A Celtic Witch

Chapter 8



It was a feast that would have done any Irish village proud. Cass looked up and down the table, taking in the still-steaming pots of lobster stew, rolls that smelled of yeast and heaven, and faces that looked sublimely happy to be helping themselves to both.

Aaron sat at one end, a small girl in his lap, a ladle in his hand, and a smiling wife at his elbow. Cass had already inspected the gorgeous necklace strung around Elorie’s neck. Bits of glass shaped by rocks, water, and time. Hopefully she’d be leaving with a dozen or so tucked in her bag. Messages of resilience—and little bits of treasure for her magpie heart.

“Have another roll, my dear.” Moira smiled from across the table, holding out a basket.

Cass had already demolished two while waiting for the stew to arrive. “Maybe I’ll wait a bit.”

“Can I have one, please, Gran?” Lizzie grinned up from a prized seat beside Cass. “Little witches need lots of calories so we don’t get cranky.”

Cass blinked. Even in Ireland, witchcraft was not spoken of so openly, and the girl was very young to have power.

“In that case—” A boy down the table, face dancing in mischief, picked up a second basket of rolls. “Have another one, Uncle Marcus.”

The whole table laughed at some sort of inside joke.

“Uncle Marcus can be kind of grumpy,” said Lizzie in a conspiratorial whisper.

That matched the lines on his face, but the man in question was clearly working fairly hard not to laugh at the scoundrel offering him a roll. Cass felt the tug of attraction and scowled. Men didn’t pull on her. Music did.

Lizzie took the proffered, butter-laden roll from Moira and dunked it in her stew. “I might even need another one. Sophie says I did really big magic with my potion this afternoon.”

“I’m sure you did, my dear.” Moira smiled fondly at the blonde child. “Was your potion a success?”

“I don’t know yet.” The imp factor in Lizzie’s eyes quadrupled. “I could give some to Sean for dessert. Sophie says if I’m really lucky, it might turn him into a frog.”

Most of the adults within hearing range chuckled, clearly well used to such possibilities. Marcus raised an eyebrow at the boy. “He might make a decent toad at that.”

It felt like something out of a Harry Potter novel. Cass glanced across the table at Moira. If the clan matriarch wasn’t disturbed by the easy talk of magic, perhaps it wasn’t the subject for hushed whispers it was at home. “Magic lives so openly here?”

Moira nodded and offered Cass the stew ladle. “At this table, always. And in this village. We are more circumspect in the wider world.”

Something in Cass yearned. And boggled. “Everyone here is a witch?”

“Nope.” Lizzie was halfway through her roll already. “Aaron’s not. And we don’t know yet about the babies. Morgan was a witch, cuz she was a traveler, but now she’s just adorable and maybe not a witchling anymore.”

Cass let the cheerful monologue flow over her, much as she did with a new piece of music. And tried to absorb the miracle of a table full of people with power flowing in their veins.

The rocks hummed quietly beneath her feet. And Cass, humbled by the gift they’d delivered, bent her head in apology.

Lizzie watched her quizzically. “Are you okay? You feel a little wobbly.”

Belatedly, Cass recognized the light buzz of a healing scan and raised an eyebrow at the small girl. “I’m fine, thank you.” And stirred up enough that she didn’t need a seven-year-old investigating.

“Uh, huh.” The child healer nodded seriously and picked up her spoon. “If you keep scowling like that, I have a potion that will fix you right up.”

The giggles were contagious—and most of them weren’t coming from the seven-year-old pixie. Cass grinned, enjoying the little girl’s big personality. “Quite the healer, are you?”

The serious nod wasn’t feigned this time. “I work hard, and Gran says I’m pretty useful already.”

By Irish-grandmother standards, that was high praise. It also suggested the village had a wealth of healers. “You’re fortunate to have someone close by to train you.” Girls and young women came from hundreds of miles away to spend a few days at a time with Nan, painstakingly learning the art, craft, and ancient psychology of healing magics.

Lizzie’s nod was that of a child well used to magical luxury. “Gran knows almost everything, and Sophie’s the best healer of anyone. Mike’s pretty good too, but he’s better with rocks and stuff.”

Cass’s fascination spiked. She looked down the table at Sophie’s husband. “What does he do with the rocks?”

“Melts them, mostly.”

Ah. That was rather a different kind of rock magic.

“Sean can melt stuff sometimes, too.” Lizzie aimed a dark look at the mischief-maker who’d held out the rolls basket. “But mostly he just causes other kinds of trouble—he’s a spellcaster.”

Those were rare as golden harps in Ireland—and as revered. The blond boy at the end of the table was clearly just one of the gang.

