Page 72 of Flowerheart

I flinched as Papa touched my shoulder.

“You don’t have to go,” he said.

I had no magic. Nothing more I could give Xavier to help him or help the people affected by Euphoria. It ached more, to think that I should be helpless all my life, than the thought of seeing my mother.

“Imustgo,” I told him.

He pressed his lips together in a smile, regretful and proud all at once, and held me in a tight embrace. “Remember: we can’t force anyone to change. And she can’t change who you are, Clara. No matter what she tells you, only you can decide who you are and what’s right and wrong.”

If she was selling Euphoria and other magic that manipulated the lives of others, I knew already that she was not a good person. I’d hold fast to this truth.

Even so, I was terrified.

Slowly, I parted from him and lifted a match from the matchbox on my bedside table. Papa stood back, his hands over his heart in some sort of prayer.

Igniting the match, I touched it to the charm with a quivering hand.

At once, I was enveloped in bright light. When I blinked, my vision returned. Black smoke, fragrant from the oregano, spouted from the charm like an industrial chimney, engulfing me. Torrents of wind whistled in my ear. The smoke didn’t burn my eyes, but it fogged up my vision.

I batted away the smoke, and once it cleared, I gasped.Papa was gone—no, my whole bedroom, all pale wood and soft colors, had vanished.

I was in a new room, filled with amber light, brightly colored drapes, and large oval mirrors. Various crystals and gems hung down from above like suspended raindrops. Several golden weathervanes suspended from the ceiling pointed towards me. There was a sort of organized chaos to it all; little tables here and there, or old traveling trunks covered in jars, pots, and glasses. What looked like pickled frog’s legs floated in one jar, and another was full of sugar.

Most curious was the sheer number of smells in such a little space. Warm tea, lemon, cardamom, lilacs, freshly cut grass, and even the smell of rainfall, somehow. To the left was a staircase surrounded in railing like a cage. At the top was a red beaded curtain.

A bell tinkled over my head.

From somewhere behind the curtain, a voice called out, “I’ll be right there!”

My heart lodged in my throat.

My mother’s voice.

19

My mother would appear any moment.

To distract myself, I strolled through the section of the house that served as a shop. There were tall shelves lining nearly every wall in the back half of the room. From a first glance, they carried goods similar to the ones Xavier and other magicians offered. A small green potion claimed to have a solution for hair growth. A little jar had a label reading,For Poison Oak.Then, not too far away, was a square red bottle. The white label on the front read,Causes Influenza.

I frowned, picking up the phial with two fingers. It was heavy as a stone, but a thick-sounding liquid sloshed inside.

Disease in a bottle.

Grimacing, I set it back on its shelf, wiping my hand on my pink skirts.

There was a soft rustling from the top of the staircase, followed by the clip of heeled boots against groaning woodenstairs. My heart plummeted to my feet. I pulled on the hem of my skirt, smoothed down my hair, pushed back my shoulders—and then felt utterly ridiculous. A small, silly voice within me insisted,I hope she likes me.

She hopped off the final step, striding into the shop. Her smile dropped; her freckled, pale pink skin turned paler still.

I pressed a hand against the shelf to support me as I gaped at her. All at once, I wanted her to love me, and I wanted her to never look at me again.

We looked so much alike.

Her hair was orange as a flame, more vibrant than mine or Papa’s, but just as curly as mine. Her eyes were dark, wide, and watchful, like a doe’s. She had my small, round nose, and the same dimples in her cheeks. She was short and full-figured like I was, even with her heeled boots. She wore a loose, peacock-green blouse, and a wine-red skirt without a bustle, sweeping naturally to the floor like a waterfall. She was beautiful, a wildflower. Would she have flourished in the garden of my life?

She hadn’t given us a chance.

Imogen blinked and touched her hand to her chest. “Curse me twice,” she muttered. “I really didn’t expect you.” She gestured to me, up and down. “You... you really take after your father, Clara.”

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