Wildflower

Chapter Twelve

“So, what truth will you concoct to explain where your new flowers came from?” Will asks.

We stroll south on the coastal road, the thick forest on our left and patchy fields that stretch toward the ocean on our right, as per Pigeon’s advice. We’ve been walking for some time, and I’m running out of ways to stall. I don’t want this day to end.

“I got them from a village in Alrick,” I say, peering up at the hawthorn blossoms that border the tree line. Their tiny white flowers are almost fully bloomed, like scatterings of snow on thin frosted branches.

“It’s that simple, huh?”

“Why do I need to elaborate?”

“You don’t.”

I wander left to inspect a low branch of blossoms. Maybe I can cut a sprig off. Hawthorns are always very open to magic. They brim with hope and optimism, and I could make some of the flowers into hair accessories for days I need a little of that light.

“Do you have a knife or something to cut this?” I ask, standing on my toes to pull the branch toward me.

“I do not, but that can be easily solved.”

“What do you mean?”

He flourishes his empty hand. Between blinks, a pair of gardening scissors appear. He spins them around a finger, then ostentatiously presents them to me in both hands, my flower basket sliding to his folded elbow.

“For you, Princess.”

I come back to the path to inspect them. The scissors are as real as I am, no magic or illusion.

“How did you do that? You did the same thing with the Saint-John’s-wort potion the other week.”

“It’s one of the first spells we learn at the Library. It’s not that difficult. You’d probably be able to do it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Will says, and steals the scissors back. “You wanna learn?”

“Absolutely.”

I’ve never learned an actual spell before. All my magic comes from intuition and my mother’s guiding hand. The flowers I work with speak to me, and together we create an enchantment. This is different—this is taught spells and incantations. This is sorcery.

“Okay,” Will says, and moves a step closer. He bends his head so it’s mere inches from mine. I swallow and let him arrange my palm face up, his fingers just as gentle as the time he healed my ankle. “So, the spell is ‘encho kaveh.’ ”

“You didn’t say anything when you did it.” My dry mouth betrays me. He’s so close.

“I don’t need to. I’m incredibly talented.”

I glance up at his face and he grins. I almost buckle. Gods, that smirk is growing on me.

“So, um, encho kaveh,” I say.

Will hums, his hand resting under mine. “Kaveh,” he corrects me. “Like kah-vay, don’t add an r sound.”

“Encho kaveh.”

“Good. Now you have to focus, and you can’t just summon anything. You have to know exactly where it is and exactly where you want it to arrive. It’s easier if it’s closer or if the item belongs to you. Oh, and this is only for small items. You can’t summon something like…a bookshelf or a horse.”

“Where did you get the scissors from?”

“My mum’s workshop. She always keeps them on the same hook so it was easy to summon.

Let’s hope she didn’t want to do any gardening this afternoon.

” He chuckles and my stomach tightens. “Okay, try these scissors.” He holds them in his palm right next to mine.

“Focus on where they are, where you want them to be, then say the spell.”

I do my best. I stare at the scissors until my eyes sting, but it’s hard to focus completely when Will’s hand is brushed up against mine and his soft chamomile scent has me enveloped.

“Encho kaveh,” I say.

Nothing happens.

I try twice more and yield the same results.

“Huh” is all Will says.

“It’s like…” I think it through. “I can’t feel the scissors. I can feel flowers. That magic comes naturally.”

Will presses his lips together in thought. “That’s interesting. Okay, new idea. Go chop off your branch and come back,” he suggests, and I nod despite how little I want to step away from him.

I hurry back to the hawthorn tree and cut off the branch with the most blossoms on.

As always, I mentally thank the tree for its gift and pat the trunk.

And what a gift it is, to allow me magic lessons with Willoh Vane.

When I return, Will motions for the branch and plucks off one of the most open blossoms. He spins it between his fingers.

“You wanna try the spell with this?” he asks.

“Okay. Let me just put this away.”

I bat at his elbow so I can tuck the rest of the blossoms in the flower basket. The lid doesn’t shut properly and the branch sticks out but, whatever, it’ll do. I’m too eager to try the spell again to care.

