Page 69 of Flowerheart

I gritted my teeth in an ugly smile and widened my eyes,pinching my hand tight against Papa’s arm.

“Let’s not keep Mrs. Burwell,” I whispered, pulling on his sleeve.

Papa handed the baker some coins, and she passed us two cherry tarts wrapped in squares of paper. Papa said goodbye for the both of us and shepherded us away from the little stand.

He did everything he could to get me to smile. He let me thumb through a table of old books; he offered to buy me one, but I saw an old, worn copy ofWaverly’sand lost my appetite for reading. He bought me a crown of daisies for my hair, and though I thanked him for it, I couldn’t help but think of how daisies meantI have a secret.

The fiddle and a guitar and a flute and a singer all started up a song, and the swirling chaos of the town square changed into four rows of people.

“Let’s dance,” Papa urged. I dragged my feet.

The closer I got to the others, the more people began to stare at me. There’d be no more wild magic; no more sudden storms or broken glass; no more flowers bursting from my footsteps. But they didn’t know that.

Papa stood at the end of one of the rows of dancers and placed me in the row across from him. A pretty girl in a pale green dress took a step away from me, glaring out of the corner of her eye.

I didn’t have long to wallow over this fact.

The song picked up, and the people around me leaptforwards, taking their partner’s hands. Papa swung me in a circle like the others did, and then released me. I followed the line of dancers in front of me, weaving through Papa’s line, grabbing hands and skipping and laughing. Faces blurred together. Eyes widened. Sweaty hands grabbed my own. I reached for someone, but they didn’t grab back, and I lost track of the rhythm. I took two wrong steps and twisted in place, falling into the dirt.

A young man who’d married one of my childhood classmates threw me a quick look over his shoulder but continued the dance.

I swallowed my shame and pulled myself to my feet, dusting off my knees.This is normal, I told myself.With time, they’ll know that you’re no longer a witch. That you’re no longer wicked. One day you’ll feel like one of them.

I took a step closer to the crowd, determined to try again, but in the sunshine, I caught sight of what looked like little flecks of yellow paint drifting through the air. My pulse began to race as I recognized them as dandelion petals.

Midsummer. Xavier. Euphoria.

A peal of high-pitched, discordant laughter soared over the townspeople. But the crowd was filled with joyful sounds—though the laugh was sharp and strange, it was not out of place here.

The scream that followed, however,definitelydid not belong.

18

Iwhipped around towards the sound of shrieking. People backed away from the center of the circle of dancers, from whatever was so horrifying.

From a young man, dancing, though the music had stopped playing.

When he turned his face in my direction, his eyes were unseeing—and yellow dandelions were growing amid the freckles on his face.

A young woman ran up to him, grasping his arms. “Daniel,” she asked, “Daniel, darling, what’s happening to you?”

I knew that name. He had been in primary school with me; he was just a little older than I was. Daniel drifted away from her, staring blankly at the bright sky above and humming along to a song we could not hear.

The girl grabbed him again, tears rolling down her cheeks. I recognized her now—Annie Booker—she’d also been oneof my schoolmates. “Daniel, please,lookat me!”

My heart ached. It was just like watching Emily with her father. As Xavier had said, it was as if they were trapped in a dream—as if all that made themthemwas gone. Replaced by the unending bliss of this potion.

Papa jogged to my side, red-faced. “What’s going on?” he asked me.

“It’s Daniel Watters,” I murmured. “He’s under the thrall of a potion. Euphoria.”

My father’s brow wrinkled. “A potion...?”

“He... his mind is trapped in a dream,” I explained. “A beautiful dream.” My heart was fracturing; I could see Xavier, vines wrapping around his arms, tears falling down his face, and his final confession to me. The ugly truth—that he was the root of all of this.

Papa nodded, as though he understood perfectly, and approached Annie as she followed after Daniel. “Don’t worry,” my father said. He gestured to me. “Clara can heal him.”

Heat sapped away from my face and gathered in my middle. I wished more than anything for the flame of magic to return inside me; for its voice to hurl curses at me. Instead, I stood frozen, gaping at the crowd, at the couple, at Papa.

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