A Celtic Witch

Chapter 6



“Well, now, and isn’t that interesting.”

Sophie shut her herbals logbook—clearly she wasn’t supposed to be getting any work done this day. Not that she was surprised. Cassidy had just left with Aaron to choose herself a room, and Marcus had taken Lizzie and Morgan over to the church to pick new library books.

She’d never seen a man quite so happy to be going to the library.

Sophie hid a smile and glanced casually at their beloved and very nosy elder witch. “What’s up?”

Moira picked up her knitting, a very satisfied smile on her face. “Perhaps you might drop a wee note to Nell on that laptop of yours. Save an old lady needing to trundle out into the cold to do it.”

They’d given Moira a laptop for Christmas—and she steadfastly refused to carry it anywhere. “And what is it that Nell needs to know so urgently?”

Green eyes twinkled enough to blanket the night sky. “That we’ve fetched our witch, of course.”

Sophie stared. “Witch? You scanned her?”

“Of course not.” Moira raised an eyebrow. “You think I need such a thing to tell when one of my own has power running in her veins?”

It would be a waste of air to point out that not all the Irish were related. Moira adopted people with relish and little regard for pesky things like genetics. “You’re sure?”

“Can’t you feel it? The rightness of it?” Moira’s knitting needles clacked meditatively, her voice the soft, lilting one of her girlhood. “And didn’t you see her eyes when she saw our Marcus?”

Ooooh, boy. Getting left in the dust by an old witch again. Either that, or Irish mysticism was running amok this afternoon. That had been known to happen too.

Sophie squinted at the happily knitting witch on the couch and tried to catch up. She’d mostly been watching Marcus, and that had been plenty fascinating. “Wait. You think we’ve fetched an Irish witch, and you already have her snuggled up with the grumpiest bachelor on the planet?” Which wasn’t an entirely fair description of Marcus these days, but still—the mind boggled.

And wasn’t entirely impossible, given his reaction to the lovely Cassidy.

“Aye.” Moira’s smile was positively dreamy.

Sophie teetered between dismay and laughter.

Green eyes sharpened her direction. “What, an old woman can’t enjoy thoughts of romance now and again?”

It wasn’t the thoughts that worried Sophie. Certain old women were known to be inveterate meddlers. “I don’t know about Cassidy Farrell, but Marcus will spit nails if you try to interfere.”

“There’s no need.” Moira was back to gazing mistily at her knitting. “The fates are working now, and I don’t think they’ve any need of help at the moment.”

Sophie wasn’t as convinced of the fates as their resident mystic—but she didn’t entirely discount them, either. “For now, she’s only a guest at the inn.” Her witchy status and future love life were entirely hypothetical.

And yet oddly appealing.

“Ah, now you’re seeing it, aren’t you?”

In her romantic teenager heart, yes. The adult healer still thought this was insane. “He practically ignored her.” In between occasional growls.

“Indeed.” Moira’s needles were speeding up now. “But his eyes drifted her way often.”

It chagrined Sophie to realize she’d missed that—after giving Marcus a graceful way to hide in the corner, her attention had largely been for their intriguing guest. She traced the rich old letters on the front of her herbals log. “Really.”

“Aye. She’s a woman used to having an audience, that one is.” The words were pensive, thoughtful. “Used to being looked at.” A tiny smile lit Moira’s face. “But I think perhaps she’s not used to being seen.”

The mystic was in full dudgeon today. But that didn’t mean she was wrong. Sophie considered the words carefully. If Moira was right, the next few days could get rather interesting.

Fisher’s Cove was very good at seeing people exactly as they were.

-o0o-

The inn might be in the middle of nowhere, but Cass knew a world-class innkeeper when she met one.

Aaron qualified. Outgoing, easy welcome, and laidback competence. And if the scones were any indication, Dave’s rival in the kitchen.

She might leave that last part out of her report back to Margaree. Or not—the Scots always appreciated a little friendly competition.

