A Celtic Witch

Chapter 3



Marcus contemplated the front door of the inn about twenty feet away. At Morgan’s current turtle pace, they’d be there in approximately four days.

Her small fingers squeezed his as she teetered, her footing precarious on the gravel walkway. She adored her brand-new purple boots, but they deeply challenged her emerging walking skills. He’d had no idea how important bare toes were to toddler balance. “Almost there, slowpoke.”

She looked up and grinned, which nearly sent her toppling again. He made a mental note to get her a lighter hat. Or heavier snow pants. Something.

Sophie came up the walk behind them, Adam riding kangaroo-style on her chest. She smiled down at Morgan. “Heard there were fresh blueberry scones to be had, did you, sweet girl?”

“’Cones.” Morgan redoubled her walking efforts, nearly tying her feet in a knot in the process.

Marcus rolled his eyes and squatted down, holding out his arms. “Want a ride?”

The scowl that hit her face would have scared most Army generals. And sent Sophie into uproarious giggles.

He frowned—adults were supposed to help his parenting efforts, not hinder them. “Don’t encourage her.” The entire village thought everything Morgan did was adorable. It was hell on teaching her any manners.

An audible click had him looking up again. Sophie, eyes full of mischief, held out her cell phone. “Notice any resemblance?”

He tried not to laugh—he really did. But the picture on the screen was Morgan’s scowl on the face of a forty-eight-year-old man. He shook his head at his daughter. “How come you can’t copy my more laudable character traits, hmm, monkey girl?”

She beamed at him and reached for his fingers. “’Cones.”

Scones, indeed. He nodded his head at Sophie. “You might as well go on in—we’ll be a while yet. Someone has a mind of her own.”

“Like father, like daughter, I’d say.” Sophie stuck her hands in her pockets and patiently followed Morgan’s determined waddle. “Besides, we’re in no hurry. Adam likes it outside.”

Apparently Marcus was the only one who wanted to sink his teeth into a blueberry scone today.

Sophie squatted down again and cleared leaves and winter groundcover off a small circle of earth in one of the inn’s flower beds. Then she laid her palm flat on the bare ground and murmured a few words.

Marcus blinked as a bright yellow daffodil pushed its way up through the soil. Moments later, it had two friends. Just looking at them made him unreasonably happy. “Are you crazy? It’s the middle of March—they’ll be dead in a couple of days.”

“I know.” She smiled up at him. “But for the next two days, they’ll brighten the spirit of everyone who walks by.” She patted the baby on her front. “And Adam likes to watch them grow.”

The baby was indeed watching—and so was Morgan.

Sophie smiled at his girl. “Want to see some more grow, sweet pea?” She cleared another small circle of bare earth. This time, her words were audible—a simple grow spell.

“Fower.” His girl was enchanted. Carefully, she dropped to her knees by the pretty daffodil and touched its bright petals. “Fower.”

Marcus resigned himself to stale scones and crouched down beside her. “Those are yellow daffodils.”

“Wehwoh.” Again she touched the daring petals.

“She’s talking very well,” said Sophie, smiling.

With Lizzie and all the other womenfolk of the village babbling to her all day long, it was hardly a surprise.

Morgan looked up at Sophie, her pudgy little mitten-clad hands moving in the sign for more.

Sophie grinned. “Last one—then it will be time to go in for scones, okay?”

Marcus watched the little circle of daffodils rise up through the soil. The miracle didn’t lessen with repetition. And given the village traffic through the doors of the inn most days, they would induce a lot of smiles.

Almost as many as blueberry scones.

He reached for Morgan’s hand. “Time to go inside.”

She looked up at him, lavender eyes big and earnest. And signed again. More.

If it had been in his power, he’d have risen up a meadow of daffodils for her in that moment. Gently, he brushed dirt off her cheek. “Dada can’t grow flowers, lovey.”

Her eyes and her faith never wavered.

“It’s not a difficult spell.” Sophie’s mind danced with mischief.

Good grief. “I’m not an earth witch.”

“Morgan thinks you are.”

Marcus glared at the woman who was suddenly making his day difficult. And couldn’t avoid the lavender eyes still watching his.

Fine. They’d all just have to learn from failure, then. Suddenly very grumpy, he brushed winter detritus aside and laid his palm on the soil. Damn fool witches, trying to grow daffodils in frozen ground. He grabbed the tiny little trickle of earth power that had mysteriously joined his magic a few months back and repeated Sophie’s grow spell.

Morgan watched the ground, eyes big.

Magic’s more than just words, monkey girl. He waited for her lips to start quivering.

A tiny little shoot pushed up through the soil.

Marcus stared at it in total disbelief. “I can barely open a blossom. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Maybe last year.” Sophie raised an eyebrow. “New powers often gain in strength. When’s the last time you used them?”

