Page 67 of Flowerheart

His freckled brow was crumpled with pity.

I’d cried all night. My eyes were probably as puffy and unsightly as I’d imagined them to be.

“What’s wrong, blossom?”

I lifted my head and dropped it in his lap. He petted my hair as I stared at the wall.

“Madam Ben Ammar told me how complicated blessings were,” he said, his voice low, tempting me to fall asleep again. “She said it was perfectly normal for you to feel under the weather after casting one.”

I nudged my head up and down in a slight nod. That certainly explained the aches and the fatigue. But I didn’t suppose exhaustion from casting a blessing would lead me to sob as I had.

“I’m not as smart as she is,” said Papa, “but I have a feeling that there’s something more that’s troubling you.”

How did hedothat?!

I pulled the quilt up, draping it over me, past my nose. “It’s nothing.”

“Clara Lucas, you have a great many talents, but lying is not one of them.”

“I’m not lying!” My words bit sharply, and I instantly hated the venom with which I’d spoken them. I feared Papa would leave me, or that my magic would strike him again with some affliction due to my carelessness.

No. That was no longer a danger.

I wrapped an arm around his middle. A tear rolled down my nose onto the dark gray fabric of his trousers.

His thumb brushed back and forth against my cheek, where the tear had been. “Why haven’t you gone home?”

My voice came out hoarse. “Iamhome.”

“No. Why haven’t you gone back to Xavier?”

I clenched my fists against the soft fabric of the quilt, smelling of dust and lavender.

“You said you had an argument?”

“Yes,” I murmured, and decided that was all I would say on the matter.

I couldn’t tell him the sort of quarrel we’d had. What I’d learned. What I’d done—what I’d given away. I’d made the right choice, but Papa would never forgive me if he found out.

Papa sighed. “You can’t avoid him forever.”

I didn’t want to. I desperately wanted to see him, to know how he wielded my power; if he’d found a cure; if he’d savedEmily. If he’d meant it when he had said he loved me.

Once more, I pulled the quilt over myself like a hood.

“Clara.” His voice took on an uncharacteristic edge.

“Just let me sleep,” I grumbled.

“Don’t be unreasonable.”

I tugged down the blanket, all of the rage inside of me tinged with the pain of the tears stinging my eyes. “Is it unreasonable for a daughter to wish to stay at home with her father when just yesterday she thought she’d lose him forever?”

His scowl faded away. He squeezed my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.

He was always the first to apologize, even when he’d done nothing wrong. I wanted to disappear or to stay here in bed forever, wrapped tight like a moth in a cocoon.

“You know I hate to hold you back, Clara,” said Papa. “But I’m well now. I can take care of myself.” With my head beside his stomach, I could feel the push and pull of his breath as he sighed. “I’ll let you stay here one more day. But then you must go back to the Morwyns’. You have potions to make. People to help.” He had no idea how his words, meant to comfort, only plunged an invisible knife further into my gut. “That work fulfills you. It would be a shame for you to give that up over a quarrel with your friend.”

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