Aaron pulled out a couple of forms from behind a gorgeous vase of flowers, eyes twinkling. “I can offer you pretty much any room in the house. Will anyone be joining you while you’re here?”

Cass lifted her violin case. “Nope, just me and my fiddle. Will it be a problem if I practice in my room? I can keep it to standard daylight hours if I might disturb anyone else.”

Aaron’s eyes lit. “You play?”

“A little.” Her automatic answers kicked in as she leaned over to fill out the guest card. “You listen?”

“Yeah.” He shuffled papers behind the desk. “My grandparents live just outside of Margaree on Cape Breton. I spent summers with them as a boy. If you haven’t been out that way, some of the best fiddling in the world happens in that town.”

She looked up, intrigued by the connections. “I just came from there. Dave at the Normaway Inn sent me your direction.”

“Wow.” Aaron grinned, clearly honored. “I’ll see if I can whip up something for breakfast tomorrow that can hold a candle to his porridge bread.”

She’d landed in the right place—her certainty was increasing by the minute. “Don’t worry, I’m not a picky eater. Just a hungry one.”

“Noted.” He took her guest card, glancing at the details. And then his jaw dropped. “Oh, my God. You’re Cassidy Farrell.”

Okay, maybe this wasn’t quite the end of the earth. He most definitely knew who she was. “Yeah.”

“I knew I’d seen your face somewhere.” He took in her battered violin case with new eyes. “And that’s Rosie.”

Shoot, the last thing she needed was some innkeeper fretting about keeping her instrument safe. One too many articles about her million-dollar fiddle. The last guy in Maine had nearly driven her to drink. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep her close by. She’s my responsibility.”

He looked at her blankly.

Damn, she was getting paranoid in her old age. “Sorry. Some people seem to think she’s the queen’s jewels or something.”

“Ah.” He smiled and handed her a room key. “Those would be perfectly safe here too. Everything will be, whether you choose to lock your door or not.”

She grinned. “I usually forget.” The Irish were not big on locks and keys.

“Then you’ll be right at home here.” Aaron came around the desk and picked up her bag. “Your room’s on the second floor. It’s one of our smaller ones, but very cozy, and the best view in the house.” He headed up the stairs. “And it’s right above the desk here, so I might catch a few notes if you decide to do some practicing.”

He meant it. No stars in his eyes—just easy appreciation. The kind of fan she found in Margaree and not nearly often enough anywhere else. “That sounds perfect, thanks.”

His smile was growing on her already. “There’s nobody else here right now and we live in the cottage beside the inn, so feel free to play at whatever hours move you.” He took the stairs two at a time, just like her brother Rory.

Cass picked up Rosie and followed him. “I might take you up on that—I’m a bit of a night owl.”

He turned around on the top landing, eyes twinkling. “Well, you might find my wife or me wandering around then too. One or the other of our twins is often up in the wee hours.”

She never minded company. “If you’d enjoy it, I’ll bring my fiddle down to the kitchen later.”

The quick pleasure in his eyes told her what she needed to know. She’d be spending a lot of time in the kitchen.

It wouldn’t be a hardship.

She stepped through the door of the room he indicated and realized that it wouldn’t be a hardship either. Fluffy white sheets and colorful hand-knit throws pulled her, body and soul, toward a bed that was a tired musician’s dream.

Comfortable furnishings, bright splashes of color and old photographs on the walls, and a squishy round rug under her feet. “Oooh.” She turned back to Aaron. “I’ll be staying a few more days than however long I told you.”

She hadn’t said, and they both knew it. But she knew her innkeepers—he’d hear it as the compliment she meant it to be.

He grinned and backed out of the room. “You wouldn’t be the first. There’s food, fire, and curious villagers downstairs any time you want.”

She laughed. And, indulging her inner six-year-old girl, made a leap for the bed.

The landing was as soft as she imagined.

Relaxation in full progress. The man in the teal sweater and the rocks that thought he might be hers would just have to wait.

She had a nap to take.

-o0o-

For the first time in months, Marcus had no idea what to do with himself.