He was a serious witch. Not one who ran around making flowers bloom.

“Give it another push.” She nodded at the small blade of green. “One more and you might have a daffodil.”

He meant to say no. Had it on the tip of his tongue.

And then Morgan nestled into his chest, still watching the bit of green. “Fower.”

He laid his hand on the soil again and sent a pulse of magic, less begrudgingly this time.

When his daughter reached out to touch the new yellow petals, just as awed as she’d been the first time, he felt like he’d granted her kingdoms.

With a magic he’d had no idea he possessed.

-o0o-

Cass sat down at her desk, belly uncomfortably full of beef stew and biscuits. That’s what happened when you went on a walkabout on a quiet Friday afternoon and let yourself get dragged into a kitchen table or two.

Or possibly five. They all started blending together after a while—good food, apple cider, and understated anticipation of the evening ahead.

It was square-dance night in Margaree, and the highlight of most folks’ weeks.

Hell, playing backup fiddle to Buddy tonight was going to be one of the highlights of her year.

She wiggled her fingers, working out the kinks of three decades of intense fiddling, and contemplated her inbox. Three hours until the music started, and she should probably be responsible for at least some of them.

Or not. If she ignored business for long enough, Tommy eventually got to it. What was the point of having a manager if you couldn’t occasionally be an irresponsible musician?

Besides, the inbox almost always took. It very rarely gave. Cass leaned back in her chair, remembering the glow in Ellie’s eyes. They would go supernova when she got to play tonight—Buddy hadn’t been all that hard to convince.

Her life could use more things that glowed and gave back and filled her soul. Even some of her audiences felt like work these days. People in fancy clothes who had paid hundreds of dollars for their seats. She much preferred the ones who toasted her with a beer from the shadows of their local pub.

A future she’d run away from at nineteen, fiddle in hand and fame in her sights.

All of which was an awful lot of whining from someone who loved what she did and got paid a whacking load of money to do it. It was okay to feel tired—that’s why she escaped once a year and headed for this place. The “edge of the world,” as Tommy called it.

A good fiddler lived for the edges—the places where the music threatened to tumble into wrack and ruin or soar to the heavens.

Cass breathed deeply, the one remnant of a long-ago drift through the world of yoga. She also lived for the quiet moments, the comfortable ones. Tonight would be a several-hours-long gift of those. Sitting on a rickety chair, playing with the one man she’d never out-fiddle, both of them background for fun, chatter, and a lively tumble of people following the square-dance call on the dance floor. Not taken for granted, exactly—just a comfortable part of the fabric of life in this cold, hard rock of a place. A gift she cherished beyond measure.

She couldn’t live here—but to visit was pure, soul-filling pleasure.

And tonight she would try to say thank you. The Scottish ancestry of most of Margaree’s inhabitants didn’t lend itself to big displays of emotion, so Rosie would have to speak for her.

Her fingers idled on the laptop keys, restless. Readying. Maybe it was time to do some shopping—Mum’s birthday was coming up. Cass pulled up her browser and then chuckled. Mum would faint if the Internet started sending her presents. Maybe Dave would part with his recipe for porridge bread. Mum would consider that a very worthy gift.

The small light in her chat window was glowing purple again. Cass switched over and opened a coding window—she was feeling distractible. “What are you on about now, little purple shadow?”

She snickered as it flashed at her twice. Ghostie with a sense of humor. With a couple of quick keystrokes, she made the text size bigger. Impromptu 2 a.m. fiddling sessions weren’t increasing her sleep quotient any—no point squinting.

Huh. The log file was very interesting. Cass reached for the bar of excellent chocolate she’d wheedled out of Dave on her way up. Digestive aid for the beef-stew overload.

She’d hitched a little ride on the Internet bug that had been following her around. The surprise was that apparently the bug had noticed. There were several logged attempts to shake her rider—not serious ones, by the looks of them. Just testing.

“Hmm, we’ve seen each other now, have we?” Cass dug deeper into the scrolling lines of the log file and wondered, for the umpteenth time, what her life might have been like if she’d discovered computers before she picked up a fiddle. Carefully, she scanned the tracker’s source code. Competently done, and nothing appeared malicious.

A harmless virtual fly, following her around the ether from somewhere in California.

Curious, that. She leaned forward, peering at her screen. The heart of the ghostie’s coding was a few sparse lines—designed to exert a gentle pulling force. “I’ll be damned. You’re a little tugboat.” Pulling where, she had no idea.

Intrigued now, she wrote a couple of new code lines of her own. And threw up a firewall, just to be safe. “What are you tugging on, then?”

She hooked her lines into the tracking bug. Hit run. And jerked her fingers up as the keyboard gave them a sharp yank.

Her firewall frizzled, fried by whatever had just reached out and tried to grab her.