“Kevin’s his twin, but he mostly likes books and stuff. He can read minds and he’s a fire witch.”

Cass looked at the unassuming boy eating his lobster stew and wondered if he got overshadowed by his boisterous brother. Maybe not—he’d seemed quietly sure of himself on the beach.

All the children of Fisher’s Cove seemed rather convinced of their worth. It spoke worlds of their life here. She glanced at Moira, certain she knew where the heart of the village beat.

Moira nodded once. A matriarch accepting the unspoken compliment.

“We thought Elorie wasn’t a witch, but she’s got Net magic.” Lizzie continued on her journey of witch introductions. “That’s kinda new, so you might not have heard about it yet. She uses the Internet to make magic.”

Word had traveled. Cass filed it away to ask about later—perhaps here she’d get a better answer than Nan’s confused shrug and muttering about pixies in the computer.

A quick spoonful of stew, and then the litany continued. “Aislin and Lucas aren’t witches yet, but Gran thinks they might be, because twins often are, and they like to be cuddled a lot. And Adam likes to be outside a lot, and we all know what that means.”

Moira smiled. “It might only mean that he likes to be outside.”

Cass listened to the easy banter and the cataloguing of powers sitting around the table, fascinated by what it said of the place and the people who lived here.

And tried not to ask about the man who tantalized her most.

-o0o-

Once upon a time, Lizzie’s run-on conversations had been enough to tip Marcus’s brain off its axis in two minutes flat. And then, just like all the other intrusions that were a part of life in Fisher’s Cove, he’d gotten used to it.

But tonight, her chatter was tilting his mind again.

Not the words she said—but the ease with which she said them. In front of a stranger. Lizzie wasn’t an entirely unrestrained chatterbox. If she spoke this easily of magic, there could only be one reason.

The woman with the green eyes and the mind bent on living was a witch.

And she tilted things far less rational than his brain.

He listened to Lizzie’s carefree introduction of the magical powers at the table. Her guesses as to the babies’ future powers, her easy, childish summary of Mike’s phenomenal metallurgical talents. And waited for her to get to what he most wanted to know, caution warring with some reckless gene he’d never known he possessed.

Evan was supposed to have gotten that one.

He could hear his brother laughing in the distance.

Lizzie glanced at him, eyes full of mischief. “Uncle Marcus is our grumpy witch. He makes storms and stuff, and he can read our minds but he’s supposed to have good manners about that, and Gran says he’s going to be a decent earth witch someday if he ever bothers to practice.”

Moira’s delighted laughter blended with more controlled snickers from the rest of the table.

The requisite scowl required very little effort. “I’ve the earth powers of a gadfly, youngling.”

“Not anymore.” Lizzie grinned at him, doubling down on her position. “You’ve been blooming flowers all over the village. Sean and Kevin couldn’t do that, and Gran can only do it these days because the flowers love her so much.”

“Lizzie.” Sophie’s words were a quiet warning.

“She’s right.” Moira’s voice lacked any incrimination. “My powers wane, and anyone who tries to pretend they don’t does me no favors. I’ve lived a long life and used my small powers well. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, and much to be proud of.”

It occurred to Marcus, fighting off a sudden lump in his throat, that the opposite was true of his own life.

And then Morgan reached for his roll, and he remembered how much his life had changed.

Cass was watching him, eyes and mind curious. “The daffodils—they’re yours?”

He was capable of creating a class-three storm—and she wanted to know about his flowers. Marcus pulled off a small piece of roll for his daughter. “Morgan likes them.” It came out more gruffly than he intended.

And irked him to no end that even for a moment, he’d wanted to impress her.

“They’re lovely.” Her smile did things to his already off-kilter innards. “I froze my hands off touching their petals when I arrived.”

That was all he needed—another female in his life who lost her common sense over a few winter blooms. “Only an idiot forgets their gloves in this weather.”

She only laughed. “I’ve been called worse.”

Only by fools. She moved through the world with an ease that invited kinship, not derision. “It seems you’re not a fire witch, then.” He left the rest unspoken—somehow, pride wouldn’t let him entirely mimic a seven-year-old.

She shook her head, scooping more stew from the pot. “Not much of a witch at all, really. I feel vibrations from the rocks.”

He squinted—that sounded like New Age mumbo jumbo, not magic.

Mike looked a lot less skeptical. “You feel the mineral formations, or the rocks themselves?”

Cass blinked. “I don’t know, exactly. My nan always said it was the rocks speaking to me, but I don’t think that was meant to be a scientific explanation.”

