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“True.”
“And he’s apparently immune to my most lethal weapon.” I gave her the brightest smile I could manage. “My charming personality.”
She all but rolled her eyes. “Consider me immune as well.”
“Immune to what?” Mrs. Gallagher asked. She came in with a length of plain muslin, her smile cautious as if she didn’t want to catch us unawares.
“His lethal smile,” Margaret said dryly, earning a laugh from our hostess.
“He is quite pretty.”
I scowled at both of them without offering any further comment.
Margaret pulled up the second dining chair and took a seat next to me. Mrs. Gallagher turned her attention to the breakfast dishes, and for a moment we sat in a companionable silence. Or something close to companiable, anyway.
“Before we were so rudely interrupted”—Margaret grinned at me—“I was just going to tell you we saw a man in a sailboat near the lighthouse this morning.
Mrs. Gallagher stilled. After a moment, she reached for a dishtowel and turned to us, drying her hands. “I figured that’s what set Rafe off.”
“He said the man’s name was Oliver Stevenson.”
“Stevenson,” Mrs. Gallagher finished with me. “Yeah, he and Martin have some history.”
I fought off a yawn. “I figured.”
“You see, Martin was a practitioner of the old ways. Earth magic. And Ollie, well he’s capable enough, but he relies too much on his ability to manipulate water. He’s a fisherman, of course, but he only uses his gift to lift himself up.”
“What did Martin use his earth magic for?” Sweet as pie, Margaret posed a question that interested me greatly.
Mrs. Gallagher’s gaze sharpened. “Same as any weatherwitch. Shift the currents to keep boats off the sandbar and settle storms before they cause too much trouble. He might have also tried to keep the witches in this town out of the clutches of a jumped-up fisherman who wanted to horde everything for himself.”
To diffuse the tension, I raised my injured arm. “Is this stuff supposed to put me to sleep, because—” my words were cut off with another jawbreaking yawn.
Both women laughed. “Might be the salve,” Mrs. Gallagher said. “Might also be that cramped little cot in Rafe’s bedroom.”
I had to agree with her. “I’ve slept in larger beds.”
“Such good manners,” Mrs. Gallagher said, laughter lifting her sadness for a moment. “If it’s any consolation, Rafe’s sleeping on the floor in the workshop.”
“I expect I got the better part of the deal.”
Once she pointed it out, I realized my sluggish humor had more to do with a cramped cot and the let-down after a fight than it did with the salve. I shook myself, and after a glance at Margaret, I tested the waters of our newfound cordiality.
“It did seem odd, though, that Stevenson didn’t know Martin had passed away.”
Whatever I’d expected, it hadn’t been laughter. “Oh that,” Mrs. Gallagher said once she’d composed herself. “Martin didn’t want to give that man any advantage at all.” She sobered. “People fear the unfamiliar, you know, and Seattle is a brand new city. Since there wasn’t an established Council to keep everyone in line, Martin always put some distance between us and them. He made us promise to keep his death a secret for as long as possible. He’s still protecting us, you see.”
Her mix of affection and sadness left me at a loss. I had no idea what to say.
“Rafe told you about Samhain, didn’t he?” she asked, filling the silence.
I nodded my agreement, though Margaret made a puzzled sound. I patted her arm, a promise to explain later. I didn’t want anything to interrupt Mrs. Gallagher.
“When Martin knew death was near, he vowed to cross through the veil on Samhain. He still wants to take care of us, no matter what the cost to himself.”
“And then what would happen?”
She didn’t answer, except to look at me, her eyes glassy with tears.
