Page 98 of Grim Tidings

The flowers in my hand begin to wilt.

“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”

The petals of my lilies turn black, crumbling to dust until I’m holding a bunch of bare stems. I watch in horror as my shadows lick across the table, shriveling the rest of the flowers to dry, useless buds. My magic doesn’t spare a single thing, flaring out and killing every flower Frank has. Not just the items on the table, but the finished arrangements sitting prettily on the counter. The ones in the buckets on the back wall. His precious peonies he keeps off to the side, never for any customer to purchase or touch.

“Stop,” I beg, tears filling my eyes. I clench my hands into fists and try to call it back. “Please. Stop it.”

But my magic spares nothing. When all the flowers in the shop are hollowed husks, my shadows flare hot, vibrating in victory. Then they extinguish without so much as a whisper, leaving a hollow void in the middle of my chest. I rush to gather up as many damaged flowers as I can, my hands shaking.

“I can fix it,” I mutter, the first hot tears spilling down my cheeks. I sniffle. “I can—I can fix this.”

But I can’t. There’s too much damage. And I wouldn’t know what to do if I tried.

Footsteps echo from the back. Frank appears in the doorway with an armful of dahlias, his smiling eyes on me. But his smile fades when he sees the tears on my cheeks.

“What’s this?” He rushes forward, dropping the flowers on the edge of the table. The table full of rotten blooms, black and gray and crumbling.

He goes still.

“What—” He has to pause and gather himself. His eyes quickly dance around the room. “What is this?”

Watching Frank catalog the damage is unbearable. It’s the worst sort of torture I’ve ever had to endure. He touches the edge of an aster, the lavender petals now a dull gray.

His entire life’s work, and I’ve snuffed it away with a snap of my fingers. His tribute to his wife and I took it from him.

“How did this happen?” he asks.

I abandon the flowers in my arms and go to my knees instead, collecting the broken glass. I don’t want Frank to step on it. I don’t want Frank to get hurt.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I tried to save them, but I couldn’t—” I stop and crumble to the floor, overwhelmed, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the flower shop. I look up at Frank. “I’m so sorry.”

He inhales sharply, tugging his glasses from his face. Awareness trickles into his expression, and then recognition. He’s looking at me like—

He’s looking at me like he’s seen a ghost.

“Frank?” I climb to my feet, uneasy. “What’s wrong?”

He backs away, rattling the worktable when he knocks into it.

“I remember you,” he whispers.

“Frank, I don’t—”

“I remember you.” He talks over me, his eyes wide. “I know where I’ve seen you before.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When you first showed up in town, you looked familiar, but I—I thought I was being a paranoid old man. But I know your face. I know it.”

Goose bumps pebble my skin. The hair on the back of my neck sticks straight up. Realization hovers just out of reach, and I almost don’t want to ask. “How do you know my face, Frank?”

Frank has always looked at me with warmth, but right now his eyes are hard. Furious. “You don’t remember? You were there on the worst day of my life.” His chuckle is mirthless, sharp at every edge. “You took them away from me,” he accuses.

“Who?”

“My wife.” He rattles out a breath like even saying the word aloud is more painful than he can bear. “My daughter.”

And I remember. I do. Instantly. Something about the tears clinging to his lashes and the utter anguish twisting his mouth takes me right back to the exact moment I reaped that little family on the side of the road.