I stood a pace away, folding my hands tight to keep them from trembling.
Kneeling, Xavier unlatched and drew back the lid of his case. He looked to Papa and touched a gentle hand to his cheek. “Mr. Lucas?”
Papa’s eyes opened. His forehead wrinkled with confusion. “Did . . . did I forget your delivery?”
“No, sir. Your daughter called on me.”
Papa grinned, his head lolling against the arm of the sofa. “She’s a gem, she is. You should be her teacher.”
Xavier averted his gaze. “A little delirious, I see.” His fingers hovered over the flowers blooming from Papa’s chest. He tenderly tugged at one of the dark green stems, but stopped at the sound of Papa’s sharp, frightened gasp. I flinched, and Xavier leaned back, his lips pursed. “It’s possible they’re latched in deep.” He glanced back to me, a notch in his brow. “If we’re lucky, there aren’t any more growing internally.”
My blood chilled. “He—he coughed up some petals. Do you think these flowers are connected to the ones inside him?”
The very idea made bile rise in my throat. My magic, infesting his heart as well as his lungs with flowers like parasites . . .
“Perhaps.” He withdrew a stethoscope from his potion case and then lightly tapped Papa’s shoulder. “If you would, sir, I’d like to listen to your heart.”
Your fault, your fault, your fault, chimed my magic. I forced my palm against my chest like it could smother the sound.
Xavier pressed the metal of the stethoscope over Papa’s heart and ribs.
“Your heartbeat is irregular. And I do hear something in your airway.” Xavier reached inside his case, where each bottle and jar had been tucked away perfectly like little soldiers in formation. He selected a long phial filled with a thick, dark green liquid. “Miss Lucas, I’ll need a large bowl or a bin.”
“Why?”
He jostled the little potion bottle. “I want to see if an expectorant will help in expelling the flowers.”
I sped out of the room and into the kitchen, swiping a mixing bowl from the shelf over the washbasin.
When I returned, I found Papa clutching his chest, moaning in pain. My throat pinched shut and I squeezed his hand through the thick fabric of my gloves.
Is this truly my fault? Had my magic acted on its own, and I was just too weak to stop it? Or was there something within me, something unknowable and awful, that would drive my magic to hurt him?
With the mixing bowl in his grasp, Xavier turned back to my father. “This will be a rather unpleasant experience, sir.”
Papa released my hand and rested the bowl against his lap. His head was bowed, like he was ashamed of himself. “You don’t have to see this, Clara.”
I pulled a chair close to his sofa and kept my hand braced against his arm. “I’ve been an apprentice several times over. I’ve seen my share of foul things.”
He sighed and then nodded to Xavier, who passed Papa the little green bottle.
Within moments of drinking, Papa was coughing into the bowl, expelling bright pink petals as well as leaves, whole stems, and long, spidery roots, wet with saliva. As his body lurched, trying with all its might to cast out the magic, I clung tight to his arm, biting hard on my lip to hold in tears.
Eventually, my father collapsed against the arm of the sofa, chest convulsing. His cheeks were waxy, and his pale ginger hair was slick with sweat. Though he was exhausted, his breathing was clearer and no longer so labored.
After a quick inspection with his stethoscope, Xavier confirmed that the flowers had been cleared. But his face was still troubled.
“What happened there on your cheek, Mr. Lucas?” he asked, pointing.
Papa touched the raw spot where my hand had been. He looked to me before mumbling, “I’m not sure, myself.”
My stomach tied itself in knots. Of course he’d try to defend me, even when I had hurt him.
The lamp on the table beside us started to rattle as I grew unsettled again. “It was me,” I said. I stared at my tan gardening gloves. “I just touched his cheek, and it burned him, somehow.”
Xavier procured a small silver pot from his case and applied a buttery mixture to the burn. “That could scar,” he noted softly. “Magical wounds are hardly predictable.” He wiped his pale hands on a handkerchief and then lightly felt Papa’s pulse. Xavier’s frown made my own heart leap.
“What is it?”
His brown eyes flitted to me. “Miss Lucas . . . did you say anything hostile towards your father before he fell ill? Did you have an argument?”
I bristled. This was how people spoke about curses. Dark, cruel spells. A young woman who had begun rapidly aging. A boy with thorns growing from his fingertips. They said my mother had done that sort of magic. But I never would.
“No,” I said.
“You weren’t cross with him at all? You didn’t . . .” He cleared his throat and glanced at his socked feet. “What did you say in your curse?”
I clenched my fists, anger burning in my middle. “I did not curse him!”
There was a piercing, ringing ping, and the lamp on the table exploded, littering the floor with shards of glass.
I leapt from my chair, away from the sofa. Papa turned to look back at me, his face white.
Even after causing him such pain, my magic still wasn’t satisfied. It craved destruction.
“I’m sorry,” I said from behind my hands.
Meanwhile, Xavier took a calming breath, stood to his full, alarmingly tall height and extended a hand towards the mess of the broken lamp on the floor. He swirled his finger in a circle, as if trying to make the rim of a goblet sing. The shards wobbled against the floorboards and zoomed upwards, fusing themselves perfectly around the flame they’d been encasing moments ago.
When Xavier turned back to us, his cheeks were bright red, the rings around his eyes were darker, and sweat glimmered on his temples. I’d seen such simple repair spells before, but I had never seen them make a wizard so weary.
“Mr. Lucas,” he said, smoothing the front of his vest, “may I speak with your daughter in private?”
Papa tipped his head to me. “It’s her you should be asking.”
“I’ll talk with him,” I said. “Stay here and rest. Can you do that? Can you keep still for a few minutes?” I flitted to his side to fiddle with the thin blanket thrown over him.
Papa let out a wry laugh before nestling himself among the worn cushions and shutting his eyes. “Yes, yes. Go on, don’t fret over me.”
An impossible request.
Still, I strode to the kitchen door and held it open for Xavier. He swept up his potion case before following me dutifully into the next room. I shut the door behind us, but stayed pressed up against it, my eyes on him. It ached, how the years had flown by, and we were suddenly two different people.
We had been apart for so long, and now he’d visited my home twice in one day. It was like a cruel joke.
Xavier set his case atop the table and leaned against the kitchen counter. He chewed on his lip. The old clock on the wall ticked noisily, like it was impatiently tapping its foot at us.
He opened his mouth to speak, but at that same moment I blurted out, “Do you think he’s going to be all right?”
Xavier grimaced. “I—I don’t know. Curses are extremely difficult to—”