Page 64 of Flowerheart

I clung to him, my eyes shut tight, waiting for the first of many more coughs—but he breathed easily. How strange it was to be so tearful and grateful for a simple breath! A steady heartbeat! I threw my arms around his middle and fell into amess of delighted, relieved tears.

At last, I’d conquered my magic. It had listened to me. The control and understanding that Xavier had taught me, it meant something; it meant I wasn’t a failure. It meant I could keep my father.

For the first time in my life, I thought,Thank you, magic.

My magic didn’t reply.

16

As Madam Ben Ammar effortlessly coaxed the windows into repairing themselves, Papa decided he would make us all lunch. He dragged Robin and me into the kitchen and forced us into the little wooden chairs. The blessing had only been performed a minute before, but here he was, racing about the kitchen, gathering spices and pots and pans, grinning from ear to ear.

Madam Ben Ammar entered the room, her eyes widening at the sight of my exuberant father. “Mr. Lucas! Are you certain you should stress yourself like this, in light of having been on bed rest for so long?”

The metal skillet resounded like a gong as he slammed it against the wooden countertop, his brow wrinkled, and his mouth pursed in an exaggerated fashion. “First of all, after all we’ve been through, please, call me Albert. As for my health? I could run ten miles. I could climb a mountain.” He strodeup to me, pulled on my hand, and flicked his wrist, twirling me in a sudden pirouette. “I could dance for nights on end!”

I gripped the countertop for balance, the whole world at a tilt. Papa, undeterred, waltzed back to the cutting board, finely chopping a bright orange carrot.

Robin procured a leather-bound notebook and a pen and quickly began to scribble. Madam Ben Ammar kept her gaze unwaveringly upon me—like I’d forgotten something. Like something was amiss.

“Does your father usually have bursts of energy like this?” Robin asked, their head bowed over their notes.

The steady thumping of the knife against the wooden board ceased. Papa attempted to glower at Robin, but his lips turned up at the corners. “It’s not polite to speak about me as if I’m not right here!”

Robin let out a little nervous laugh. “Forgive me, er, Albert.”

I folded my arms, watching over him, like a cloud hovering overhead. “This is perfectly normal,” I said. My voice trembled. This was the Papa I’d loved all my life. The Papa I’d been terrified to lose. The voice in my head had reminded me daily of his imminent death...

But that voice said nothing now. After all that the spell had put us through, I must have truly exhausted my magic this time.

“Clara, dear, could you light the stove?”

I glanced up from my muddy boots, the kitchen briefly dancing in my vision as I came down from the cloud my head had been in.

Papa grinned at me. “Who were you thinking about?”

Robin failed at stifling a giggle. Madam Ben Ammar’s solemn look didn’t fade. Her brows drew together. My cheeks flared with sudden heat.

I sighed and shook my head. “No one, Papa.” I marched past him and crouched before the large boxy stove. It had always been easy for me to unintentionally conjure fire, in the past. Something Papa found astonishing rather than dangerous.

Drawing back the little cast-iron door, I reached in a finger, waiting for a flame to come on its own accord.

It didn’t obey.

Frowning, I thought back to what Xavier had once taught me. The goal was not to subdue one’s anger or shame, but rather to embrace it. Control was not the objective; freedom was.

It was not difficult to find an angry memory to latch onto.

The blush on Xavier’s cheeks. The lies pouring from his lips. And the truth, the ugly truth. Admitting he loved me. Admitting heneededmy magic for himself. The possibility that he had been using me.

A chill ran through me fast as a rushing wind. Drawing my bare hand back from the unlit stove, the feeling turnedsharp. Apart from freckles, my hand bore no marks. The black band, the seal of Xavier’s vow—it had vanished.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

What had the conditions of the vow been?

If I healed Papa—and Ihadhealed Papa...

I whirled around, jerking open a drawer and pulling out a matchbox. My fingers shook as I struck the first match, failed, and then finally set a lit match into the stove. When I stood, I watched Papa closely—had he noticed? My magic was so boisterous. Could he tell I’d changed? I could imagine him falling to his knees, weeping over the foolish daughter who’d sacrificed her gift for his sake.

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