Will magics the gardening scissors away, then holds the blossom in his open palm, and this time, when I roll my shoulders back and focus, when I envision the blossom in my palm, there’s an energy in my spine like the buzz of a bee—something significant, something different, something made of sorcery.

“Encho kaveh,” I say, and with a zap of magic, the flower sits in my hand as if it’s been there all along. Oh my gods. I did it. I…Was it just luck?

“Congrats,” Will says, and starts to put his hand down.

“No, no, I want to do it again,” I say, and grab his palm. He laughs and lets me place the flower back. “Encho kaveh. Oh my gods. Oh my gods! I can do sorcery. I did it! Wait, one more time.”

Again, I summon the hawthorn blossom from Will’s hand to mine and the success of it is sweeter than honey wine. I’m wide-eyed and far too thrilled to contain my triumph.

“Did you see?” I ask, hopping on the spot. “That was incredible!”

With a laugh, I dance in the light breeze, pinching the blossom between my thumb and forefinger.

“Felicity Farrow, master of summoning flowers,” Will says with a grin.

“Shh, no sarcasm, this is amazing.”

“I wasn’t—”

He cuts off the moment I trip backward over a rock in the path.

My heart skips and I brace for pain, but before I hit the floor, there’s a sudden strong wind against my back.

Instead of falling back, I stumble forward and smack right into Will’s chest. His hands catch my elbows and the magic wind that saved me withdraws.

“You really can’t go anywhere, can you?” he says.

His voice is distant compared to the hammering under my ribs. The anticipation of pain to the abrupt safety of his arms has given me whiplash. I breathe hard against the front of his jacket, and he smells so…him. Thank you, clumsiness. Thank you.

“Are you okay?” Will asks, and I pluck up the courage to lift my chin. When I do, those hazel eyes distract me long enough to make him raise his eyebrows. “Fliss?”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m fine. Um.”

His hands don’t leave my elbows. One of us has to move. One of us has to be the one to step back. He doesn’t. And neither do I. My eyes fall down his sun-kissed neck to his collarbone. Under his jacket, he’s wearing a pullover shirt with an open buttonhole at the top.

“For your service, sir,” I say, and thread the stem of the blossom through the buttonhole. Will tenses but doesn’t move away.

When the flower is fixed in place, I don’t know what to do with my hands. His shoulders are right there. I could run my hands over them. I could see where this goes. I could find out if this fluttering in my stomach is worth the risk.

“Thank you,” Will says. It’s softer than he’s ever spoken before, and it knocks the breath out of me. I couldn’t reply if I tried.

His eyes waver between mine like he’s scouring for an answer, waiting for my response.

A wavy lock has fallen over his forehead, and I still haven’t moved my hands.

There’s an idea: Tuck his hair behind his ear.

Do it. Go on. It’s so simple. It’s right there.

You can graze his jaw on the way down. You can wrap your hands behind his neck.

Stop being a coward and do it. Stop remembering the last time you were in a position like this and how that relationship ended.

Will’s thumbs tighten on my elbows and those searching eyes flicker to my mouth.

I’m convinced he’s going to kiss me. The thought turns my heart into a fast-fleeing rabbit.

Will is not Lark. They couldn’t be more different. I want this. I like this.

And—

He lets go of me, his expression creasing in confusion at the tree line. I stay still, stunned, blinking at the emptiness. Oh, I’m livid. He can’t do that. He can’t just reel me in like that and speak so softly and look at me that way and not—

“Fliss, don’t move,” Will says urgently.

“What is it?”

He squints at the forest.

“I don’t know…” he replies. “Give me a second.”

There’s the faintest brush of wind as Will’s eyes focus on a spell. Is it Pigeon? Could something have happened to the guards? Did something go wrong? Did someone get hurt?

I hear a crack of a twig underfoot from within the tree line, then another, followed by a clamor of rustling that grows closer and closer like a wild animal lurching through the trees.

Suddenly, a lean figure topples out of the brush, their dark hair a mess and travel clothes smoking from scorch marks.

