A Celtic Witch

Chapter 13



Her belly was full, her hands were warm, and she was out of excuses. Cass leaned over and slid her old student violin up onto the bed, the case battered from one too many shortcut corners and barn-door squeezes.

Samantha, her first true love.

She ran her fingers over the dents and scratches, well aware several more had made it past the case. Not a perfect instrument—those were far too hard to live up to. She gave the handle a tug. Time to get it over with.

Down the stairs she went, a fiddle case in each hand. Kevin sat in the parlor, a stack of dusty books on the small table beside a chair big enough to swallow him whole. He gave no sign he’d heard her enter.

It was the kind of focus that made for very good musicians.

She took a seat on the couch, pleased when a squeaky spring got his attention. With casual hands, she laid both cases on the coffee table. “Nan brought my old violin, if you’d like to give it a try.”

He stared at her, eyes huge.

She nudged one of the cases his direction. “Her name is Samantha. Go on—open it up.”

“I’ll be really careful.” His whisper was reverent.

“That would be a shame.” She grinned and freed Rosie from her velvet prison. “Fiddles are meant to be played, and careful musicians miss out on half the fun.” Very few in Ireland fit that description, but she’d met many here in North America. Excellent technicians, but no soul.

Kevin was barely listening. He’d opened Samantha’s case, a tentative finger tracing her lines and curves.

Cass tried to be patient. Joy shouldn’t be rushed.

Eventually, the boy looked up, his eyes bright with wonder.

Now she could push. Cass picked up her bow. “Just like the last time. A nice, easy sound on that top string.” She demonstrated on Rosie, waiting for him to join her.

His grip on the bow was much better this time—he’d been watching. Unhurried, she moved into the five-note scale, nodding in approval as he followed her. Samantha sang in her look-at-me tones.

She’d never been a humble violin.

Cass switched strings, curious if Kevin could follow.

He did, and with more skill than she’d shown in a month of lessons. And then flashed her a grin that said there was a little of his brother’s spunk hiding under the calm exterior.

Cass grinned back—and played the first four bars of a very simple baby reel. At turtle speed.

His eyes got a lot bigger—but his first effort wasn’t all that terrible.

She played it several more times, heeding his unspoken request, her movements on Rosie’s fingerboard slow and exaggerated.

Kevin finally nodded once. And picking up his bow again, played a very competent eight notes.

There was no need for praise—his grin was the size of a small continent.

One short measure at a time, she walked him through the simple shape of the reel’s first four lines. Slowly, giving his awkward fingers time to find each note. He worked with intense concentration, picking up the notes with increasing fluidity. A good ear to go along with his quick brain.

When they hit the end of the third time through, she stopped, assessing how much focus he had left. And decided the eyes staring back at her had plenty.

She touched her bow back to Rosie’s strings. “One line at a time. I’ll play it, you play it back to me. Like a conversation.” Or, knowing Samantha, a fist-fight. Time for Kevin to discover his fiddle’s personality.

She kept to turtle pace the first time through. Four lines, each echoed back to her with careful beginner imprecision. And then she headed back to the start and began picking up speed. Not a reel yet—but not a funeral dirge, either.

Kevin managed two lines, and then his fingers tied up in a Chinese knot. He looked down, bow dangling. “I’m sorry. I can’t keep up.”

“I think you can.” She waited until his head tipped back up. “Don’t think so hard. Trust your fingers.” Not usually a lesson for the first day.

He nodded slowly and put his bow back on Samantha’s strings. “Okay.”

Cass began at turtle speed again—but this time, she stepped on the gas pedal after the first line. Inched toward first gear and teased her student to follow.

Kevin’s eyes widened, but he managed. One line. Two.

And then the magic happened. His fingers got ahead of his brain.

Cass played on, her eyes glued to his fingerboard. He had it now, the rhythm and the cadence. Dancing with Samantha, who had clearly waited her whole life for just this moment.

It wasn’t even close to perfect. A fast turtle could have played faster, and there were missed strings and double ones, errant notes and flat ones. But Kevin and his fiddle had found their voice. Samantha’s fiery attitude blended with something steadier, but no less fierce.

Delighted, Cass pushed the new duo through one last time, playing harmony under Kevin’s strings. And then she caught his eyes and fiddled them to a stop.

The applause nearly had two violins clattering to the ground. Kevin spun around, cheeks red with something that wasn’t only embarrassment.

Assorted people flowed into the room, bringing a tumbling creek of praise and pleasure.

