wouldn’t trouble you, sir, would you mind waiting for us on the porch? We’ll call you inside once the potion has been made.”

The man shuffled out the door, his brow lined. The bell over the door jingled as he shut it.

I spun towards Xavier, my stomach doing a somersault. “I can’t do this!”

He scoffed as he set two bowls on the workbench. “You’ve surely made potions with your other teachers.”

“They let me chop ingredients and mix them together—they almost never let me cast spells! And I’ve onlysolda potion I’d made a few times—”

One of the bowls wobbled and then flung itself off the tabletop. Xavier clicked his tongue disapprovingly—at the bowl. He stooped down and replaced it, his hands firm.

“It’s perfectly normal to be nervous,” he said to me. “I know it’s a new way of training. But the more you deny your feelings, the more restless your magic will be. You must become comfortable with your power if you intend to control it.”

Every failure could determine Papa’s future. The other bowl quivered, and Xavier stilled it with a hand. “What are you afraid of?” he asked.

I swallowed. In my mind, I could see Papa’s eyes blown wide with horror as the flowers bloomed from his heart. I could see a woman who looked far too much like me, with angry, red hair, and the ability, magical and not, to break and bend hearts. “Plenty of things.”

The bowl trembled again. Xavier shook his head. “Be as specific as you can.”

I stared at my hands, quivering against the deep brown of the stone countertop. The hands that had burned my father. “I don’t know. There’s just... so much.”

He uncorked a round bottle filled with light pink liquid and set it in front of me. “You’re being too hard on yourself,” he said softly.

“What am I supposed to be doing?” I squeaked, imagining Papa’s eyes. His scream. His dying heart. All because of a power I never asked for, inherited from a person I couldn’t even remember. “What if my magic hurts you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “But I want you to harness the energy of the fear you’re feeling. I want you to pour that power into the bowl. Use that restlessness within you, and with all your might, think of peace.”

I choked out a laugh—but even that frightened me, since the tiniest emotion or action seemed enough to release my magic. “How can I? What if my magic hurts that man’s wife?”

He placed the bottle in my gloved hand. I met his gaze again. I was so fraught with emotion that my whole body was quaking... but he didn’t seem to find me silly or pitiable. He was serious, but gentle-eyed. Like he was listening intently to my every word. The way heusedto listen to me. “My magic gives me trouble, too. I don’t expect you to be an expert.” He nodded to me. His voice was smooth and calm. “Let the fear roll through you like a tide. Then let it pass.”

I shut my eyes and pictured that wave, the color of night and roaring at me like a lion. It twisted in my gut, then crashed into itself. The water I envisioned swirled in my middle like a whirlpool.

“Your feelings give your magic strength. Use their power; don’t force them down,” said Xavier. “To release that power, you need intention and something to channel that intentioninto. Your fear, your sadness—take that energy and hold it.” He lifted my hand, sending a chill up my back. I breathed deeply and focused on the maelstrom within me. “Ideally, the potion we’re making should help an uneasy stomach. Speak of peace, balance, and comfort to it, and you can make it so.”

“Peace,” I said. Nothing happened. “Peace.”

“Picture it in your mind. And breathe.”

My lungs filled again. My mind turned, as it always did, to my father. I remembered childhood summers spent on the porch, curled safely in Papa’s lap, listening to crickets and watching the stars. Winters by the fireplace, drinking chocolate and reading stories together. Spring nights, with sweet-smelling lavender hanging on my lintel, his lullabies wafting through the room, and his fingers brushing baby hairs from my brow. It had always been just the two of us—but that felt like so much more than enough.

“Peace,” I whispered. The storm in me cooled. I poured out some of the liquid and felt a rush of energy leave me as well, loosening my shoulders and my chest.

He pressed a square bottle, some other ingredient, into my hand. “Continue.”

“Peace, tranquility, balance.” I let the energy pour from me like the fluid from the bottles, one after another. My words slurred together, slowly morphing into my father’s lullaby. I sang the words until the verse was done and let my voice echo in the room and fade into silence.

Cradled in my hands was a bowl full of lilac-colored liquid. It shook like it was caught in an earthquake; like the potion was trying to burst from the bowl. Then the brew swelled and grew like a tidal wave of its own, rising up, overflowing and flooding over the counter in an impossible amount.

“Curse me four times over,” I grumbled.

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