She looked over at Adam, and then up at Sophie, empathy in her eyes. “You will worry about him, but he will find his own way. Trust what you know, and fear not what you don’t.”

It was the kind of portent that might have sent chills up Sophie’s spine-if it hadn’t been delivered by a woman dressed in enough sparkles to outfit a houseful of preteen girls. “That’s the message you came to deliver?” She tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice-Nell needed some time to figure out how someone had hacked into Realm. And swiped a transport spell, no less.

“No, that one’s a freebie.” Adele’s eyes danced with honey-gold flecks that matched her outfit. “Suspicious witches, are you? Evan thought you might be.”

Sophie felt the bottom fall out of the room. Literally.

Forty-three years, and the loss of one five-year-old boy still trampled hearts in Fisher’s Cove. The pain of a child ripped away by the most dangerous of magics-and the least understood.

It was Moira who found her voice first. “What do you know of our Evan?” Her words shook with pain.

“I know that he sends love,” said Adele softly. “And he hurts for those of you who still mourn him.”

Sophie tried to breathe. “Evan’s dead.”

“I know that, child.” Adele reached over for a cookie, small rainbows glinting from her costume-jewelry-bedecked fingers. “I’m not one of those mediums who gets messages from the living.”

“You’ve spoken with Evan?” The quaver in Moira’s voice made her sound terrifyingly old.

Sophie looked at Nell, glad to see suspicion shooting out her pores. Witch history was full of charlatans claiming to commune with the spirits. Those who could truly do so were exceedingly rare, and generally very quiet about their talents.

Gold lamé wasn’t quiet.

“I see you have a 1-800 number. You’ll have a chat with anyone dead we’d like, for the low, low price of just $4.99 a minute.” Nell looked up from her phone, eyes full of not-so-latent threat.