Page 29 of Flowerheart

I bent down, slipping off my glove so that the blades of emerald-green grass could caress my fingertips. I breathed in the dew and tipped my head towards the glorious, warm sunlight. The greater part of my apprenticeships had been spent indoors, which had always seemed so strange to me. We magicians were made of the earth, of sunlight and of nature itself. When I could smell the grass, feel the wind on my cheeks, the sun on my skin, hear the birds singing to each other—I feltwhole.

“We used to take family picnics here,” he said, drawing me out of my reverie. I stood up and watched him as I slid my glove back on. His skin was pale gold in the sunshine, but the shadows underneath his eyes had gotten darker. “I remembered how empty it was. No people, not many obstacles. It’s the perfect place to release your emotions.”

He bent down to the basket he’d placed in the grass, pulling back the fabric cover and removing a pink porcelain rabbit. He set the heavy, gaudy decoration in my hands.

“Is... is this a magic rabbit?” I asked, not certain if he was joking.

“There’s nothing special about it at all. I find it horribly ugly, and I’d like for you to break it.”

My forehead pinched. “And this is training?”

“Magic becomes restless when feelings are stifled. So you’ll release those emotions in an uncontrolled way at first, letting your magic run free out here where you can’t harm anyone. Then, we’ll try to make your magic manifest another way—a way you choose. Over time, it’ll obey you faster and faster.”

I pivoted towards the lip of the cliff, many paces away, glaring at the garish, porcelain rabbit in my gloved hands. “So I’m to be... angry?”

“That’s all.”

He stood a few feet from me, his hands behind his back. His hair danced in the wind, but his pale face remained passive, emotionless. Like he had no heart at all.

The slithering fire inside my chest rumbled like thunder. He didn’t understand howevilmy magic was. It wasn’t some petulant child that needed some exercise. It had nearly killed my father with a touch, and here Xavier stood, looking on serenely, watching his little experiment unfold.

“Will you express your magic, too?” I asked.

His gaze flitted to mine. “I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

“Why not?” I pressed. “You said not to suppress your feelings. That it harms your magic.”

He paled and didn’t say anything.

I took a tentative step closer to him. “Last night, I saw panic in your eyes. Fear. Rage. It was that potion, and me—me being so close to it. It angered you.”

Xavier stared at the grass. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But youwereupset.”

He pressed his lips. “Would it help your training if I were to be angry as well?”

Really, I wanted to see what hid beneath this strange, unfeeling mask of his.

“It would help me,” I said.

He removed a yellow-brown teacup from the basket and walked in time with me to the edge of the cliff.

“We could count to three,” I suggested.

He looked like he’d blow away if I bumped into him. His hands shook as he held the cup.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ll count. Focus on what angers you. Let it grow, and then, on three, let it out.”

I shut my eyes.

The way the people in town used to back away from me, like I was a rabid animal. Papa spitting up those flowers—all my fault. The poison of my magic coursing through his body.

“One.”

Xavier’s harsh tone last night. His glare; his hand pushingme from the cauldron. His back, turned to me. His refusal to let me help. His impossible, stubborn secrecy. How he hadn’t spoken to me in five years.

“Two.”

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