The boy took it all in for a long moment, and then turned away from his admirers, Samantha cradled in his arms. “I have to put her away now.” With careful hands, he set the violin in her battered case, and then picked it up, looking at Cass. “I can go put her in your room if you like.” He glanced at the sudden throngs. “It might be safer than down here.”

He was just lovely. Cass grinned. “Don’t worry about that. Samantha loves crowds.”

“Thank you.” His eyes were shining again—and this time, it wasn’t all happiness.

Oh, crud. She was a great, grand eejit. Cass reached a hand to his shoulder. “She’s yours now, Kevin. You can take her anywhere you want.”

He sank slowly to the floor, his arms wrapped around a feisty and somewhat battered violin, eyes full of disbelief. “Mine?”

No one better. Cass sniffled, suddenly a bit overwhelmed herself, as a gangly boy sat on the floor and fell in love.

And then looked up to see Nan standing in a quiet corner—eyes full of approval.

One answer, found.

-o0o-

Something was up.

Sophie slid past the gathering crowd in the inn’s front hall, picking up little bits of chatter as she went. Kevin had a violin now. And Cass was going to play some more.

That was plenty of reason for an impromptu party in a sleepy fishing village.

Aaron walked in the door behind her, bags of groceries in his hands. He grinned at Sophie. “Looks like I better get cooking.”

Moira patted him on the shoulder. “No need, dear. Nan and I have that under control—we’ll have a good Irish stew bubbling on the stove in no time. You go listen to our Cass play.”

Sophie didn’t miss the casually chosen words. Cass was “theirs” now. And the Irish grannies would have themselves a wonderful time taking over Aaron’s kitchen. It was a mark of his true love of music that he only nodded, distracted, and let them.

Music started up in the parlor. An invitation. Sophie stepped under the archway, looking for somewhere to sit. Mike had taken Adam off for a long walk, and she felt as lazy as a well-fed kitten.

Kevin sat in the middle of the room, a beat-up violin case in his lap, as star struck as Sophie had ever seen him. And more than one inhabitant of Fisher’s Cove was wiping away a tear or two. Something very right had obviously happened.

How lovely.

The music fit her mood. Not dancing tunes today—Cass was keeping it gentle. Lyrical.

Spying an unoccupied spot on the window seat, Sophie detoured long enough to grab one of the many hand-knit throws that lived in the inn—and nearly tripped over a very sleepy new arrival.

Aervyn rubbed his eyes, faced glazed in confusion.

Sophie sat down and cuddled him into her lap. “Hi, sweetie. What are you doing here?”

“I dunno.” His eyes were clearing, but he still looked fairly befuddled. “Mama put me in bed for a nap because I was a grumpypants, and that nice lady was playing her music for me. I wanted to hear it better.”

She brushed a hand across his forehead. Tired magical channels. “Was Kenna doing tricks at night again?” Aervyn had been dragged out of bed more than once to help with his baby cousin.

“Yup.” He shook his head, five going on forty. “She’s trouble, that one.”

Sophie hid a smile—Kenna Sullivan came by her troublemaker genes very honestly.

“I heard that.” Nell crouched down at their side, eyes on her son. “I wondered where you’d gone, munchkin.”

“The music said I should come.” Aervyn buried into Sophie’s shoulder. “And my head hurts.”

The first was a mystery—the second was easily helped. Sophie pushed a light clearing spell up his channels, and followed it with a gentle push toward sleep. She smiled as the five-year-old powerhouse curled up in her lap like a baby.

“Here, he’s heavy.” Nell scooped him up and deposited him on a couple of pillows, borrowing the throw to cover him. “And thanks. Ginia’s also napping thanks to Kenna’s antics. I didn’t want to wake her. I didn’t realize he had a headache.”

“Must have been quite a night.”

“Little punk niece of mine saw a dragon on Jamie’s computer screen and wanted to make friends.” Nell sounded amused—and resigned. “Hopefully she got it out of her system—I’m on duty tonight.”

Sophie just shook her head in shared sympathy. Most toddlers who wanted to be dragons weren’t actually capable of making fire.

Nell rested a hand on Aervyn’s head. “What do you think pulled him here?” She looked over at Cass, still playing dreamy music in the corner, a pile of children at her feet. “Maybe he heard there was a party.”

Aervyn had mentioned the music. “How did he hear it from his bed?” Berkeley wasn’t exactly within earshot, even for superboy.

“That would be the question.”

Not the only one. Sophie frowned. “How did you get here so fast?”