And a slightly crazed need to do something. He’d grown used to his nice, predictable days. Ones that didn’t involve strangers with green eyes and a mental signature that was still haunting his head.

He glared at his daughter, sound asleep in the corner. Abandoned in his time of need.

And then his brain caught up with its own ridiculousness. Morgan was fed and sleeping and his house was mysteriously empty of visitors, swarming children, or little old ladies looking for a cup of sugar or the latest gossip.

A miracle of major proportions.

Tiptoeing a tad belatedly, he made his way over to his easy chair and settled in with a very satisfied sigh. Peace. Silence and a new library book.

And an enormous, flashing icon on his laptop screen. A neon-pink one.

Marcus groaned—very quietly. It had clearly been too good to be true. He leaned over and squinted at the flashing pink. Urgent! Duel Issued!

He hadn’t visited Realm in months. Gaming was not designed for people with mobile babies. In the time it would take him to plan a decent invasion, Morgan could probably eat half the plant life in Fisher’s Cove.

He typed a quick reply. Go away.

Ginia’s preteen grin popped up on his chat screen. “Can’t. I need you.”

He hastily turned down the volume. “I don’t have time for duels, Warrior Girl.” Especially ones with the world’s best ten-year-old programmer. “Isn’t there anyone else left for you to pick on?”

She snickered. “I don’t want to duel you. I need you to be my partner. Realm’s having a tournament.”

He knew better than to take innocent looks at face value. “And why exactly would that be happening?”

“We planned it.” She shrugged. “It’s winter and all. Witches are bored. Besides, you can’t be a parent all the time—Mama says that would make anyone crazy.”

He wasn’t certain a trip to Realm was the cure for that. And he was most decidedly not bored. “Well then, how about you go find a partner who needs some excitement in their life and let me get back to the only hour of relaxation I will probably get all winter?”

Her eyes lit up. “You have a whole hour?”

“You aren’t listening to me, youngling.” He added a growl, expecting it to be entirely ineffectual. Nell Walker’s daughters didn’t scare, any of them. “Go find somebody else.”

“Can’t.” She tapped the pink spellcube. “We’ve already been challenged.”

He had no desire to spend his one free hour trampling over some dumb gamer silly enough to challenge Realm’s top two players. “I’m sure you can crush the upstarts without my assistance.”

“Not a chance.”

He frowned—Warrior Girl had wicked gaming skills, and she knew it. “Who issued the challenge?”

“Kevin.”

The boy was developing a nice game—but he was no idiot. Marcus felt disquiet creep into his gut. “And who’s his partner?”

She looked at him sideways. “The Wizard.”

Disquiet landed with both feet. “Your mother’s in the tournament?”

“Yup.” Ginia grinned and added a shine spell to her sword. “She said Kevin made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. And she has a right to wrong. Something about librarians and bushes.”

Demon wings and bat dung. “Your father’s playing too?” The Hacker’s exploits were legendary in any gaming era.

“I told you. Everyone’s playing.” She glared at him down the full length of her sword. “And I don’t intend to lose.”

He made a brief wish that one day Morgan might have a fraction of Ginia’s confident grace. And then gave in. A duel might even keep his mind off of green Irish eyes.

He raised an eyebrow at his screen. “Well then, we’d better formulate a plan. Your keep or mine?” The pub would be far too full of spies and eavesdropping spells.

“Mine.” Her eyes danced a happy jig. “Yours is full of pink bunnies.”

He kept the curses inside his head.

Mostly.

-o0o-

Moira watched their guest from the hallway a moment—it wasn’t everyone who could sit so quietly. Or look like they could lift off into the sky at any moment. A wanderer, this one was. “It’s turned into a stormy day out there.” The rain had blown in quickly—and it hadn’t taken much to convince Moira to sit out the bluster in the inn’s parlor.

Guests were particularly cherished on an inhospitable winter’s eve.

Cass looked over from her perch on the window seat. “I like the storms. They remind me of home.”

