“Or what?” Casek shouldered his way close—too close—and ignored the mug of steaming tea held out to him like an invitation for peace. “Will you have your mad old grandmother put a curse on my head?”

Oliver jerked toward him, not entirely sure he was in control of his arms and legs, so involuntary did the lunge feel. But a big hand, rich soil forever staining its cuticles, landed on his chest. And another matching one on Casek’s, pushing them apart. Mr. Menna’s stern face came into focus. “That’ll be enough, lads. Let’s not give the tourists anything to laugh about, aye? The vicar and the headmaster, of all things.”

Oliver sucked in a long breath, fingers so tight around his mug that it probably would have snapped had it been one of Mamm-wynn’s delicate teacups instead of the stout ceramic Mrs. Gillis brought to the shore for them. He met Casek’s taunting gaze. “She’s off-limits, Wearne. You ought to know that. If you had a shred of decency—”

“You’ve never given the Wearnes any credit for that, though, have you?”

Mrs. Gillis stepped into the space Mr. Menna had made between them, pressing the hot mug to Casek’s chest. “Let bygones be bygones, both of you. And you, have a bit of respect. Mrs. Tremayne’s mind may not be what once it was, but it’s no fault of anyone’s. It comes with age.”

The comfort, if that’s what it was meant to be, settled over Oliver about as comfortably as sackcloth. He edged back, glad the gig had been pulled totally clear, out of his way. He wanted to say his grandmother’s mind was just fine, thank you very much. He wanted to say that anyone who thought otherwise just didn’t understand how to listen to her anymore. He wanted to say that if he failed to give the Wearnes any credit, it was because they’d gone out of their way to prove they didn’t deserve it. Casek with his constant taunting. And worse still, his twin brother’s treachery two years ago.

It was their fault Oliver’s family was fractured. Theirs. But none of them had ever been man enough to admit it.

Too much to say here and now, with not only half of Old Grimsby but also a collection of holiday-goers watching. He shook his head, handed his mug back to Mrs. Gillis, and strode off. Enyon shouted after him, but he ignored him. He’d go home, bathe, eat. Pray. And likely then need to pray some more to rid his spirit of this creeping fog of frustration. Pay a visit to the Floyds, who were both ailing. Help Mr. Menna in the Gardens while his sermon percolated through his brain.

Forget Casek Wearne. Again.