“Hmm.” Mike scooped up the last of the rolls at his end of the table. “If you’d like to work together some time, I’d love to link with you and see what you’re reading.”

Their visitor looked entirely blank. “Link?”

Attention levels at the table increased considerably. As did caution. Witches suddenly being careful. Moira leaned forward. “Did you not do circle work where you’re from, my dear?”

Some of the confusion left Cass’s eyes. “The healers do a little. And we celebrated Sabbats in the forest, but I think that’s a different kind of sharing than what you mean.”

“Not so very different.” Moira’s smile calmed the nerves at the table. “We often work magic together as a group. You’d be very welcome to join in while you’re here, if you like. Circle work is good for the little ones.”

Marcus felt the spurt of laughter in their guest’s mind before he saw it on her face. And cursed. That was creeping dangerously close to mind-witch eavesdropping—he was doing a terrible job of keeping a polite mental distance.

He didn’t want to think about why.

Cass winked down at Lizzie. “I think that’s a polite way of telling me I need to practice.” She looked back up, more serious. “I don’t know that I’ve anything to offer a circle. My magic’s only ever been solitary.”

“I expect it’s somewhat like music.” Moira filled tea cups as she talked, speaking in the deliberately casual way that any resident of Fisher’s Cove would recognize as meddling on the prowl. “Very enjoyable alone, but you can do things together that a single musician can’t.”

It took a while for Cass to answer. And when she did, sadness tinged her eyes. “I usually play alone.”

“I heard you play with Buddy MacMaster once.” Aaron, at the far end of the table, spoke into the sudden silence.

The sadness fled, replaced by deep respect and her trademark soft joy. “He’s the best there is.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Aaron quietly. “But the two of you together were something very special.”

Marcus had no idea who this Buddy was, but Cassidy Farrell obviously loved him dearly. Her green eyes hummed with remembered happiness. “I played with him the night before I came down here. I’ll be headed back in a few days—if you have a Friday night free, you might come up.”

“The square dance.” Their resident chef nearly glowed. “I haven’t caught that in years.”

It irked Marcus to no end that he was now jealous of at least two men.

Aaron looked down at his hands, suddenly diffident. “Would you play for us a little after dinner? Only if it’s not too much trouble.”

A simple request from a man who never asked for anything. The table silenced—and Marcus was well aware he wasn’t the only one who would bodily toss Cass out if she said no.

Something she laid to rest easily and well. “About time you asked.” She grinned and pushed back her chair. “Let me go get Rosie.”

Marcus watched her go and sighed. Her easy generosity wasn’t settling his innards any.

-o0o-

Sophie felt it the moment Cass’s first notes drifted through the parlor. A quiet tugging.

Something settling into place.

She stopped in the middle of the genial melee, attention drawn by the shifting. People moved around her, finding a comfortable chair or piece of floor, or in the case of the younger and more energetic, clearing a path for fun and dancing.

Her senses stretched, seeking the mysterious thing that had brushed against her magic. Too many bodies in the way. Her healer scan tried to move around the ebb and flow of heartbeats and channels and human energies.

No dice.

And no matter. Sophie let it drop. Her belly was full and a night of music awaited—two reasons to be content in the tangible and the real tonight. She surveyed the room, looking for her son and a comfy cushion to sit on.

And saw her husband, Mike, standing dead still in the middle of the room, head cocked. Listening.

She slipped through the growing crowd, curiosity more deeply tweaked now.

He saw her coming and smiled. “Feel it, do you?”

She nodded and turned, checking in with the other earth witches in the room. Moira, Kevin, Lizzie, Marcus—all apparently undisturbed.

“Sean noticed,” said her husband softly. “Not enough to stick with him, but he nearly walked into a lampshade when Cassidy started playing.”

Sophie frowned. “You think it’s related to her music?”

“Has to be.” His eyes drifted closed. “Can’t you feel it? She plays in time to whatever it is.”

Whoa. “All I feel is a gentle tugging.”

One of his eyes slid back open. “No, it’s got a beat. A rhythm. It rises and falls with her music.”

She and Mike were both earth witches, and both healers—but there the similarities stopped. Her affinities were for plants and green things, heartbeats and brain neurotransmitters. Ephemera. Things with short, precarious life. Her husband’s magics were for things more eternal. Bones and genes, metals and rocks.

And of all the Fisher’s Cove witches, it was Sean who most shared his magic.

How music fit into all of that, she had no clue. “Any idea what it is?”

Mike shook his head slowly, eyes suddenly glued to something on the other side of the room. “No. But whatever it is, our son feels it too.”