The person gasps, collapses to their knees, and passes out face-first into the gravel. It’s a face I know.

“Oh my gods, Prince Merit!” I cry, rushing to his side.

I push Bastion’s brother onto his back and slap his burning red cheeks.

I’ve only met the younger prince a handful of times in the three years since Card and Bash started dating, but this doesn’t feel like a time for formalities. “Merit, wake up!”

“Fliss,” Will warns, “you need to get out of here.”

Prince Merit is out cold. Whatever happened to him, he used every last ounce of strength to escape.

I pat down the arms of Merit’s thick coat, checking for blood, for injuries I can calm.

There don’t seem to be any big cuts, nothing surface level ailing him.

Hopefully he’s just exhausted and in shock.

Until I check his thigh. There’s a slice so deep, his dark trousers can’t soak up the blood oozing out.

I press down on it as hard as I can and the blood leaks through my fingers.

How did this happen? Didn’t Ava say they upped the security for his return?

“Will, help me. Get something to wrap around his leg.”

“Fliss, listen, there are more people coming. You need to run.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Will crouches and grips my shoulders. I keep the pressure on Merit’s wound.

“You need to go. The guards will be here soon and you can’t be caught up in this.”

“I don’t understand. I’m friends with some of the guards. I’ll just say I was walking home and found the prince, which is the truth.”

Will wipes his hair back. “You’re insufferably stubborn.”

“If someone should run, it’s you. The guards might think you did this,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I can handle the guards. You shouldn’t have to deal with their questions.”

I start to understand his logic. If they question me about finding Merit, they’ll question me about what I was doing and who I saw, and like an unstoppable waterfall, there’s a chance I’ll plunge Will, Pigeon, and her friend Tansy into danger, along with anyone we interacted with in Mithian.

I know too much. Though…should I fight to protect someone who would do this to Merit?

The guards are desperate for information on the rebels and if Pigeon was involved in this—

“Please,” Will says, then snaps his head to the trees. He swears under his breath and pulls me to my feet. “I’m sorry about this.”

Before I can reply, he shoves my basket into my bloodstained hands and twists his wrists.

A rush of wind swirls around my skirts and throws me backward.

The trees zip by me in a blur of earthy streaks until I land in the brush, scratches from all around trying to claw at my skin.

The magic wind doesn’t abandon me. It dissipates slowly enough for me to find my feet among the shrubbery.

I check my hands in the little light left—hands I was so happy to have next to Will’s, now covered up to the wrists in Merit’s blood. Oh my gods.

I scramble around for a plant safe enough to scrub my skin with.

I find a dock leaf and frantically wipe my hands.

It won’t all come off. Why isn’t it coming off?

A shout from nearby paralyzes me. There’s no time left.

Heavy footsteps clunk in the direction of Merit and Will.

It’s too late. The guards are here, and Will was right.

Nothing good can come of my inability or refusal to answer questions about this.

But if Will gets blamed…What should I do?

Do I defend him or let it be added to his pile of allegations?

Later. Think about it later.

“Over here!” A familiar voice cries near the tree line. It’s Tarin.

“Search the area!” Howell shouts. “Spread out.”

Okay, time to go.

I bolt away from the voices, toward the southeast and the late-afternoon sun, toward home, where I will be found doing nothing suspicious whatsoever.

The trees in this part of the forest are nestled close together, and I have to fight against branches and squeeze between trunks before they spread out enough for me to run.

With a choking pain in my throat that has nothing to do with my curse and a tight grip on my basket, I press on.

Just like on the mountain, one moment I’m balanced, the next I’m sprawled on the ground, pain rocketing down my legs. Gnarled roots bruise my forearms and my basket tumbles away. I stifle a cry. Get up. Keep going.

A startlingly cold slice of metal appears against my throat.

“Don’t move,” Nettle says, pressing the hunting knife against my skin. I spread my hands on the dirt.

“Nettle—”

“Save your words. Get up and come with me,” she orders.

“Where to?” I ask, moving as slowly as I can manage with her knife hovering so close to my neck.

“Where do you think, Little Miss Perfect? To see the queen.”