Cass leaped out of her chair, putting several feet between her and her possessed laptop. Well, damn. The freaking bug was trying to pull her. Adrenaline surged in her veins, the Celtic fighter awakened.

And then she heard the rocks’ soothing croon.

The little bug from afar meant no harm.

Cass glared. Since when had the rocks been on speaking terms with Internet ghosties?

The rocks had no answer for that.

-o0o-

One of the true pleasures of old age was watching grown women you’d known since birth squirm like four-year-olds. Moira pushed the glass a little closer to its intended recipient.

Nell eyed the innocent tumbler like it held witchbane. “What’s in it?”

“I’ve no idea, my dear.” Moira laughed, reaching for the second glass with a green silly straw. It could only be meant for her. “Some sort of dessert cocktail. Aaron made them for us—he says the inn guests have been enjoying them.”

And Aaron was rather particular about keeping herbs, potions, and mischief-making small healers out of his kitchen.

Nell sipped, and her eyes brightened. “It tastes like brownies in a glass. Raspberry ones.”

It most certainly did. Moira made a mental note to bloom more raspberries for their industrious innkeeper. Lizzie’s indoor bush was doing marvelously well this winter, aided and abetted by several witches who adored raspberries.

Sophie, done shedding her dripping outerwear, took a seat at the table, reaching for the third glass. “I was wondering why the bush was empty this morning.”

Crack-of-dawn berry raids had been one of the more entertaining parts of March so far. Moira grinned. Old ladies were up very early. “I’ll go bloom a few more after we sit and talk a while.”

Nell snorted. “No need. I brought Aervyn.”

That would certainly take care of it. “You might send him round to visit Marcus too.” Her nephew could use a cheerful male influence in his life. And maybe Aervyn could make some of the carrot stash disappear—the witchlings were complaining.

“I thought Marcus was messing with my tracking spell.” Nell took another sip of raspberry goodness. “But he claims innocence. Whoever it was tried to activate the fetching code last night.”

That didn’t sound like her nephew. For one, he wouldn’t have failed. “What happened?”

“Dunno.” Nell shrugged. “But I set a snare that probably zapped someone’s channels a little. Were any of your witchlings cranky this morning?”

“No.” They had four healers in the village—even minor channel shock would have been detected within the hour.

Sophie shook her head slowly. “Even Marcus was happy this morning. Grew some daffodils for Morgan.”

“Oh, really.” Moira leaned back, considering. That wasn’t tricky magic, but it required a fair dollop of earth power. “I didn’t know he had that in him.”

“Neither did he.” Sophie’s wry tone didn’t hide her large affection for their dour witch. “Someone hasn’t exactly been practicing with his new power.”

“He hardly had a sneeze’s worth.” Moira looked down at her own hands—some days, she had little more than that left herself.

“Well, he’s got more now,” said Sophie gently, also hearing what hadn’t been said. “How much more, I don’t know. It took him two tries to pull up a daffodil, but a little practice might improve that.”

Nell snickered. “I think he’s getting some right now.”

They both followed her gaze out the window to Marcus in his hulking winter black, squatted down at the side of the road. And Morgan, a tiny sprite in day-glow green raingear and purple boots, standing beside him, signing for “more.”

They could read his strained patience from here. And even Moira’s eyes could see a breadcrumb trail of daffodils running all the way from the inn, bright faces dancing in the winter rain.

Ah, small children could go where even the angels feared to tread. “It will be good for him.”

“Maybe.” Sophie gazed on their sudden gardener a moment longer. “It’s been a long winter. He’s restless.”

“Aye.” And to her way of thinking, that was a very good thing. Moira smiled and pulled out a treasured bit of gossip. “I hear he was singing in the library yesterday.” The village, denied funding for a library of its own, had quietly turned a corner room of the church into an ode to books. At this time of year, it was a hopping place. And wee Kevin had sharp eyes and a sense of humor.

Apparently Marcus had been humming Born to Run while holding a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar in his hands.

Nell topped up all their glasses. “That sounds happy, not restless.” She shrugged and sipped. “And totally weird for Marcus.”

The inhabitants of Fisher’s Cove were getting used to his happy moments, but visitors were still fairly astonished at their local curmudgeon’s slow transformation. “He needed to learn to enjoy contentment for a bit, I think. But I’ve been waiting for his soul to begin squirming.”

Both her companions looked surprised.

So young they were. “He’s a forty-eight-year-old man who had a lot of his life stop at five. Marcus Buchanan still has a fine lot of living to be doing.” And she was very pleased to see it stirring. “He was stuck in unhappiness for so long—it’s taken a while for his heart to realize it can grow wings now.”

Sophie smiled slowly. “He’s not going to find that a wildly comfortable process.”

Not at all. But the caterpillar was indeed hungry—and that was a very good sign.

Hopeful.