Sophie’s head snapped around in the direction of her husband’s gaze. And found Adam, the boy who hated crowds and noise, sitting up in Moira’s arms.

Alert, happy, and enthralled by the music.

-o0o-

Moira treasured every moment the universe allowed her to stay amongst the living—but some were particularly special.

Somehow, on this bleak evening in March, she’d tumbled into one of them.

The music of faeries and angels weaved through the room, teasing some, waking others. Calling. Enticing.

There was magic in Cass’s bow—of that, Moira’s Irish heart had absolutely no doubt. Talent, to be sure, and hours of fierce and focused practice. But Cassidy Farrell had been born to lift her dear sweet fiddle to her shoulder and make people laugh. Weep.

Dance.

Already the feet were moving, and given the close quarters of the village and the local penchant for joy, there would be more feet arriving shortly.

But while she awaited their arrival, Moira basked in the small miracle happening right in her lap. Adam was a baby that most would have called difficult. Restless. In some of Ireland’s darker days, perhaps even possessed.

A boy not comfortable in his own skin.

A comfort beyond the ability of the healers of Fisher’s Cove to give him—they’d tried. And Moira was quite sure Sophie tried far more often in the wee hours of the night than she admitted. Love would demand it.

Moira kissed the head of the small boy in her lap. He’d been there when the music started, restless as usual. Momentarily distracted by the shiny pendant she’d worn just for him. Aching for the outside, just as he always did.

And then Cass had begun to play.

An old healer’s hands knew what it was to feel a soul relax. Patients did it when the pain went away. When sleep overtook. Or when death paid a final visit to one ready to go. The soul of the bright, alert boy in her lap had answered Cassidy’s music with that same exhale.

Old witches knew how to accept glorious gifts and not ask for more. But as Sophie and Mike gazed on their sweet boy, Moira offered up a prayer anyhow.

For the music. And the child. And the parents who loved him.

-o0o-

Cass collapsed into bed, utterly exhausted—and mind going a thousand miles a minute. She’d played for six hours straight. Not a record, by any means, but enough to feel it right through her body.

She hadn’t had the heart to stop.

Kevin had sat at her feet most of the night, mesmerized, a parade of little ones taking turns in his lap.

Moira had beamed from her place of honor on a large sofa, clearly the center of all that happened in this out-of-the-way village.

A smiling Aaron had seen to it that Cass had plenty of snacks, water, and an excellent Guinness to cap off her night.

And Marcus of the craggy face and mysterious eyes had watched from the corner, Morgan never far from his side. Her griffin—her protector. There was a story there. She remembered a baby Nan had delivered, a tiny thing who had survived through sheer guts and a very long week of medicine and magic that had flattened any healer within fetching distance.

The babe had been fine—tough and fiery and adorable. And his mama had lurked over him just like Marcus shadowed his purple-eyed girl. Love tinged with fear.

Cass shook her head, sinking deeper into the soft pillow. Rosie was seeing things again. Maybe Marcus was just a little overprotective.

She sighed. There had been plenty of tugs from the rocks, and from the man as well. None of which fit the life of an itinerant musician looking for a few weeks of peace.

Brooding men were not on the menu.

She smiled up into the darkness, pushing away the notes of discontent. They weren’t right for this night. The evening had been wonderful. Full of people-watching—always one of her favorite pastimes, and that alone would have kept bow to strings for an hour or two.

But it had been the dancers who had kept her blood beating fast and her fingers flying into the wee hours. Cape Breton was full of Celts—the Scottish kind. Her Irish soul had jumped in delight when young Lizzie had stood up and started a proper Irish reel.

And then they’d started walking in the door—strangers with faces that spoke of long days outside and hands that spent many hours pulling nets and tending hearth and home.

But oh, they could dance. The reels and clogging and jigs of her childhood. A village driving winter away with the pounding rhythm of their feet. The inn had been stuffed to the gills and then some—when she’d stepped outside to catch a moment of frigid night air, several hardy souls had been dancing on the porch.

So she’d grabbed Rosie and played a jig for them before heading back inside.

Cass chuckled up at the ceiling. She might have resisted the temptation of dancers and babies with big eyes, but Rosie had no self-control at all. Her fiddle had a true Irish heart.

And her fiddle loved it here in Fisher’s Cove.

It was always good for a traveler to find another place she was welcome. A way station. The good ones were a place to rest her feet and fill her belly. The truly great ones restored her soul.

She rolled over onto her side and plumped the pillow under her head. This one had excellent promise.

With a last sigh, Cass drifted off to sleep, ignoring the persistent, gentle tugging of the rocks. If they had something to say, they were darn well going to have to speak louder.