Page 58 of Flowerheart

An attempt at an anti-nausea pill.

Experiment—tonic to keep someone awake.

A potion to relieve anxiety and melancholy.

My pulse faltered.

A potion to tamper with the heart. A potion for melancholy. I thought of the man in the market, how he’d beggedXavier for relief, forEuphoria...

I read on, my heart galloping in my ribs.

I have made contact with five willing participants for an initial trial.

Filled cauldron with water from a sunlit spring.

Added:

Tipton weed—twelve blossoms, removed from stems, chopped finely. Reduces anxiety.

Twenty-four sunflower seeds. Induces hopefulness.

A small jar of finely chopped orange peel, dried, and melted dark chocolate, about enough to fill a teapot. For cheerfulness.

For abundance, three small cuttings of wisteria.

The bloom of an orange lily for fervor.

Seeds from a yellow poppy—for success.

At the same time: three petals of yellow tulips, delphinium, anthurium, lavender, and meadowsweet for happiness.

Brewed stirring counterclockwise.

I’ll let this set for two hours and bottle. Will report back with initial results.

The date in the top-right corner—three months ago.

Three months ago, when his family had left.

Three months ago, when he’d suddenly been given an impossible assignment from the Council.

Three months ago, when his magic was cut in half. Almostlike... almost like apunishment.

The words blurred and swam on the page before me through a film of tears. I slammed the book shut, buried it back in the drawer, and slid the drawer back into its spot.

I couldn’t breathe. Black spots fizzled in the edges of my vision.

It was impossible. He couldn’t have made Euphoria. He was too kind, too good.

But he was so secretive and so very ashamed. He hadweptafter seeing Emily. If hehadmade it, he was remorseful, surely.

Unless he was lying. As he’d already done. About everything. He’d kept this, kept everything from me. He had said he was afraid I’d see him differently if I knew the truth.

Slowly, I pulled myself to my feet. I would give him one last chance. I would ask him for his story, in his own words.

Magic burned in my heart and pulsed in my muscles. All of this anger and confusion and sorrow was fueling it.

In a few days, this magic would be his.

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