Page 76 of Flowerheart

Her eyes were so wide I could see the entire circle of her irises. She shakily held up her hands. “There’s nothing I can do. If they’re dead, you could bring them to me—”

“He’s not dead.” The idea made no sense; an unfathomable equation, imagining a color that didn’t exist. Xavier Morwyn was not dead.

“Make me a portal,” I said. The more I talked, the less I was able to breathe. My chest was collapsing in on itself. The world was shrinking. My heart beat so fast it was humming. “I’ll describe his house to you.”

She nodded but held up a finger. “For my safety and yours, I must put a silencing spell on you. You’ll not be able to tell anyone about me, this shop, anything we’ve said today, no matter what enchantment the Council places on you.”

I thought of the Euphoria victims for one second, and then let all hope of vindication fade away.

Xavier’s life was in danger.

“Do it,” I said.

I lowered my still-trembling hands to my sides. Tears and sweat gathered on my cheeks. Every second pained me. Was Xavier dying? Was he already dead? What had my cruel magic done now?

Imogen placed two fingers against my lips. She spoke an enchantment I didn’t understand, whispers that made my head grow foggy and my ears ache. When she finished, when her lips closed around the final syllable, my mouth burned like she had struck it with a hot poker. I gasped, touching my tongue. When I drew back my hand, though, I saw no blood on my fingertips.

“There,” she said. She hooked her hand around my arm, lightly tugging me towards the door, tall, skinny, and black as night. “Now, describe his house to me.”

Imogen touched her hand to the brass doorknob, intricately carved with vines.

I shut my eyes and remembered. The rush of excitement, bouncing on the porch, waiting for Madam Morwyn to open the door and let me in to play with her children. The salty smell oftortilla albilanain the kitchen, mixed with the heavy, floral scent of potions.

“When you open the door,” I said, “you see polished floors, deep brown like chocolate. The walls are covered in pale green wallpaper, with fleurs-de-lis.”

“Good,” murmured Imogen. “Keep going.”

“There are cast-iron lamps on either side, and a round table and two small chairs on the left, like a bistro.”

The tea we’d had together. The way I’d shouted at him. Curse me sevenfold; would our final argument be our last words?

My voice trembled as I continued. “Across from you is a mahogany counter with a stone top. There are cabinets all around it, and pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, and drying plants along the top of the walls. One cupboard is white, the others are dark wood. And the whole place smells of tea and flowers. It’s—it’s peaceful there.”

Something clicked softly, followed by a sharp creak. I opened my eyes, watching as Imogen drew back the door.

Xavier’s shop lay beyond, dark and empty.

I was too frightened to move.

“Be careful, Clara,” murmured Imogen. “Don’t let my coven see you as a threat. People are always watching.”

Nothing could threaten me now. There was only one thought in my head, an anthem echoing in my heart, repetitive and desperate:Save him, save him, save him.

I stepped over the threshold and did not look back.

20

The door slammed behind me, severing the only way back to my mother. I did not care; I jogged through the sunlit entryway. I craned my neck and called out in a hoarse, broken voice, “Xavier?”

I looked over the back of the sofa in the sitting room, behind the counter in the shop, and then as I darted into the next hallway, my thoughts plagued me with the image I feared the most. His body, cold and still, strangled by my own magic or choking on flowers.

My breath was noisy in my ears as I searched the first floor. The spare room was empty, save for rolls of bandages and a little bed in case a patient needed to lie down.

My boots clacked against the stone steps as I raced up to the second floor. “Xavier!” I shouted. “Xavier, please, are you there?”

I threw open door after door to each of the bedrooms.One of the doors to the library was ajar. I ran in, crying his name, but he wasn’t there either.

A desk chair was edged out slightly. On the desk was a small sprig of yarrow, about the length of my forefinger. The red blooms were beautiful, but slightly damp.

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