“Can you manage one more piece of pie, honey?”

“Good Lord, Mom, do you want me to bust?” Fred patted her belly with an exaggerated groan, then smiled wide. “A little piece.”

“Now, don’t make the girl explode, Trish,” Roger warned, mock-stern. “Now we’ve finally got her home for Thanksgiving, I’m getting my hopes up for Christmas.”

“I can’t make any promises,” Fred warned, fork halfway to her mouth. “Fighting evil, you know—it’s hard to get regular vacations.”

Trish’s eyes gleamed, fighting tears. “It’s just so good to see you.”

And Illyria the God-King ate her apple pie.