Page 27 of Flowerheart

Watch him,Madam Ben Ammar had said.

That night, magic sizzled in my belly, like a coal in a fireplace too stubborn to go out. Below me, the old house creaked and rattled like it was breathing, but that sound was more calming than unsettling. My magic had no reason to be so restless—or to leavemeso restless. Bathed in the smell of the flowers I’d gathered from the floor, I lay in bed and stared at the domed ceiling of the tower room, pressing my hand tomy stomach. White stars sparkled overhead in the black of the enchanted ceiling.

It was far too late to ask Xavier how to reckon with my magic.

Instead, I lit my lamp and slid onto the floorboards, now covered with books I’d borrowed from Xavier’s library, all of them new to me, and some of them translations of Albilan books. Opening a translated theory book titledSpeak No Evil,I turned to the page I’d marked with a lavender sprig.

Blessings: this type of spell is the most difficult of all. Practicing the incantation alone will not suffice. The caster must have complete control over their powers.

At this, I sighed and exchanged this tome for another, simpler one:On the Instruction of Young Magicians.

I tried all of the author’s methods for soothing uneasy magic. Short inhalations and long exhalations. Picturing a walk through a forest. Imagining magic seeping through my head, down my spine, and into my toes, and then creeping back up.

A faint clanging sound from downstairs shocked me out of my meditations. I jerked to my feet and swept my lamp off the table, scurrying out the door. I paused in the stairwell, silent but for the thrumming of my own heart. Perhaps I’d imagined the sound—but no, there was more: clinking glass, a knife chopping against a wooden block. Xavier humming.

Descending the tight coil of stairs, I stopped on the ground floor, treading across to the kitchen. Xavier stoodin the lamplight, hunched over a cauldron on the stove. A sickly-sweet smell like burnt sugar wafted through the air.

“Xavier?”

He flinched and turned, eyes wide and bloodshot, his damp hair drooping over his brow. His white shirt was neatly tucked into his trousers but stained with sweat and purple drops from the potion. He had a black leather notebook pressed tight against his heart.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He shoved the book in a drawer and then leaned against it, frowning at me. “And—and you, Miss Lucas? What are you doing up at this hour?”

I took a cautious step into the circle of lamplight surrounding his workstation in the kitchen. “I was reading, and I heard noises.”

He moved in front of the stove, blocking it from my view. “I’m just working on a potion,” he said.

My eyes narrowed. “In the middle of the night?”

“I work during the day, I teach you in the evening, and I make more potions at night,” he rattled off, his voice hard. “If you’d allow me to continue?”

He’d been so kind this afternoon. I had seen a glimmer of his old self—now I was more confused than ever.

Without waiting for my response, he turned back to his potion. He poured the contents of a small ceramic bowl into the cauldron.

I marched over to his side and inspected the ingredients onthe countertops. Leaves of peppermint, a jar of brown sugar, finely chopped sunflower petals. “I could help—”

“No!” He stuck out his arm as a barrier and I stepped away, shielding myself with my little lamp. He must have seen the shock in my eyes, for he sighed and said, “I—I’m sorry. I mean to say that no, I don’t want your help.”

I flinched, first at his rudeness and then at the memory of my “help” this morning. “I know I’m a menace, but you’ve seen me chop herbs perfectly well.”

“I’m fine.” He kept his back turned, swirling the long stirring stick through the thick violet liquid in the cauldron.

Be cautious around him, my magic warned, using Madam Ben Ammar’s voice.

“What kind of potion is it?” I murmured.

“It’s the cure I’m due to give the Council by Midsummer.” Out of the corner of his eyes, for the briefest moment, he threw me an irritable glare. “Please go back to bed, Miss Lucas.” Before I could reply, he pointed to the shelves with his left hand. “Fetch yourself some sleeping draught if you need it. Take a small dose.”

My hands and my stomach curled tight. “Arse,” I said under my breath.

Safe in my little halo of lamplight, I swept into the corridor and up the stairs, stopping a few steps up to listen. His chanting and humming resumed. A spoon clanked against the metal of the cauldron.

The sounds from below echoed in my head as I returnedto my bedroom. I took one step closer to my bed, but gasped when I caught sight of myself in my mirror. Large, peach-colored begonias bloomed in the tangled curls of my hair. One by one, I tore them out and tossed them to the floor.

Begonias,I thought.A warning of evil to come.

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