Just like a trail of yellow daffodils in the heart of a Canadian winter.

-o0o-

Playing square-dance night at The Barn was always good for shrinking her ego back down to regular size. Cass grinned as a small boy stopped his dancing long enough to actually notice the musicians. Everyone else ate and talked and stomped around the floor greeting friends and working off their cabin fever.

Only Ellie’s glistening solo an hour earlier had stopped the chatter.

Most people would give them a nod or two sometime in the night, but Margaree expected its music to be good, lively, and long-lasting. There were fifteen fiddlers who could have filled her chair and kept the dancers happy.

In the rest of the world, listening to Cassidy Farrell play was a great privilege. In Margaree, she was just another “pretty good” fiddler.

And she loved it.

Buddy winked at her over his flying bow. Damn, she was woolgathering again—he’d switched to playing background fiddle. Her turn to show off a little.

Her hands moved before her brain did, tracking the feet of the four couples in the square closest to the stage. Rosie crooned invitation, beguiling them to take notice of her patinaed wood and shiny strings.

It was the tall man with the white beard who noticed first. Jenkins. He looked her way, eyes twinkling. Challenge accepted.

She gave him a chance to circle through the rest of his square. With the quick nudges of people long used to each other, the other seven were ready less than a minute later.

Rick, the caller, looked over at her and grinned. Time to have a little fun.

Cass drew her bow across Rosie’s strings. A single, drawn-out double-stop.

And then she began to play. Fast and furious, with the glorious precision, lightning-fast licks, and supreme artistry that had made her famous.

The square of eight whirled to keep up, their ears barely needing Rick’s calls. The music told them where to go. Feet flew, centrifugal force tossing skirts, hair, and the occasional squeal high into the air.

All around the floor of The Barn, couples halted, with headshakes and laughter as they made their way to cider, grandbabies, and a good place to watch the show.

Buddy picked up the undercurrent of Rosie’s mad singing, his long, slow harmonies helping to keep at least a few feet on the ground. Jenkins’ white beard flew by, two ladies clutched in his arms. The small boy who had noticed her earlier had somehow made his way onto a dancer’s shoulders and was hanging on for dear life, his grin as big as the moon.

The audience had picked up the clapping, stomping rhythm of Rosie’s anthem, and more than one inhabitant of The Barn was giving their Irish roots a go, including one teenage girl whose feet were little more than a blur.

Cass looked again and grinned—the girl was face-to-face with her grandmother, and by the looks of it, the teenager was getting herself thoroughly out-clogged.

Gods, she loved this place.

She made quick eye contact with Buddy. One more run-through, from the top. Faster.

Bow in a blur now, she gave Rosie over to the madness, fingers and dancers and the smell of cider melding into a dream world. Flying through the universe at the speed of light. Even the rocks under her feet danced.

And then she reached the last note. Flung it out into the world, dueling winter and cold and the thousands of miles between her heart and those she loved most.

Celtic defiance. Nobody did it better than Cassidy Farrell.

Even if she’d had to leave home to do it.

The throngs on the dance floor clapped and whooped and hollered—for Margaree, that was a standing ovation. Cass brandished her bow in quick acknowledgement of the dancers and took a seat, heart thumping and soul glad.

It wasn’t the accolades she played for here. It was the rightness.

Buddy nodded once and started up again. Something the speed of mere mortals this time. Cass shouldered Rosie, grinned, and found a more comfortable position on her stool. Back to second fiddle. Buddy was set to go for hours yet, and it would be entirely embarrassing if her butt got numb before his did.

Her heartbeat slowed, moving in time to the slower pace he was setting. She breathed in, feeling the rocks settling back into their eternal solidness.

It wasn’t often she could make them dance.

Her mind cast back, remembering the first time it had happened. She’d been thirteen and walked the two miles to the cliffs, bringing along her fiddle. Her old fiddle—the flirtatious and temperamental Samantha. She’d flung notes out into the waters below, some long-forgotten teenage hurt streaming out of her heart and fingers.

And the rocks had risen up to meet her. Twirled her in a slow, waltzing circle and helped her young soul feel whole again.

Cass reached out, thanking the solidness beneath her feet. It had always been the firm ground beneath her footloose, defiant soul.

She felt the steadiness of the rocks enfold her. And, defiance blown away into the ether, heard their new message. A gravitational pull. An offering, and a choice.

Her bow moved slower now, following Buddy’s lead.

And destiny settled onto her shoulders.

Her anonymous and strange Internet tracker was tugging. Dave had pointed her in the direction of some obscure inn south of Peggy’s Cove. And the rocks were calling her west across the waters—but not far.

No self-respecting Irish witch ignored one sign. Three of them were tantamount to a dare.

Cass tucked Rosie more firmly under her chin. A few more hours of fiddling with the angels, a good night’s sleep, and then she would go.