Page 38 of Flowerheart

My heart fell. “You mentioned your father in that old letter. I take it your relationship with him is much the same?”

The shadows under his eyes seemed to darken as he looked at me. “This isolation was his idea, you know. He said I needed to be free from distraction while I worked on my assignment for the Council.” Xavier laughed humorlessly. “I wonder what he’d think if he knew that I’ve taken on an apprentice.”

I bristled. “We already know what he’d think.”

Xavier’s pupils shrank. “Curse me, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—it’s not you, Clara. He doesn’t like anybody. He doesn’t likeme.”

If he were someone else, I might have pushed against this. But I knew his father’s temperament. And I knew what it was like to have a parent who did not want you.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish I could have been there for you. For all those years.”

“So do I.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy and sad. Thinking of the time we could have spent together ached, almost as if something had died between us. Like we were mourning some life we never got to live together.

But we were together now.

I smiled at him. “You called me Clara,” I murmured.

Our eyes met. Despite the secrets, the shyness, the outbursts—there was such tenderness in his eyes. They’d always been so kind.

“Is that all right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He nodded. “I suppose that makes us friends.”

I laughed so loudly that he jumped. “We’ve onlynowbecome friends?”

“I just meant that we’re more than just apprentice and teacher. I—I don’t meanmorethan. That is to say, I—” He stopped himself mid-ramble. His cheeks were growing pinker and pinker, and my heart fluttered. “I should get us something to eat. Together. If you want.”

“That sounds nice.” I patted the countertop. “I’ll keep an eye on things while you’re gone.”

“All right.”

“All right.”

Still blushing, Xavier lifted his jacket off the coatrack. He lingered in the entryway of the tent for just a moment. “I don’t regret it, by the way. Being your teacher.” He smiled at me. “Father’s wrong about you. You’re an excellent witch.”

Before I could reply, he darted out of the tent.

Standing behind the shop counter, happiness glowed within me like a warm ember. More and more, the boy I remembered was reappearing. And my magic was listening to me. There was hope for the both of us.

I’d helped multiple customers today, all without incident. The tent was standing tall—nothing broken, nothing burnt down. And tomorrow, I would go home and heal my father. My magic was strong, and I was even stronger.

I looked up to see a man enter the tent.

He quietly perused a shelf of potions, inspecting the label of one and then another.

“Can I help you, sir?” I asked.

The man’s movements were slow as he set aside the phial and approached the counter. His shoulders sagged, and his eyes—they were ringed with shadows, just like Xavier’s. The comparison made my heart twinge.

“I—I’ve heard that there are potions to help with...” He lowered his gaze, his soft, scratchy voice even gentler as he finished. “Melancholy.”

At once I thought of a textbook from one of myapprenticeships,The Art of Modern Healing.In the very back was a small addendum with just a couple of paragraphs, titledIssues of the Heart.There were a few terms I’d memorized in case I was to be tested on such things.

Melancholy,the book had said,marked by fatigue, an uncharacteristic lack of interest in activities, a fogginess of the head, numbness of the spirit, and extended periods of sorrow.

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