Mace found Thistle sleeping on her husband’s grave. She had noticed it on her first night at the roadhouse, but didn’t want to bring up any painful memories for Thistle. A ladybug crawled along the older woman’s face and she snored. It was already well into the afternoon, and Mace debated whether to let her sleep or not. As Thistle almost inhaled a pillbug, she decided. Mace took the sword resting on the small headstone and gently rapped on it.

“Huh-wha?” she awoke. “Oh Mace, when did you get back? What time is it?”

“Just a few moments ago, and it’s a little after noon,” said Mace, helping her into a sitting position.

“Did you seal up the tear?”

“As best as we could.”

“What about Tria?”

“Off to see her family. Did you know she was adopted by behemoths?”

Thistle raised her eyebrows at that. “Is that right?” Apparently it wasn’t as surprising to the older woman as it was to Mace. Has Thistle even seen a behemoth? That bothered her for some reason. She never asked about her husband or children, but there was more to Thistle than an empty-nester.

“Anyway, she said I could have a look at Cornsilk’s belongings once she has a writ from her mentor, or father apparently.” Mace twiddled her thumbs. “You know, you and that magic sword came in handy last night. And of course I wouldn’t willingly put my apprentice in danger. But perhaps you could accompany me in my investigation? I can’t promise it won’t get dangerous gods forbid…hijinksy. But if you’re not too busy and all…”

Thistle returned her offer with a warm smile. “I would like that,” she said softly. She turned to her husband’s headstone. “He would have liked that too.” Her warm smile faded.

Mace didn’t know what to say. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” she managed.

“Thank you,” whispered Thistle. We always talked about what it would be like if a wizard came to town throwing around destinies and magic swords. That’s how we met, you know. Clover and I.”

Mace didn’t expect this turn in the conversation, but she tried to keep up. “With a magic sword and adventure?”

Thistle smiled mirthlessly. “If you count sticks as magic swords and playing in the woods as a grand adventure. Well, I should say his stick was a magic staff while mine was a sword. We were both ten and more ready than anyone for an adventure.”

Mace put a hand on her shoulder and encouraged her to continue. She was starting to get at this. Tria earlier and now Thistle.

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“The stories we made up together,” her eyes unfocused as she recalled the memories. “They were better and grander than any tale from a bard. But eventually we had to leave the woods and our sticks behind. There were lessons, work, and children too. We had some nice dates, but we realized how old we got when Atom came along. And by the time we could actually set out to follow our destiny, Clover got sick. He didn’t tell me, at first. But I think I always knew. Some sickness that made his own body attack itself.”

Mace nodded. Something similar had taken three of her grandparents.

Thistle sniffed and wiped away a tear. “He always insisted that he could still sweep,” she gestured to the broom. “Even when he could barely walk.”

Thistle couldn’t speak anymore, and Mace didn’t prod. She gave her a handkerchief.

Thistle blew into it. “Anyway, I found this thing,” she picked up the sword. “And I just knew I had to show him. He would have loved it so…much,” her voice cracked.

Mace wrapped her arm around her. “He would have. And you both would have made fantastic wizards.”

Thistle cried softly while a warm summer wind rustled leaves. Mace’s heart ached for the woman. All she wanted, even more than some adventure, or magic powers, or a sword with a grand destiny, was her husband to share it with. She briefly wondered if she had done the right thing, teaching Thistle about magic. Did she accidentally tear open a healed wound? She hoped that Clover would want her to teach the wife he left behind.

“Did you know,” began Mace in a whisper. “That wizards don’t believe in ghosts because we’re very certain that souls move to different planes?”

Thistle looked up at her through bleary eyes. “Yeah?” she spoke.

“Absolutely,” assured Mace. “We’re not entirely sure where, but we’ve seen them travel. Ships sailing in sands that move like oceans, beaches where you can see them and their footprints but never reach them, motes of light drifting through misty forests. All souls, all going somewhere.”

Thistle had a weak smile now. “That’s just like him, always looking for something new.”

“I would’ve liked to have known him.”

“Oh he was so funny,” grinned Thistle. “The thing he looked forward most about fatherhood were all the puns he could torture our kids with.”

Mace smiled at that. A dad after her own heart.

“Are you hungry?” Thistle asked suddenly.

“Desperately,” Mace answered. She helped the older woman to her feet, who looked around confused.

“Mace, have you seen my broom?”

Mace scanned the ground and bushes around her.

“Here, you check around your husband, I’ll look over here. Maybe it rolled-“ Mace’s head slammed into something. “Ow, what the h-,” she stopped as she saw what hit her. “What the…? Uh, I think I found it.”

Thistle turned and her mouth fell open.

The broom was positioned at perfect Mace striking height. Which was strange because it was floating in mid air.

“Did uh…did you magic my broom?” asked Thistle. She prodded it with a finger, which made it gently list.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”