Marcus looked. And then scrambled to clean up the brain melt caused by all the glitter and glitz. “That’s your visitor?”

“You’re a fine one to judge.” Moira sniffed and reached to put his kettle on the stove. “You dress like some ruffian my aunt Martha would have chased out of her kitchen with a broom.”

It had suited an afternoon on the boat, but Marcus knew better than to defend the simple black he’d worn for years. “And how would the legendary Martha have felt about your gold-spangled stranger?”

Point scored-his aunt’s cheeks glowed pink. “She was never one to ignore magic, whatever its outward countenance.”

All Irish common sense went out the window when magic was involved. Marcus scowled and pulled out some carrot sticks-normally they were pretty effective witch repellant.

Moira only raised an eyebrow. “Out of cookies, are you?”

No, but he needed the rest of his stash to chase away small visitors. Most happily departed with a cookie in hand. “Carrots are good for you. They improve your eyesight.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, Marcus Grimald Buchanan.”

Marcus knew that tone. It was generally followed by long hours of cauldron scrubbing. There wasn’t a witch in Fisher’s Cove dumb enough to argue with that voice.

His aunt stared him down, Irish warrior woman in full throttle. “I’ve been reading people for far longer than you’ve been ignoring them. Do you think I’d have carried you a message from some charlatan?”

It had never come up. He stayed silent. Talking only gave people reason to stay.

Her eyes saddened, and she reached out to touch his cheek. “I’ve not have caused you that kind of pain, my dear sweet boy. Not ever.”

Dammit. Moira in high dudgeon he could perhaps repel. The aunt who had rocked him for hours, saying nothing, for days after Evan had died?

Even he wasn’t that crusty.

He pulled her hand down from his cheek, giving it a quick squeeze before locking down his armor. “What was the message?”