It had. He’d also become the youngest witch ever to master a copper-burnishing spell. “Threats don’t carry much weight with me anymore.”

“Mmm.” Moira wrapped her hands more comfortably around her cup. “So, should I be telling the village elders there’s a soldier buried under the church?”

Amusement slapped oddly against Marcus’s ribs. Evan would have loved a mystery and a dead body, and the chance to ruffle the calm waters of Fisher’s Cove. “We had a set of six toy soldiers. After Evan-“ He stopped, all traces of humor fleeing. “I could only find five.”

And dammit, he’d searched high and low under those church steps.

“Ah, I remember.” Moira’s smile tinged with sadness. “Your mother let you play with them in secret, against her better judgment. They made you happy.”

Nothing had made him happy-but they’d helped him to forget for a while. Given him somewhere else to look while the light in Mom’s eyes had slowly gone out.

He’d barely been out of boyhood when his parents moved to Florida, land of sunshine and golf tees.

“They were wrong, you know.” Moira reached for his hand, her grip strong and sure.

Mind barriers had never kept her out. Marcus shrugged, the ache old and dulled by time. “They wanted to forget.” Easier to do away from the gray mists.

His aunt’s eyes snapped. “They lost one son. They chose to let go of the other.”

And for all the days he’d hated her for it, she’d never been willing to do the same. He met her gaze, for once wanting her to know what she meant to him. “I wasn’t easy on any of you.”

“No, you weren’t.” Moira’s fingers touched his cheek, whisper soft-and then her eyes began to dance. “And for penance, you can drink the concoction young Lizzie carries up the stairs.”

Blasted healers and their witch brews. “I should have made a run for it while I had the chance.” If his legs hadn’t still felt like a close cousin to spaghetti, he’d have been long gone.