A Nomadic Witch

“You might say.” Nell sat down and grabbed a cookie.

“Ah.” Moira’s eyes twinkled as she slid into her chair. “You’ve a tale to tell, do you?”

“Mmm.” Nell chewed, a storyteller well aware her audience was hooked. “Ginia and Jamie have footprints all over the wards, but there were other hands in the mix as well. Daniel, tightening up some code. Marcus taking a look.”

“Good.” Moira broke a cookie in two. “He’s a careful witch, and a smart one. He’ll want to see what others are doing for his girl.”

Sophie took the offered half. Sharing was oxygen to witch blood, even when a heaping plate of cookies sat a finger’s length away.

“I ran some queries, followed footprints.” Nell stirred honey into her tea. “Kept an eye on Daniel in particular, because he’s good at finding vulnerabilities.”

Good at making them, too-he was a guy you wanted on your side. Sophie frowned. Something was up, but Nell’s tone was too light for it to be a problem. “Was Daniel up to something?”

“Testing his unauthorized entry skills.” Nell grinned. “He hacked into Marcus’s computer. Used his Realm account to do it.”

Moira’s forehead furrowed. “Whatever for?”

“To play delivery boy.” Nell handed out parts of her paper stack. “This is what they sent him.”

Sophie looked down at the top page. The Complete Manual of Babies. Brought to you by the Fairy Godfathers.

Moira’s giggles snuck out first, little bubbles of tea-laced laughter. “They wrote him a wee baby instruction book?”

Sophie was still stuck on the “Fairy Godfathers.” Mike’s fingerprints were all over that-he had a love of all things Marlon Brando. “I’m a bit scared to read the advice.”

Nell chuckled. “It’s less Mafia than it sounds. Pretty funny, though.”

Moira started reading first-and melted into little-girl giggles. “Oh, my.”

Sophie turned the page. Executive Summary-read the rest when all poop is contained and neither you nor the baby are screaming. 1. Babies love movement-cars, slings, sword fights. Stop moving at your own risk. 2. You will mess up. Babies do not break. Try again. She looked up, laughing. “I could have used one of these.” The first few days with Adam had been less than relaxing.

Nell snickered. “Keep reading-you might change your mind.”

Sophie scanned further down the page. 13. Poop is evil. And it smells. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. 14. A wet baby is as slippery as a greased pig. Never, ever get the baby wet in an area larger than a dinner plate unless they’re strapped in. And even then, proceed with caution. Oh, dear. She stopped reading, weak with laughter. “Mike’s a trooper, but Adam’s first bath was a bit unfortunate.”

“The three keys to poop containment.” Moira read out loud now, wiping her eyes. “Instant action, a HazMat suit, and duct tape.”

“Pretty sure that one’s Jamie-Kenna’s the queen of poop explosions.” Nell pointed at her page. “Here’s my husband’s contribution. ‘Burp cloths are useless for baby puke. Get a catcher’s mitt.” She grinned. “He didn’t figure that trick out until Aervyn, though.”

Sophie kept reading, curious now. Number seventeen saddened her. Sometimes babies are cranky for no apparent reason. That would be Mike again, passing on the hard-earned wisdom of their first weeks with Adam.

And number eighteen made her smile. Holding them close is never wrong, even if your arms are ready to fall off. She looked up, swirling with love for the men who had ridden to Morgan’s rescue.

Nell’s grin echoed the same sense of dopey love. “There’s a flow chart for how to get a baby dressed. And recipes safe enough to cook while sleep deprived.”

Sophie started to flip-those might come in handy, especially if they were Aaron’s doing.

“It’s lovely.” Moira’s voice held the lilt of her childhood. “And they accomplished with Marcus what we couldn’t.”

“Got something through that thick head of his?” Nell grinned. “Definitely something of a miracle.”

“Aye, it would be.” Moira’s eyes gleamed in the muted light. “But what they did was far more difficult.”

She looked down, touching the pages with reverence. “They got something into his heart.”

***

Marcus looked up at the sound of footsteps in his living room. “Go away-busy!” He listened as the footsteps retreated, and looked over at the small girl sitting in her bouncy chair on top of the dryer. “How come they always come when we’re doing laundry, hmm?”

She wiggled in naked happiness-all her clothes were currently in the spin cycle.

Pretty much all of his, too.

He leaned over and blew a raspberry into her wiggly belly, only mildly embarrassed by his weakness. And grinned when she blew one in return. “Show off. Bet you can’t do that again.”

She could. It had become their little routine.

He blew another one into the air along with some light wind magic, trying to keep her amused as he untangled another of her infernal onesies. The washing machine seemed to take special pleasure at tying them in knots.

She batted her hands at the imaginary raspberry-blowing monster fluffing her hair. “Easily amused today, are you?” It was a good thing-neither of them was dressed for a beach walk.

She wiggled her lips at him again. He shook his head, chuckling-the raspberries that missed were oddly endearing.

Aervyn popped into existence at his elbow. “Found you!” He surveyed Marcus’s cape, eyes lighting up. “Yay-are we playing superheroes again?”

Damn-he’d forgotten that some house invaders didn’t require footsteps to move around. And he’d be caught dead in one of Aunt Moira’s flowery pink dresses before he ran through the streets of Fisher’s Cove in his cape and boxer shorts again. “No time to play today, superboy.” He looked down at hope deflated. “Lizzie’s probably running around somewhere looking for trouble.”

“She’s a girl.” Aervyn frowned, his mind one big pout. “I don’t want to play with any more girls today.” He stomped two very annoyed feet. “I want to stay right here with you and be grumpy.”

Uh, oh. Marcus didn’t feel equipped to handle girl trouble. “We’re not having very much fun here, I’m afraid. The Buchanan household is in dire need of clean clothes, and no faeries have shown up to help us out.”

“You don’t need faeries.” Aervyn’s eyes brightened again. “I can help. I’m getting pretty good at laundry. I can fold and everything.”

Marcus sighed. He was an embarrassment to witch recluses everywhere-even the threat of stinky laundry didn’t chase off visitors anymore. “Surely there’s some other way you’d like to spend your afternoon.”

“No.” The answer was simple and accompanied with a heart-melting grin. “I like being with you. Can I stay?”

Even curmudgeon defenses could be breached. Marcus pointed at a pile of towels and rubbed the head of the small boy with the dark-haired version of his brother’s face. “See if you can turn those into something resembling a folded pile.”

Aervyn surveyed towel mountain, momentarily subdued. And then turned, a disturbing glint in his eye. “Can I use magic?”

There was no folding spell worth the energy-Marcus had tried. “Some things are better done the old-fashioned way, my boy.”

“Nuh, uh.” His self-appointed helper activated something that looked suspiciously like fire power. “I helped Elsie make this spell for keeping Nat’s towels warm so that all the yoga people can have a happy moment.” He smiled, the perfect picture of summer innocence. “I can make you happy towels, too. I bet Morgan would like hers all cozy and warm.”

Marcus, lost somewhere back at “yoga people,” tried to catch up. “You built a permanent warming spell?”