“Luck. I’ve been testing a pairing spell for Jamie. He’s worried that Kenna might develop porting skills and head for parts unknown in the middle of the night. It’s like a locator beacon—if she gets out of range, he’ll know where she’s gone. Aervyn and I were doing some testing yesterday, and I forgot to unhook us.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. There were probably only two witches in the world who could pull off that kind of spell, and one of them was asleep. Suddenly her worries about Adam felt overblown.

“We all worry,” said Nell quietly. She glanced over at Cass one more time. “And it seems like I’ll be joining you in the question line for a certain musician. She tugs on both of our boys.”

Sophie nodded. And then felt some odd pieces connect in her mind. “Maybe…” She started slowly, trying the idea on for size. “Perhaps it’s the same thing that tugs on her.”

Nell blinked. “Not following.”

Sophie stared off into space, more certain now. “Something brought her here, too. And I’m not sure she understands it any better than we do.”

But she knew someone who did.

-o0o-

Moira looked up as first Sophie entered the kitchen, and then Nell. She reached for more teacups. “Come for a bit of sustenance, have you? There will be cookies out of the oven by and by.” Nan’s recipe.

Nell sat down, her eyes never leaving their elderly Irish visitor. “You know something of Cassidy’s magic.”

Moira grimaced. It was very direct, even for a California witch. “Nan Cassidy, this is Nell Walker. Retha Sullivan’s daughter, and mother to Aervyn.” It wasn’t normal to lay out lineages from the children, but she suspected word of their wee boy had traveled far and wide.

Recognition hit Nan’s face. “Ah, the young Merlin.”

Nell’s eyes snapped fire.

“And a great galoot I am.” Nan leaned forward, apology all over her face. “No one wants such a comparison made to a child they love. I’m not usually so loose of tongue and slow of brain.”

Nell sighed. “And I’m not usually so touchy.” Apology accepted.

So that was the word across the waters. Moira met Sophie’s eyes and saw her own worry reflected there. It wasn’t an unwarranted comparison, but Merlin had not lived a long or happy life—and sometimes people accepted the destinies others tried to hand them.

Then again, most of those people didn’t have Nell Walker for a mother.

Nan poured tea for the new arrivals, her eyes never leaving Nell’s face. “What can I tell you of my Cass?”

Moira blinked—perhaps directness was contagious.

“You can tell me what’s in her music. It pulled my son here all the way from California.”

Shock hit Nan’s face. “That’s not possible.”

That wasn’t the answer Nell was looking for. “People say that about Aervyn a lot. They’re almost never right.”

Sophie spoke quietly, still standing over by the counter. Always the watcher. “Maybe a different question will help.”

Nan met the eyes of her fellow healer. “And what would that be, heart sister?”

Sophie’s face flashed surprise at the old form of address. “Aervyn wasn’t the first person pulled here. Cass arrived, and now you’ve come.”

Ah. Moira hadn’t connected all those dots. She smiled at Nan. “The quiet ones always have the trickiest questions.”

“Indeed.” And when their visitor spoke this time, it was with deep respect. “It’s a very good one—and perhaps teases at the answer as well.” She looked over at Nell. “I’m wondering if perhaps your boy has a touch of the old magics.”

For the first time, fear flitted across their warrior witch’s face. “Aervyn doesn’t have just a ‘touch’ of anything.”

The old magics were fickle, unpredictable, and largely untrainable. Moira felt the fear taking root in her own heart.

“The rock magics are gentle and steady. They’re not to be feared.” Said with all the conviction a wise Irish grandmother could bring to bear. “I’ve listened to the rocks my whole life. If your boy hears them, that’s a thing to celebrate. The old magics are dying.”

That they were. But still, Moira worried. Very little was easy with their small boy.

“Your son has a dangerous life ahead of him.” Nan spoke to Nell, her eyes not flinching from the truth. “If he hears her music, perhaps my Cass is meant to help him one day.”

Nell nodded, her eyes gazing out a window and far away. “Perhaps.” A mother readying for the unknowable.

Moira’s heart hurt for the mother of the small boy she adored. Even for their very bravest, power could be a heavy burden.

The sounds of music from the parlor swirled down the hallway. Something happier now. More rousing.

Moira leaned into its comfort. And tried to trust.

-o0o-

They’d somehow ended up back on the beach.

Cass pulled her new hat, knit late into a night of insomnia, down over her ears. “It’s colder today.”

“You didn’t finish your porridge. Nothing keeping your belly warm.”

