The sun had almost set, and I shrugged David’s leather duster closer and dug my toes into the soles of my boots. I was tired. Really tired. Exhaustion had brought me down for a nap earlier, but that hadn’t touched my mental weariness. Catching Ceri’s eyes, I moved her attention to the setting sun. The woman nodded in acknowledgment, bowing her head as if praying. In a moment, she straightened. There was a new determination to her, a tightening of her jaw and a hint of fear. She didn’t want me doing this, but she’d help.

Silence fell at the table when she picked up her five-pound bag of salt and started across the grounds to the blasphemed spot of earth surrounded by God’s grace. In a breath, everyone was moving, and I watched in amusement as Quen tried to help Ivy rise, getting an insulted look from her for his trouble. Trent went inside to change, and Marshal grabbed another beer and sat beside Keasley at the picnic table.

I looked up at an unfamiliar wing-clatter and got an eyeful of pixy dust. It was little Josephine, one of Jenks’s youngest, with three of her brothers serving as babysitters/guards close behind. She was too young to be alone, but so eager to help maintain the garden and their security that it was easier to watch her from a distance.

“Ms. Morgan,” the pretty little pixy said breathlessly as she landed lightly on my offered hand and I blinked her dust away. “A blue car is at the curb, and a lady who smells like you and fake lilac is coming up the front walk. Do you want me to pix her?”

Mom? What’s she doing here? Ivy was watching me, wanting to know if we had trouble, and I shifted my finger to tell her we were fine. The exchange was noticed by Quen, which kind of irritated me.

“It’s my mom,” I said, and the pixy girl’s wings drooped in disappointment. “You can pix the next magazine salesman, though,” I added, and she perked up, her tiny hands clapping. God, please let me survive to see Josephine pix a salesman.