Lucinda held her breath, as she raised the glass rod above the vial and tapped the rod to release the single drop of liquid that clung to its end.
The drop fell in the vial, joining the muddy liquid within. The liquid turned ruddy, then clear. And it stayed clear.
Lucinda dared to exhale just as the liquid began to swirl and turn ruddy, then muddy. She ducked under the table just before the vial shattered, spraying red flames and charred bits of glass in every direction.
My mother named me Felicia, after her favorite flower, the blue daisy.
When I was young, I would always tell people she named me after the word in that ancient language that meant “lucky” and “happy.” What good was a flower after all? Why would she name me after something that wasn’t good for much other than looking lovely? Why didn’t she name me after something strong like the wind or an animal? I’m older now. I know why.
Mother needs me. And the only thing that stands between her and the sorrows and sufferings of a painful death is a flower.