Page 60 of Prince of Flowers
“This’ll pass,” she gurgled out of her second mouth. “Go help Evander and Namirah.”
A snarling lioness had pounced on the guardian, knocking it back to the ground. Namirah darted away as a volley of orange butterflies collided with the creature, its body almost nine, ten feet tall. Fiery explosions rocked the length of its trunk, but the bursts of flame cleared — and still nothing. Every leaf and branch still in place, none of them ignited, completely unharmed by the bombs. Even Evander looked shocked.
“We’re fucked,” I muttered. I could sense it in my body. I had just enough essence left to wreathe the grimoire in magic. But would that be enough to bludgeon the guardian into submission?
No. I had to swallow my pride and my sadness. I shut my eyes, stretched out my hand, and tugged on the invisible string that bonded my soul to Sylvain. I clenched my teeth, wishing, willing, pulling through the ether. I choked back my uncertainty, my fear that it wouldn’t work, this culmination of all my learning, this link to someone I liked. No. Adored.
Yes. That was it. I adored him.
Leaves rustled, a warm wind swirling through the courtyard. I opened my eyes. There he stood before me, facing the guardian, strong of spine and shoulder.
And he was wearing his gray hoodie, too.
Sylvain grunted. “Huh. Truly? We’re fighting this thing again?”
I swallowed, then spoke. “You came. You actually came.”
He frowned at me over his shoulder. “I promised, didn’t I? Don’t be silly. Come. We’ve got a thing to kill, and I’ve been dying to try this.”
No further instructions necessary. I placed my hand on his shoulder, gripping tight, pouring every last drop of arcane essence left in my body into his. Sylvain mirrored my gesture, the second link in our chain of two, his arm outstretched, fingers curled.
The wind picked up again, but the few leaves remaining on the trees in the courtyard didn’t budge. The guardian screamed. Sylvain was plucking away all the matter it had stolen, twig and leaf and root, returning everything, restoring the trees of the Wispwood.
The guardian of the oriel had been too big, too powerful, but Sylvain’s magic was actually working on this version. The corrupted guardian shrank smaller and smaller, a terrible screeching emanating from the knothole in its face that served as its mouth. And there went the mouth, too, the section of bark torn away, floating back to one of the oldest oaks in the courtyard.
Reduced to twisted bits of dead leaf and rot, the guardian shriveled into nothing, leaving only the Blood of the Earth on a pile of blackened dust. I blinked in disbelief. We did it. It was over. The students cheered.
“Wait,” I said, scanning the courtyard. “The trees here are all fine. No Withering. No decay.”
“It’s the Wispwell,” Sylvain said. “I’m telling you, there’s some magic in it.”
“And did it work?” I asked, too excited and hopeful, but genuinely curious about his answer. “The water you brought to the Verdance. Did it work?”
Sylvain did that weird thing that looked like a cross between a nod and a shake of the head. “That remains to be seen. I only brought back a few phials, after all, but the court alchemists are conducting tests as we speak.”
“Well,” I said, reaching a hand out for him to shake. “Thank you for coming. I appreciate your — ”
Sylvain pulled me close, crushing me in his embrace. Students catcalled and whistled from around the courtyard. Bruna and Namirah would have joined in, too, but one was too busy slobbering at the mouth while she rode out the effects of the six or seven potions she chugged, and the other was busy trying to slap her out of it.
I buried my face in Sylvain’s shoulder, smiled against his hoodie. I inhaled, and slightly regretted it.
“Man,” I mumbled. “This hoodie needs a good wash.”
Sylvain patted me on the back. “I agree. Let’s find me some spares.”
I pulled away, hopeful as ever, searching his face for the truth. “Does that mean you’re staying?”
He grinned, nodded, pressed his fingers against the base of my hip. I could have kissed him right there, but we’d made enough of a spectacle for the students already. Besides, Evander Skink was in position, his phone whipped out, ready to record the moment. For his spank bank, or for blackmail? Either way, nope.
With their work completed, the doves, the old wolf, and the crazy cat began pecking and pawing through what was left of my backpack, searching for their favorite snacks. They deserved all that and more. A few of the students cooed as they approached my faithful, my very first eidolons, wanting to feed and pet them. Old Man was good at taking pets, despite being from the wild. Scruffles was the deadlier option.
But knowing we were surrounded by dozens of people, I could sense an especially intense set of gazes boring into me. I looked up, then tried not to flinch at the sight of the three headmasters standing on the second floor landing, hands on the railing, eyes on my face. Had the headmasters been watching this entire time, refraining from helping? Did they intentionally leave the killing of the guardian to us students as some sort of test?
Cornelius Butterworth gave me the subtlest nod of his head, his mustache twitching as his mouth bent into a smile. Headmaster Belladonna Praxis frowned. And Headmaster Shivers — gods, who even knew? They looked on in silence, our three very different academic figureheads with their three unique temperaments. Sweet, sour, and — well, whatever Headmaster Shivers was. Minty?
Heels clicked from the far end of the courtyard. Expensive ones, if I had to guess, based on who was wearing them. Dr. Euclidea Fang strutted in like she was going down a catwalk. She definitely looked the part, wearing a casual suit jacket and cuffed pant combo, a chic handbag dangling from her elbow. She stopped by the Wispwell, put her hands on her hips, and groaned.
“I take one Saturday off — just the one — and everything goes to hell. All right. Who’s responsible for this? Trick question, I already know. Lochlann Wilde. Explain yourself.”
