Marcus stared. “You think I need to go attack the mists?”
Kind of. “I think you need to stop reacting. Go on the offensive. You’re one of Realm’s best strategists-you play to win.”
The Monk steered around a lamppost, amused. “Hasn’t worked out so well. I’m currently getting schooled by a ten-year-old.”
“Exactly.” Jamie’s instincts were humming. “And still you fight. That spellcube raid you led a couple of weeks back? Warrior Girl’s still steaming over that one.” And plotting revenge, but he was sworn to secrecy on that part. “Fifteen years, and you keep coming up with new ways to play. To win.”
“The game’s not life.” Marcus’s voice was quiet, but fierce. “Nobody dies here.”
Jamie pushed away the sympathy-it wasn’t what his friend needed now. “Not all that different. Does Morgan need Slink protecting her? Or does she need the mind that causes half of Realm to tremble?”
Marcus snorted. For form. But his brain had snapped into high gear. Jamie had reason to know that it was a pretty fearsome weapon-and maybe Evan had thought so too.
It had to beat skulking in alleyways.
Jamie watched as The Monk marched off down the street. The sleeping general had awakened. Not a bad morning’s work.
Moira touched her fingers to a last zinnia and climbed slowly to her feet. She’d been tending flowers all morning, and a nice distraction was finally walking down the street.
She’d been waiting for hours.
Under the cover of the large, floppy hat that graced her head, she studied the meandering duo. Morgan looked right as rain, if a mite perplexed. Marcus looked like his usual scowly self, which was balm to her heart.
Sleep and green goo fixed many things.
Judging from the way Marcus was holding his wee girl, however, something quite different was needed at this moment. She stepped out of her flowers and walked to the gate. “Good day, nephew. ’Tis a diaper you’ll be wanting, I’m thinking.” She grinned at the brogue in her voice-little ones always brought out her Irish.
Marcus grunted in greeting. “If she’d just stop kicking her legs like that, we might make it to Elorie’s without catastrophe.”
That seemed fairly unlikely. Moira opened her gate. “Come on in-I’m sure I can scare up a spare nappy somewhere.”
The look on her nephew’s face was high comedy. “You have diapers?”
“Indeed I do.” She snipped a sunny yellow buttercup on the way by-her table bouquet could use some brightening.
“And why is this the first I’ve heard of them?” Marcus’s growl would have been more effective if he hadn’t been fighting amusement at the antics of the child in his arms, waving frantically in the direction of the buttercup.
Moira reached over and snipped another. “One for you too, darling girl. You can take it home with you.”
The drooly grin was lovely to see-but it was the light touch of humor in her nephew’s eyes that had an old witch sniffling. She could count on one hand the times she’d seen him relax into simple pleasure.
She walked in her door and headed straight for the hall cupboard-baby poop didn’t come with a lot of patience. It pleased her immensely when Marcus reached automatically for the diaper and looked around for a place to put his bright-eyed girl. “Come-I’ve a blanket on the spare bed for just this purpose.”
Morgan grinned happily as Marcus set her down on the bed. Moira sat down beside her and held out the buttercup. “Maybe you’ve some earth witch in you, sweet girl. Or maybe you just like buttercups. They were your uncle Evan’s favorite.”
Marcus’s hands froze, diaper halfway undone.
Moira kept talking to the baby, trusting the urgency of poop to do its job. “When he got a little bigger than you are, he used to rub them on his face and pretend to be the sun, all yellow and happy.” She touched the blossom to a pink cheek. “And then he’d have his brother make a storm cloud, and they’d walk around town pretending to be the local weather forecast.”
Sweet giggles shook Morgan down to her toes-and had the added benefit of getting the man in charge of her diaper moving again. Moira smiled, delighted with them both.
And then she crossed her fingers and took an enormous chance. “Do you remember that, nephew? The two of you, bringing water and sunshine to the gardens of the village? You nearly drowned Clare Higgin’s prize roses.”
Marcus snatched a baby wipe. “Someone taught me a rain spell and forgot to mention how to turn it off.”
Ah, yes. She’d forgotten about that little training lapse. “You figured it out quickly enough. And then we taught your brother a quick-dry spell.” Mischief was always fertile ground for new magic lessons.
“Scorched my shorts.”
The voice was gruff-but he was talking. About Evan. Moira blinked back tears and reached out a hand to the baby. “Tell her the stories, Marcus. She needs to know her history.”
Eyes snapped to hers in painful shock. “Evan’s not her history.”
“She’s a witch.” That ran deeper than blood. “And we need to remember the whole of Evan. Not just how it ended.”
All she got in response was the harsh sucking of breath.
No point just dipping your toe in the hot water. “Remembering frees us-even when it hurts in our very bones.” Pain sliced at her, old agonies thrust into the light of day. “And Morgan needs us free.”
“Why?” One word, ripped from his throat.
“Because you’ve lived a life of paralysis, my sweet, beautiful man-and we’ve let you.” She leaned over to kiss a round cheek. “This one, she needs us now. We can’t let ourselves sit still in fear and pain any longer.”
A long moment of silence-even Morgan lay still, watching them with big, wide eyes. And then Marcus’s hands moved again, sliding baby limbs into bright, stripey leggings. “You sound like Jamie. He gave me the more manly version of that same speech this morning.”
Had he, then? Moira hid a smile-young Jamie was becoming quite the skilled meddler, and an early riser, too. “Witches are never shy with advice. You know that.”
He snorted and scooped Morgan off the bed. “All too well.” He raised the baby up to eye level. “It’s a bunch of nosy busybodies you’ve chosen, silly wiggle.”
Morgan made a noise that sounded suspiciously like agreement.
Marcus tucked down into a cluster of boulders at the far end of the main beach of Fisher’s Cove. If he remembered correctly from his wayward youth, this was the best spot to avoid being seen. It was a matter of survival-village rumor said Lizzie was experimenting with her green goo again.
And he still needed to think.
Carefully, he tucked another blanket around Morgan. Boulder clusters weren’t the warmest of places to take a small baby.
She promptly kicked the blanket off, naked toes waving in the rather brisk breeze coming off the ocean.
He snorted and covered her up again. “Listen, girl-child. The faster you get cold, the sooner we have to head back for hearth and home.”
Morgan grinned-and stuck her toes out the bottom of the blanket.
It was like trying to wrap an octopus. He raised his eyebrows and stuffed the wandering limbs back in. “I’ll tell Lizzie you’re the one that requires a dose of green goo.”
The feet quieted, lavender eyes considering his words with great seriousness.
Heh. “Smart girl.” Marcus nodded in satisfaction. The Fairy Godfathers had been certain you couldn’t negotiate with babies. Perhaps, despite the manual’s general usefulness, they didn’t know absolutely everything.
And then Morgan let loose with the telltale sounds of poop detonation. Accompanied by giggles.
“Again? Ingrate child.” He refused to laugh, even as her Houdini feet escaped the blanket one more time. With a sigh, he raised an air bubble around the two of them. Magic on the beach probably wouldn’t escape notice, but he could hardly strip her down in a brisk Nova Scotia breeze.