“Ah, and where’d you grow up, then?” Moira set down the tea tray, ready for a good Irish conversation—the kind that lasted for hours and went nowhere in particular and everywhere important.

“County Galway. Mum and Da are still there. My sister Bri’s in Dublin, and Rory flits around depending on his mood. He has a lot of them.”

Moira thought of Marcus and chuckled. There was always a moody one somewhere in the family tree. “Do you go back to see them often?”

“When I can.” Cass turned, finally noticing the tea. She unraveled from her neat ball on the low bench and glanced back out the window one last time. “When I’m on this coast, I always like to go to the beach and imagine them standing there waving, just beyond the horizon.”

For fifty years and more, Moira had done exactly the same thing. “Will you ever move back?”

“No.” The answer came swiftly, and with sadness. “I left because times were tough and musicians a dime a dozen. And grew up into someone else while I traveled the world. When I go back, it feels like the home of my childhood.”

But not the home of the woman grown. That, too, Moira could understand. “So where is home now?”

“I don’t know.” Cass seemed surprised by her words—or perhaps only surprised that she’d spoken. “I have an apartment in New York, but I hardly ever see it.”

Ah. A plant without roots, then. Moira sipped her tea and watched their guest stir in milk and sugar. Very interesting indeed. “And what brought you to our little corner of the world?” Fisher’s Cove in March was about the furthest thing possible from a tourist destination.

“Dave in Margaree recommended it.”

That much had already been traveled through the grapevine. It was the layers underneath that interested Moira now. “It’s not a common time of year to be visiting Cape Breton, either.”

Green eyes looked up from tea making. “No, it’s not.”

The invitation to talk had been issued—and anyone who’d grown up in Ireland would know that. Moira contented herself with her own cup and waited.

“It’s the quiet months for fiddlers.” Cass shrugged. “I take a couple of weeks in the summer to go back home, too, but this is the time I take just for me. I don’t mind the weather.”

It was so lovely to hear the song of home in someone else’s voice, muted by years abroad though it was. “Make a living with your music, do you?”

“Mostly.” The visitor’s smile seemed laden with words unsaid.

“It’s a good occupation for a wanderer.”

“My nan calls me that.” Cass’s head tipped to the side. “She’s the one who put a violin in my hands, too.”

A grandmother after Moira’s own heart. “She sounds like an interesting woman.”

“In another time, she’d have been a warrior priestess, I think.” Cass grinned. “Or a bard.”

“A singer, is she?”

“Aye. Says she turned me to the fiddle to cover up the creaks as her voice grew old.” Their visitor settled back into the couch, love for an old Irish gran shining in her eyes. “She can still stop a pub dead in its tracks with just a few notes.”

In Ireland, there was no larger compliment. “It’s a great gift she gave you, then. A love for music and a way to make your own.”

Green eyes sharpened. “You see very clearly for someone I’ve just met. Nan would like you.”

It was time to press a little deeper. “Is she the one who taught you of power and magic as well, then?”

Blank shock hit Cass’s face, followed quickly by intrigue and a heaping dose of curiosity. “You’re a witch?”

Moira nodded and sipped her tea. “A bit of one.” Time to see how well the girl knew her lore. “I’m a Doonan. My gran was a Gaughran.”

“My nan is a Cassidy,” said her namesake quietly.

Ah. The healer clan. The girl wasn’t only named for her hair, then. Life was such a gorgeous tapestry sometimes. Moira smiled at the woman who was the latest bright gold thread in the weaving. “And is it her talent you carry in your veins?”

“No.” Cass shook her head slowly. “Not the healing, anyhow. I hear the rocks a bit, that’s all.”

It was another of the hereditary talents of the Cassidy clan. Mystics, ones who heard the heartbeat of the stones under their feet. It fit—the old magics had heralded her arrival. “Well then, Cassidy Farrell, a very special welcome to Fisher’s Cove. We’ve witches aplenty here—and a village well tolerant of our magics.”

And no witch who listened to the rocks had possibly come here by accident.

Moira cradled her tea, very well pleased.