[alansplace]

I opened the case and found a book entitled Guitar for Total Idiots, while Butters went on about tendons and metacarpal something-or-other and flexibility. I opened the book, but night had fallen and the fire was too low to let me read it. I absently waved a hand at the candles on the table beside the couch and muttered, ” Flickum bicus.” They puffed to light with a little whoosh of magic.

I stopped and blinked—first at the candles and then at my burned hand.

“What?” Butters asked.

“Nothing,” I said, and opened the book to look over it. “You know, Butters, for a mortician you’re a pretty good healer.”

“You think so?”

I glanced at the warm, steady flame of the candles and smiled. “Yeah.”