Marcus fought, sheet white, against the power streaming from her hands. Moira watched in horrified awe as the most talented healer she knew walked perilously close to an unforgivable line.

And finally stopped. Sophie sagged in her chair, energy drained from her hands. “She loves you, you old fart, and so do most of that noisy gaggle out there.” She pulled herself up to standing, shades of the old woman she would one day become. “I don’t really have any idea why. It would be more pleasant to love a field of thistles most of the time.”

Sophie’s voice carried a sadness Moira had never heard-one that could only have come from touching a broken heart deeply. Healing always came at a price.

Marcus only stared, cheeks as white as those of his healer.

On legs shaking like reeds in the wind, Sophie headed for the door. “Tell her about the soldier. Or I will.”

“You read my mind?” Marcus’s rasp sliced at the air in the room.

“No.” Sophie shook her head, clinging to the doorjamb for support. “I read your heart.”

What had the witch done to him? Marcus leaned back against the pillows, feeling his guts still spilling through the hole Sophie had punched in his heart.

And tried to fight the memories swirling in his head.

The toy soldiers had been contraband-a black-market trade with one of the other kids in Fisher’s Cove. Mom had believed in non-violent toys for her boys. Dad had laughed and called her “his hippie witch.” Evan and Marcus had just learned to hide their precious soldiers carefully and well.

Under the back steps of the village church.

He looked over at his aunt, watching him, her eyes full of sympathy and demand. They’d always been such, even when he’d been a fractured little boy carrying the guilt of the universe on his shoulders.

She huffed out a sigh and reached for her tea. “When you were little, the threat of cauldron scrubbing often got you to talk.”