Page 18 of Flowerheart

Down the hall from the potion shop was a large dining room. Six matching chairs surrounded an old mahogany table.

“I have supper at around seven,” he said, “but you don’t need to eat with me, if you don’t want to.”

Papa and I didn’t have a dining room; we just sat at the little table in the kitchen. Or, more typically, we ate the food while we were still preparing it. Neither of us was patient when hungry, and we got such a thrill from trying new recipes and sharing them with one another that we hardly ever made a dish pretty enough to put on a plate. The memories left a sad, sour taste in my mouth. I nibbled on the second chocolate to try to disguise the ugly feeling.

Next, Xavier led me up the stone spiral steps, lit dimly by sparse windows and sconces. More memories rushed back, this time of the surprise that this staircase held.

“Which sconce is the secret lever?”

“Up near the top,” he said. “By the tower, remember?”

“Right,” I murmured. “Can we—?”

“Not right now. We have a great deal of work to do, Miss Lucas,” said Xavier, stepping out onto the second floor.

There were six doors along the corridor, and the olive-green walls were dotted with multiple paintings in differently shaped frames.

In the nearest, a young man stood tall behind a sofa, where his three sisters sat. His black hair was short and neatly combed. His eyes were clear and free of fatigue. He wore a defiant smirk, his chin held high.

“When was this done?” I asked.

“About two years ago, I think.”

I hummed a thoughtful note and tipped my head at the painting. How was it that his painted eyes seemed more vibrant than they were in real life?

“You’ve changed so much,” I said.

“Adolescence is a marvel.” His voice was flat. He pointed the bags towards a set of double doors made of deep brown wood. “Here, I’ll show you the library.”

I longed to linger in the hall, to reminisce, to ask him more questions. With the breakneck pace of this tour, I was inclined to think that he wasavoidingall talk of our past. Or at least, any conversation with me. I took one last glance at the portrait before dashing after him into the library.

Bookshelves lined the walls, with a rolling ladder propped against one of the shelves. In the middle of the room, twodesks faced one another. Three armchairs and a sofa circled one corner of the library. The whole place felt empty.

“How long has your family been gone?” I asked.

“Three months.”

My heart lurched. “And they left without you?”

He crossed his arms and smoothed a fold in the rug with his toe. “Well, I’m standing in front of you, so evidently—”

I groaned. “I meantwhy. Why are you here when they’re abroad?”

Xavier straightened a pen lying on the desk before him. “I have work to do here.”

My brow furrowed. “What could be so important that you’d separate yourself from your family?”

“My work is extremely important. What I’m doing can change lives. Save lives.”

Mywork. Notourwork.

I selected a scarlet book from one of the shelves and delicately pushed aside page after page. This book, as well as most of the others, had been written by Morwyns of old, containing their personal wisdom on casting magic. Potions to cure warts or remove cataracts. Spells for peace. Protection charms.

“Do you hear from them, at least?” I asked. “I’ve not seen them since we were children.”

“They write me frequently. They’re doing very well, and they’re much happier in Álbila. Mother thought it was toodreary here, anyway.” He joined me by the bookshelf and absently shifted a book from one row to another. “Leonor has gotten much better at guitar. Dalia finds the Albilan boys very exciting. Inés has taken up painting.”

They writemefrequently.

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