“Right. Of course you did. How did you manage that?” he asks, moving to the end of the bed.
“Um, I was picking Odyssa flowers on a precipice and…then I wasn’t.”
“Odyssa? You’re really into these unusual flowers, huh?”
“It’s my job,” I say.
So hedoesknow where to find the flower. Card was wrong. Ithadn’tbeen a crazy idea.
Willoh rubs his palms together and whispers a spell. His hands spark with light, and it tightens a knot in my chest.
“What does that spell do?”
“It helps me see your injuries. They kind of…glow,” he explains, then hovers his hands above my right ankle. “May I?”
I hesitate.
“Sure.”
Willoh’s eyes flicker closed as he rests his fingers on Pigeon’s bandages around my swollen ankle. He hums slightly as he prods and presses the area, gentler than I expect, then checks my other ankle too. I wish I could know what’s running through his mind. My knowledge of healing magic is limited to tea blends and certain types of herbs, so it’s fascinating to watch him furrow his brow slightly and know exactly which areas to examine.
“Is healing magic difficult?”
He glances at me, and there’s a small smile at the corner of his mouth. “For some. I can’t just snap my fingers and cure you instantly. Like any magic, it requires concentration and knowledge. You have to gather information before choosing which spell to use—I’m not a mind reader.”
“Is there a spell for that? Mind reading?”
“Thinking of using dark magic, Farrow?”
“No.”
With a soft chuckle, he flattens his hands around my injured ankle and a flood of warmth soaks into my muscles. The pinch of pain eases like getting into a hot bath, and I let out a breath.
“Healing magic isn’t actually my specialty,” Willoh says, double-checking the muscles around my foot with his fingertips. “This is my mum’s workshop. She says my magic is a blunt instrument and healing needs a softer touch, a steadier hand.” I’m about to reply that his hands seem soft enough to me, but I catch myself before my mouth opens. I’m glad that his attention is on my ankle, because a flush surges to my cheeks.
“A sprained ankle is easy enough though,” he continues, oblivious, “and Pigeon did a good job wrapping it up. Just don’t come running to me if you need surgery. Can you rotate it?”
I do as he asks and find that my ankle feels completely healed, if not better than before.
“It’s great. Thank you,” I say. He takes a step around the side of the table to lightly tap my right kneecap, just above the hem of my skirt.
“Do you kneel down a lot?” he asks. “There’s some tension here too.”
“Um, I spend a lot of time picking flowers, so…”
“Do you mind?”
I wave my hand for him to go ahead, if only because I’m curious. And not at all because watching him work is enthralling. A sentence I probably couldn’t say out loud.
“So, you and these flowers…” he begins.
“What about it?” I ask, very aware of the defensiveness in my tone.
“You’re really willing to faint and fall down cliffs for your customers? Do they pay extra for that?”
I scowl, but it doesn’t last long as that magic warmth diffuses into my skin again.
“I have my reasons,” I say, then find I can’t keep my mouth closed. “I like being helpful in a way that doesn’t use my—well—I know I go to extremes to deliver, but my bouquets can help my customersconnect, or heal, or move on. I want them to trust I can do a good job. I want them to trustme.”
