Page 62 of Flowerheart

Robin. It was Robin; they were in the house, and they needed me. I sprinted into Papa’s tiny bedroom. My senses came back, bit by bit—he was lying on his bed, his face gray as cinders. Robin stood at his shoulder, holding a case of potions, their brow creased and covered in sweat. AndMadam Ben Ammar knelt beside my father, her hands aglow as she pressed them against his chest.

“May you live long,” she repeated, louder and louder.

I took a step closer. Papa’s eyes were shut. Azaleas overflowed from two spots to the left and right of his breastbone, dropping petals onto the floor.

Robin caught me just before I fell.

“Miss Lucas!” they cried. “Thank goodness you’ve come—”

I willed my trembling legs to push me forwards, closer to his bed. He’d been fine Monday morning, and now...

“Papa?” My voice was small, shrill and fractured.

Madam Ben Ammar took a heaving breath and stood back, mopping at her brow with her sleeve.

Papa’s chest moved faintly, burdened by dozens of azaleas pouring out of his ribs and through his shirt and down onto the floor. His white, freckled skin was covered in sweat. His hand was draped on the floorboards. His eyes were shut in sleep, but his brow was furrowed, like he was in the middle of a bad dream.

“I sedated him to help with the pain,” Madam Ben Ammar explained between labored breaths. “Robin just called me. He’s getting worse and worse....”

I stood beside the witch, noticing the precise places from which the flowers grew. My failed blessing had caused this. “You—you tried to get the flowers out?”

“More keep growing,” she said. She gripped my shoulders tight. “Clara, I’ve been trying to give him a blessing of my own. I’m doing all I can. But the curse... it’s overcoming his body. He doesn’t have much time left.”

I stared at her, waiting for her to finish the thought. Or say that this was all a dream.

I turned to him and pressed my gloved hands against his cheeks. “Papa,” I said, a calm and direct command, “Papa, wake up.”

Robin cleared their throat. “You should let him rest, Miss Lu—” They were cut off when Madam Ben Ammar raised a hand.

I patted Papa’s cheek. “Wake up,” I cooed. I remembered him at my bedside on mornings before school, kissing my forehead, urging me to wake up or he’d eat all the berries he’d picked for me.

His eyes, the same pale blue as mine, fluttered open. His chest seized with a muddled, strained breath.

“Clara,” he whispered.

I brushed my gloved thumb against his gaunt cheek, right where my hand had left a mark before. I hardly knew what to say. We teased each other so easily—but today, it felt wrong. The beautiful, soft perfume of the flowers that infested him was a constant reminder that no matter how we might pretend, Papa was not well.

“Why aren’t you... with your teacher?” His voice waswhispery and faint and lasted only a few words at a time before he had to take another painful gulp of air.

My lip quivered. My already bruised heart ached from another blow. I wished I could fall upon him, weeping, and tell him everything about Xavier. Our sunlit childhood. The stretch of silence between us. Our promise. Our friendship, a new flower blooming from an old plant. And now, the truth about what he’d done. Anger and regret churned inside my stomach.

“We had an argument, that’s all,” I told Papa. It wasn’t a lie, but it felt as heavy in my chest as if it had been. I brushed a tear from his cheek. “I missed you so.”

He frowned, leaning his head into my palm. “Don’t be... angry with him for... for long, dear. You’re a good pair.” Despite everything, he smiled, his eyes squeezed shut. “A good wizard. A good witch.”

I wished he could give me all the wisdom in the world. I wished he could speak forever and not grow tired. I wished I had more to say to him—but my brain was a cloudy, tangled mess.

Madam Ben Ammar placed a hand on my shoulder. Her eyes glimmered. “If you want to attempt another blessing, now is the time.”

My heart skipped. I’d failed so spectacularly the last time. And I knew full well I could hurt him more, even as he was already in such pain.

His brow creased as his body thrashed with another cough.

I had no choice.

My fingers trembled as I pulled the embroidered gloves off my hands, finger by finger. A beautiful gift from someone who’d cared for me. Someone I’d cared for.Breathe. Just breathe,said a voice in my head, a memory. Of Xavier. Of the lessons we’d had together.

And there, too, was the black band on my finger.

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