Nan was a great believer in the powers of a bowl of morning oatmeal. Cass scowled. “I ate enough.”

The old lady beside her merely gazed out at the winter waves. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, a leanbh mo chroí, or are you just going to sulk and grump?”

Forty-four was probably a bit old for sulking. “The rocks—they’re not making sense.” Just quiet, monotone humming. Nan was one of the few people on earth who would understand how disturbing that was. “For two days now.”

“Ah. Interesting.”

The Irish never spoke in one-word sentences. “What’s interesting?”

“It sounds to me like they’ve a message for you.”

“And what would that be, exactly?” The sulks were back in full force.

“I think you know, child.” Nan’s voice carried steel—she’d always been tolerant of exuberance and strong feelings, but never of poor manners.

“Sorry.” Cass kicked a rock in disgust. “This is the time of year when I let everything go and come here to relax and remember why I play in the first place. I didn’t expect mysterious messages.” Or all the other things that had come with her arrival in Fisher’s Cove.

“I think that’s exactly right.” Nan looked entirely too pleased. “Remembering why you play. That’s precisely what the rocks are asking you to think about, Cassie mine.”

Now her grandmother was being just as mysterious as the rocks. “I play because I love music.”

“Aye.” A long pause, punctuated by two mad seagulls and one very unlucky oyster. “And?”

Because it filled a space in her soul nothing else could touch. Because it made the rocks dance. But none of those were new. “Something’s changing.”

“Yes. For forty-odd years, the rocks have done nothing but support and anchor you.”

Fear battered the inside of Cass’s ribs. “And what, I don’t need an anchor anymore?”

“That’s the question of an impudent teenager.” A wise healer at her toughest. “And you’ll not get anywhere at untangling the mess in your heart until you find a better one.”

She hadn’t been on the receiving end of one of Nan’s lectures for almost two decades. Cass blanched, even as she tried to hear the words.

Her grandmother’s eyes softened. “It’s not the rocks that are changing, love. It’s you. And perhaps the anchor you need is changing too.”

Cass’s soul rose up in protest. “I don’t want to change.”

“Indeed.” Nan’s eyes twinkled now. “And you’ve done a very good job of dragging your heels.”

Cass stared, nonplussed.

Nan turned toward the water. “Home is just beyond the horizon there. Green hills and rocky shores.”

“I know that.” The shortness in her voice had a mind of its own.

“You believe it’s there.” Nan had plenty of temper to match. “Even though you’ve never seen it from here, you believe Ireland’s just beyond what your eyes can see, no?”

It was basic geography. “That’s different.”

“Not so very, child.” Strong fingers reached for hers. “What runs through our blood has always been just beyond what our eyes can see, but we know it to be there.”

“We hear the rocks.” And there it ended. Especially if they stopped making sense.

“Yes, and that comforts me, even when you don’t come home nearly often enough. But that’s not all that moves in you, and part of you has always known it.” Nan paused, her eyes taking in the gray ocean waters. “And part of you has always run from the knowing.”

That sliced something Cass hadn’t known could bleed. “I’m a traveler, not a runner.” Runners were cowards.

“Aye.” Nan’s voice soothed as skillfully as it had cut. “And you’ve the courage of ten, love, and I’m not saying any different. You ran to your music, and a glorious thing you’ve done with it. But when you’re ready, there’s a piece of the journey you’ve yet to take.”

Cass felt a weight settling on her shoulders. “I’m just a fiddler.”

“You’ve a rare gift. One that you’ve shared with the world all your adult life.”

That sounded final somehow. “I’m not done playing.”

Lilting Irish laughter floated out over the water. “Of course you’re not.” Nan paused a moment, still looking off toward Ireland. “The most powerful thing a woman can know is who she is. You’ve always had a very good sense of that, and it’s taken you far.”

It had taken her to the ends of the world and back. Cass wasn’t sure she was ready to let go of that. “Who I am is a traveler. A musician.”

“Who you were, child of my heart.”

Cass felt her frustration bubbling up. “What are you saying?”

Green eyes didn’t waver—they never had. “Who you are is changing, my girl. It only remains to be seen if you’re willing to listen and brave enough to let Cassidy Farrell grow into the woman and witch she’s meant to be next.”

To make room for more than the music.

The idea terrified Cass all the way down to her thick wool socks. “How do I do that?” The words hissed through a throat half closed.

“You trust.” Wise eyes looked deep into hers. “You’re used to being in control of every note. This time, let the song find you.”