Page 63 of Flowerheart

I squeezed my eyes shut tight.

Papa had taught me that people were complicated. I wished there was only one side to Xavier; a flat, paper doll, a drawing of my childhood friend, and nothing more. But that wasn’t the truth. He was a prism, cracked and brilliant all at once. He’d hurt so many people. He’d even hurt me.

But hadn’t I done the same? Hadn’t I hurt the ones I loved, even when all I meant was to help them?

And despite all we’d been through... Xavier had helped me. He’d taught me to temper my magic in ways no one else had.

All the rage in me swirled like a storm inside my chest. Outside, on my magic’s cue, thunder crashed like the sky was falling down. The whole house trembled.

Breathe.

Throwing porcelain off a cliffside; screaming until our voices went hoarse. We did not tamp down our anger, but saw it for what it was, and released it. Used it.

My hands hovered over Papa’s chest. My stomach burned and my throat was tied in a knot. I was a leaf quivering in the storm raging outside; tossed about by sadness and regret and anger and fear.

But like that day on the cliff, I let those feelings stay. They could push me about in the storm, but I would not be carried away in the wind.

I thought back to our lessons together and wondered how I could miss Xavier so much and loathe him all at the same time.

The first step of a blessing required intention—Papawouldbe healed. Then, I thought of my love for him—curse me twice, I loved him to bursting.

Papa wiping tears from my eyes. Tying my shoelaces. Consoling me when Xavier had stopped writing. Sending pressed flowers to me at each new apprenticeship. Letting me stay at the Morwyns’ to play, even when he had grown tired. Singing me just one more lullaby.

It had only been Papa all these years, but I hadn’t needed anyone else. He’d provided for me and protected me and raised me better than my mother ever could have. We’d thrived without her. He’d raised me to prosper.

I placed my hands against his chest. He gasped like I’d dumped cold water on him, and I clenched my teeth to keep from pulling back, from giving up or weeping.

“Papa,” I said, “may every beat of your heart be filled withpeace, confidence, and freedom.” My arms shook. Sweat beaded on my skin. I waited for the familiar burn of magic to flow through me. Instead, it rested weak as an ember in my ribs.

“May every beat of your heart be filled with peace, confidence, and freedom.”

My vision blurred. The world was nothing but dots of pink azaleas. My father coughed, loud and painful.

“Clara.” Madam Ben Ammar’s voice was soft as a breeze and miles away.

I pushed my fingers hard against his ribs. “Magic,” I growled at it, tensing my chest, tightening my shoulders, “heal him!”

This beast inside of me, powerful and terrifying as it was, wasmineto control. I had grown a field of flowers. I had succeeded in making potions and portals. This curse of mine had taken too much from me already. It would not rule my life. It would not kill my father. And I wasnotmy magic.

My cheeks burned. I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut, red spots blooming behind my eyelids. Hatred thrummed through me, scalding like molten metal. Magic squirmed in my hands, fizzling and sparkling; a living fire. But I was stronger than it. I’d survived it for years; survived all the pain and mischief it had caused me.

This was where it ended.

“You will heal him!” I screamed.

There was a shriek, followed by a loudcrash. I fell to the floor, covering my head. Madam Ben Ammar wrapped her arms around me to shield me.

When I lifted my head, peeking out from over her shoulder, I found the dark wood of the floorboards littered with fine bits of glass and azalea petals. The windows, hollow except for a few jagged shards remaining, allowed in strong, whistling gusts of wind. My wretched magic, causing chaos wherever it went.

Glancing up from Madam Ben Ammar, I looked to Papa, terrified that he’d been hurt by the debris.

But he was sitting upright, his blue eyes clear and alert. His cheeks had a healthy, rosy glow. His hand pressed against his breastbone, where no flowers bloomed.

Papa turned to me, pushing himself off the bed. Robin cried out, “Sir!”

But Papa didn’t listen; didn’t even wince as he reached down and grabbed me off the floor, squeezing me in a tight embrace. My ear against his chest, I could hear the loud, healthy, enthusiastic thrum of his heartbeat.

“Clara,” he whispered in my ear, his voice hoarse and yet bursting with light, “my brilliant girl!”

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