memory he had of his brother. And every time he saw Morgan, he imagined Evan close by, watching over the two of them.
Their guardian witch.
Grief still hit him at strange moments, but it was the kind of sorrow that time eased—and guilt was no longer its constant companion.
He picked up his daughter and kissed her cheek. Guilt had left his heart—and so much had flooded in to replace it. The cranky old bachelor had almost gotten used to loving someone so much that she undid him simply by sticking a wet Cheerio to her nose. “Come on, sweet pea. Let’s go see who’s out and about this afternoon.”
That, too, was an enormous change in his life. He’d lived the last twenty years in his solitary castle by the sea—a big, rambling place. He’d needed it to hold all of his sadness.
Now he and Morgan squeezed into a tiny, ramshackle cottage on the edge of a village that seemed to think the path to the beach ran through his kitchen. And somehow, he could no longer work up the energy to be the least bit grumpy about it.
Morgan started wiggling in his arms halfway down the road to the inn. He looked down at the rosy cheeks sticking out from her hood of bright blue wool. “It’s still a long ways—how about I carry you a bit farther, hmm?”
She grinned up at him. “Fower.”
Argh. Marcus rolled his eyes. “We left flowers all over the village yesterday.” People were beginning to talk.
“Fower.” This time, he was fairly convinced she even managed to bat her eyelashes.
He nuzzled into a cold cheek and growled. “Your wiles are wasted on me, silly girl.” A lie if there ever was one. She got more adorable every day—and he got less immune.
“Fower.”
Perhaps reason would work. “Forty-eight-year-old witches don’t learn new magic tricks. Maybe Sophie will make you flowers.”
“Fower.”
It was damnably hard to argue with someone who only had a vocabulary of six words. And he suspected an increase in her vocabulary wasn’t something to look forward to.
He plunked her down on the ground and slid off his glove. At this rate, he was going to need to bribe a fire witch for some handwarmer spells, too. With his other still-gloved hand, he pushed twigs and rotting leaves aside, working his way down to bare soil. Morgan babbled happily at his side, anticipating her favorite part.
The power that came when he called to it was disturbingly strong. Annoyed, he shoved a line of it into the soil. And tried not to laugh as a whole clump of something lavender popped up. Definitely not daffodils—and they matched Morgan’s eyes. “Opinionated flowers, are you?”
His daughter leaned over and buried her face in the flowers. He watched carefully—she was still fairly confused about the difference between sniffing a blossom and eating it, and his knowledge of edible plants was far too sparse to let her go about eating the greenery.
She pushed herself to her feet, a fair accomplishment for a child in snow pants, boots, and three layers of woolens. And signed for “more.”
His knees weren’t as limber as hers. Marcus cleared a patch a foot away from the clump of purple and sent another pulse of power into the earth. And then frowned at the flower that rose up under his fingers. Orange this time.
Be darned if he was asking Sophie why the cursed plants were changing.
He wasn’t an earth witch, dammit.
Morgan grinned in approval—and then toddled three steps and plunked down again, looking at the ground expectantly.
Marcus sighed. It was going to take them all of the remaining hours of daylight to go a hundred feet. Again. Apparently they had to carpet the village in flowers first.
And soft-headed old man that he had become, he would probably go along with it.
-o0o-
Cass pulled her car to the side of the road, amused. When Dave said “off the beaten track,” he wasn’t kidding. Fisher’s Cove wasn’t more than three or
Their guardian witch.
Grief still hit him at strange moments, but it was the kind of sorrow that time eased—and guilt was no longer its constant companion.
He picked up his daughter and kissed her cheek. Guilt had left his heart—and so much had flooded in to replace it. The cranky old bachelor had almost gotten used to loving someone so much that she undid him simply by sticking a wet Cheerio to her nose. “Come on, sweet pea. Let’s go see who’s out and about this afternoon.”
That, too, was an enormous change in his life. He’d lived the last twenty years in his solitary castle by the sea—a big, rambling place. He’d needed it to hold all of his sadness.
Now he and Morgan squeezed into a tiny, ramshackle cottage on the edge of a village that seemed to think the path to the beach ran through his kitchen. And somehow, he could no longer work up the energy to be the least bit grumpy about it.
Morgan started wiggling in his arms halfway down the road to the inn. He looked down at the rosy cheeks sticking out from her hood of bright blue wool. “It’s still a long ways—how about I carry you a bit farther, hmm?”
She grinned up at him. “Fower.”
Argh. Marcus rolled his eyes. “We left flowers all over the village yesterday.” People were beginning to talk.
“Fower.” This time, he was fairly convinced she even managed to bat her eyelashes.
He nuzzled into a cold cheek and growled. “Your wiles are wasted on me, silly girl.” A lie if there ever was one. She got more adorable every day—and he got less immune.
“Fower.”
Perhaps reason would work. “Forty-eight-year-old witches don’t learn new magic tricks. Maybe Sophie will make you flowers.”
“Fower.”
It was damnably hard to argue with someone who only had a vocabulary of six words. And he suspected an increase in her vocabulary wasn’t something to look forward to.
He plunked her down on the ground and slid off his glove. At this rate, he was going to need to bribe a fire witch for some handwarmer spells, too. With his other still-gloved hand, he pushed twigs and rotting leaves aside, working his way down to bare soil. Morgan babbled happily at his side, anticipating her favorite part.
The power that came when he called to it was disturbingly strong. Annoyed, he shoved a line of it into the soil. And tried not to laugh as a whole clump of something lavender popped up. Definitely not daffodils—and they matched Morgan’s eyes. “Opinionated flowers, are you?”
His daughter leaned over and buried her face in the flowers. He watched carefully—she was still fairly confused about the difference between sniffing a blossom and eating it, and his knowledge of edible plants was far too sparse to let her go about eating the greenery.
She pushed herself to her feet, a fair accomplishment for a child in snow pants, boots, and three layers of woolens. And signed for “more.”
His knees weren’t as limber as hers. Marcus cleared a patch a foot away from the clump of purple and sent another pulse of power into the earth. And then frowned at the flower that rose up under his fingers. Orange this time.
Be darned if he was asking Sophie why the cursed plants were changing.
He wasn’t an earth witch, dammit.
Morgan grinned in approval—and then toddled three steps and plunked down again, looking at the ground expectantly.
Marcus sighed. It was going to take them all of the remaining hours of daylight to go a hundred feet. Again. Apparently they had to carpet the village in flowers first.
And soft-headed old man that he had become, he would probably go along with it.
-o0o-
Cass pulled her car to the side of the road, amused. When Dave said “off the beaten track,” he wasn’t kidding. Fisher’s Cove wasn’t more than three or
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