Page 68 of Flowerheart

It fulfills you.I winced. I had been filled with such hope seeing my potions succeed and knowing that they could change a person’s life for the better. Without magic, what would Ido? Be a gardener? A seamstress? I couldn’t fathom having as much passion for darning socks as I did for healing.

Papa shifted on the bed, lifting me into a sitting position. My cheek throbbed from where I’d been pressed up against him, and my hair stuck to the tear tracks on my face.

He fingers wove between mine. “See? And you’ve grown so much already. I can hold your hands and it doesn’t hurt at all. You’ve won. You deserve to share your magic with those who need it.”

I managed a small, false smile for him.

“For now,” said Papa, “if you’re going to be at home, you’re going to at least come to town with me for the festival.” He stood and put his hands on his hips like this was a lecture. I’d never received one from him, but I imagined that’s what they’d look like.

My heart skipped. A festival. One I’d loved as a child, with sweet food and air filled with music and the perfume of flowers. I held a hand to my chest. “The first day of the Midsummer festival?”

He frowned. “Yes... Midsummer’s tomorrow, love. Do you have a rendezvous I should know about?”

Xavier had one day left to save his magic. My magic. Our magic. One day to right his wrongs.

“No, no.” I pulled my hair from my face, surveying Papa up and down.

How lovely it was to see color in his cheeks, and even tosee him standing again. His ginger hair was combed back nicely. He’d finally been able to shave away the stubble from his chin, and the pale blue of his cotton shirt made his eyes look like pieces of turquoise.

“Is this for the festival?” I asked, waving my hand at his ensemble.

“Yes. Everyone’s dressed up.” He tweaked my nose. “As should you be. It’s nearly noon.”

Midsummer. Xavier. Euphoria. The words cycled through my head over and over, annoying and repetitive as a bird singing the same song for hours. I shut my eyes and sighed. It was time. Time to forget all of this magic and wickedness and pain.

The only dresses I had left at home were ones I wasn’t fond of. I donned the bodice and skirt which offended me the least. They were primrose pink, but the sleeves and the skirt were too short, displaying my freckled arms and my bright yellow stockings. I felt a right fool, no matter how many times Papa insisted how pretty I looked.

Outside, the air was thick and hot. Sweat gathered under my arms and under the collar of my blouse. Around our little yellow house, the garden I’d thought was beautiful yesterday was now full of dry, dying flowers. Papa had not been well enough to care for them for many days.

But he didn’t let me tarry; he pulled me by the hand downthe dusty road and towards the town.

As we approached the Williamston town square, I was flooded with memories. People carried and shared large sweet bouquets of flowers; flowers that Papa and I had delivered when I was very little. The Midsummer festival was once how we’d earned a great deal of money.

But they’d managed to find flowers without Papa this year. They’d probably bought from another gardener. We’d lost a lot of customers, a lot of security, because of the magic that had left him bedridden.

Around the little fountain in the middle of the square, strangers and townspeople had set up small tents and were selling their wares.

The square was wild, teeming with people chattering and talking to one another. The milkman played his fiddle from the steps of the schoolhouse. The town cobbler and her wife stood near a stand that sold bright pink drinks. They entwined their arms and tipped the round glasses of wine into each other’s mouths.

My stomach fluttered. There’d been another part of this festival I’d once adored as a girl. It was a festival to celebrate romantic love. Listening to the splashing of the fountain, I remembered sitting on its edge and watching as young people kissed one another unabashedly, out in the open, even without chaperones.

Xavier and I, we’d played a game once. We’d pretendedit was the Midsummer festival, and he had given me a violet, and I had given him a clover, and I’d kissed him on the cheek. Being seven years old at the time, he’d gagged and wiped his face like I’d covered it in mud.

Papa grabbed my hand, an anchor keeping me from drifting away too far. I kept my eyes on him and concentrated on the roughness of his calluses against my palm.

He took us to the stand the baker had set up, displaying the white-and-red cherry tarts we adored. The baker—Mrs. Burwell, a muscular woman with dark brown skin and beautiful black eyes—gaped at us.

“Albert!” she exclaimed. “Why, I thought I’d never see you again!”

Papa grinned and patted my hand. “Our little witch cast the blessing that healed me.”

She blinked furiously. “You—you did?”

I nodded slowly, pressing myself closer to Papa.

“Well, thank goodness,” said Mrs. Burwell with a soft, nervous laugh.

“She’s doing great work with Master Morwyn,” said Papa. “Blessings are extremely difficult to perform. Only advanced magicians can do them.” He grinned down at me. The sun was hidden behind a mass of clouds at the moment, but my face burned even so. “I bet it won’t be long now until Clara is officially made a witch!”

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