Page 21 of Flowerheart

“Why must we play shopkeeper when my father is suffering?”

His shoulders lifted and fell with a sigh. “Because it’s a Monday, and customers will be coming. There are other people whoalsoneed our help. I can’t just shut down my shop. I’m sorry.”

I scowled. He was right, though I’d never tell him so. “If you mean to help me control my magic, aren’t you going to teach me some sort of cleaning spell?”

“I don’t use them. It’s better for me to reserve my strength for our lessons this evening.”

“Reserve?”

He nodded. “Most of my power is spent making potions.”

None of my teachers had mentioned conserving their magic. It was a bottomless well, they’d said, fueled by emotion and words and the beat of one’s own heart. It was a gift from the sun itself, strengthening us and tying us directly to the earth and the plants that we used in our potions. It wasn’t like gold, meant to be stored up and spent wisely.

“You can’t run out of magic.”

His gaze lowered to the floor. “No. But these days, I have a particular knack for growing tired.”

I frowned. It certainly seemed so. The bags under his eyes. The pallor of his skin. By the minute, I was realizing how fortunate he was to have a helping hand around the house.

“Why, though?” I prompted.

He rolled his eyes. “Must it be a trial to ask you to sweep for me?”

With a huff, I breezed past him into the back potion-making area. I swept up dust and powders of many colors and carried them to the dustbin. Clearly, the man had better things to do than clean his own house.

“Earlier, you said bursting into tears was good for one’s magic,” I mentioned, rolling back the rug in the entryway to sweep there, too. “Do you cry to subdue your magic as well, or does that also exhaust your power?”

He turned from me, reshuffling the hoard of bottles cluttering up his workbench with great determination. “Yes, Icry, Miss Lucas—”

“And if you’re angry?” I asked. “Do you rant and rave and shout?”

“Yes. Any emotion fuels one’s power. If a magician does not honor a feeling, their magic can get too strong. The stronger the magic, the harder it is to control.”

I frowned. “My other teachers said that was why we had to keep our emotions in check. To keep from feeling too much or else our magic would be out of control.”

“Well, most people are of that mind. Like my father.” His expression was hidden behind the curtain of his black hair. “My mother is of a different school of thought. There are some who believe that embracing emotion, not withholdingit, is what leads to controlling one’s magic.”

“What if that magic is already too difficult to control?”What if,I thought, keeping my worry locked up in my heart,what if my emotions are nothing but trouble?

He finally turned to me, the faintest ghost of a hopeful smile dawning on his face. “I believe anything can be tempered with enough time and dedication.”

The bell over the shop door rang. I stood at attention, still clutching the broom. I thought,This must be how actors and musicians feel waiting for the curtain to rise.My stomach fluttered. Magic tickled my throat.

A tall man with dark hair and a beard stepped across the stoop. He wore a smock covered in sawdust. “Good morning,” he said meekly.

I curtsied. “How can we help you, sir?”

“My wife is ill,” said the customer. “Her stomach troubles her—she can barely move.” He reached into his pocket and removed five copper coins. “Is there something I can get for five? I’ll pay more with interest, if need be. It’s urgent.”

Xavier eyed the money and nodded, approaching his shelves. He ran a finger along the array of bottles, but then his shoulders drooped.

“I’m afraid those particular potions have been in high demand,” he said. He rubbed his temple. “I apologize, I usually have more tinctures stocked—”

“It’s all right,” said the customer, his shoulders sagging.“There’s another wizard a few hours from here, isn’t there?”

“We’ll help you, sir,” I told the man. “You shouldn’t have to travel so far.”

I glanced back to Xavier, who was fidgeting with his silk cravat.

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