Marc was about to do just that when Isaac picked up the fluff of grey carded wool. A soft growl started before he thought. "S'mine." He glared at Isaac, something wary and vaguely trapped in his expression. "And yeah, making yarn. S'not good to be interrupted."
Of course Isaac thought it was Isolde's space. Woman's work, with the plants and the yarn. Woman's work with the knitting. Marc heard his father's voice clearly in his mind, slid into the memory of the peaceful years between when Gus left for Hogwarts and Marcus was ignored and spent much of his time here with his mother. There was a familiar defensive prickle starting at the base of his neck, spreading tension into his shoulders as he watched Isaac and waited for the comments.