A Celtic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 6) (12 page)

-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.

Chapter 9

Her fingers were creaking.  Cass ran Rosie through some light scales, trying to loosen the tightness.

She was getting old.  Once upon a time, all that ever hurt the morning after was her head.

The inn was quiet as a mouse and clean as a whistle—not a sign of the previous night’s entertainment.  Or of any living soul.  But Aaron had left out a plate of muffins and a note about cheese, fruit, and fresh orange juice in the fridge.

The innkeeper was sleeping in.

Cass wished she could do the same, but she’d been haunted her entire life by an internal rooster bent on getting up at the crack of dawn no matter what time she’d crawled into bed.  She should be grateful that dawn came so late at this time of year.

Her fingers had switched to random noodling, wandering over Rosie, picking out pleasing notes and little riffs of sound.  Ready to play.

Remembering Ellie’s glorious teenage musical angst, Cass let her hands continue to noodle, but with purpose this time.  Telling the story of Fisher’s Cove and the magic that resided here.

She resisted the harmonics that wanted to sound.  She didn’t want to hear about the man with the craggy eyes.  The light, bright notes that were Morgan, she allowed—the child wasn’t dangerous.

The rocks seemed amused.

Cass snorted and kept playing.

“That’s really different.” 

Quiet words from the doorway nearly got Rosie dropped on her head.  “Good morning—you’re up early.”

“Sean was snoring.”  Kevin grinned.  “And Aaron always leaves out breakfast in the kitchen.”

Ah.  That explained why the muffin plate held enough to feed half a village.  Likely it often did.  “Want to go scrounge?  I can probably scramble some eggs without poisoning either of us.”

“I can cook eggs.”  He shrugged diffidently.  “Maybe you can keep playing.”

Cass knew that look.  Almost-teenage boys weren’t the usual ones wearing it, especially when food called—but she knew when someone was smitten by the music.

And he’d been a steady audience at her feet the night before.

“How old are you?”  She sized up Kevin’s frame.

“Twelve.”

And not hit his teenage growth spurt.  Too small for Rosie, yet.  But it would be enough to give him a taste.  Cass held out her violin.  “Give her a try.”

Kevin practically stopped breathing.  “I don’t know how.”

“Of course you don’t.  Just try sliding the bow on the strings for a bit.”  Tucking Rosie under her chin, Cass demonstrated.  “See if you can get a pretty sound out of her.  Music’s just one pretty note connected to the next.”

Kevin took the proffered violin.  Set it carefully on his shoulder and reached for the bow.  And still holding his breath, laid it on the strings.

The first few notes sounded like a tortured cat—they always did.  Kevin giggled. 

Cass grinned.  “Try again.  Loosen your hold on the bow this time.  And be brave—Rosie likes a good, strong hand.”

Kevin tried again, his touch slightly less tentative.  The cat only sounded a little strangled.  Buoyed by progress, the boy kept sliding his bow across the top string.  One, single monotone note, reverberating in the inn’s silence.

Cass waited, patient—urging on his inner musician. 

Slowly, Rosie began to sound less like a cat and more like a fiddle.  Awakening.  And Cass saw what she’d already guessed was there.  Kevin’s posture was atrocious, his grip on the bow the stuff of teacher nightmares.  His arms were too short, and if he stuck his chin out any farther, he was going to drop snot into Rosie’s f-holes.

But his eyes were falling in love.  The rest could be taught.

She waited for a couple of passable notes, Rosie’s rich tones making the very best of a beginner’s first steps.  And then held out her hands.  “Here, let me show you how to change the notes a bit.”

Moving slowly, Cass laid her fingers down on the top string, working five notes up a scale and back down again.  Kevin’s eyes were glued to her movements.

She settled Rosie in his hands again.  “You try.”

He sorted out arms, bow, and fiddle and played a passable first note.  The second was flat enough to make them both wince.  Kevin yanked his finger up like he’d been shot.

Cass grinned—at least her impromptu student didn’t have a tin ear.  “Move your finger around a bit.  Can you find where it sounds right?”

It didn’t take him long—and his smile of satisfaction told her about more than his innate grasp of pitch.  Carefully, he set down a second finger, and this time, found where it belonged with impressive speed.

Slowly he worked his way up the five notes she’d played, straining a little on the tricky pinky finger.  Cass smiled and edged her way toward the door.  She wasn’t needed for a bit.  He had good ears—Rosie would teach him.

Her rooster had woken her well this morning.

Up the stairs she went, listening to Kevin’s painstaking notes.  And headed into her room, straight for the phone.  It was milking time and nobody answered, but she could leave a message.  “Mum?  Pack up Samantha, would you?  I think I’ve found her a new home.” 

Her three-quarter-sized student violin would be just right for Kevin’s lanky arms—and she was chock full of young-teen dreams.

-o0o-

Nell leaned back in her chair, fascinated.  And amused that no one in Fisher’s Cove was responding to her Internet pings.  Apparently they were all still sleeping.

She’d woken up early, courtesy of a sniffly little boy who’d needed tea, hugs, and a lullaby to send his germy self back to sleep.  Which had left his mama wide awake and bitten by the research bug.  Time to learn about their new witch.

Moira might ask the faeries—Nell was sticking with Google.

Cassidy Farrell was impressive.  A long and very successful career.  She’d won every award, charmed every head of state, Irish and otherwise, headlined every place worth playing.

They said she had the most talented fingers in a generation—and the hard-driving guts to take them where no one else could go.

None of which really told the story of what Nell had figured out in three minutes on YouTube.

Cass was magic.  Her music, even the grainy, tinny version on the Internet, was wild.  Deep.  The kind that yanked on you and made you dance and cry all at the same time.  And then teased you into laughter and started all over again.

In person, she would be irresistible.

“Researching the Sullivans?”  Daniel leaned over her shoulder and peered at the Irish genealogy site as he delivered an early-morning sandwich.

“Nope.”  She munched down the first bite of hoagie.  “Doing a little digging on our new witch.  Moira made some comment about her being well named, but I have no idea what she meant.” 

“Beats me.”  Daniel stole half of her sandwich.  “You coming back to bed?”

“Nope.  Too many dragons on the loose.”  The new release had been relatively uneventful so far, but Jamie had taken the night shift.  It was her turn, at least until the child labor woke up.

“Want help?”

She smiled—he’d always been happy to pitch in and code circles around misfiring witch mischief.  “I’ll let you know.”  Besides, he needed to save his strength—the great Realm Ides of March Duel kicked off in about three hours.

She pulled up YouTube again.  “Listen to this.”

It took four notes for the video to have her husband’s complete attention.  And she felt the same thing in his mind as her own.

Captivation.

From two people who rarely gave violins a second glance.

“That’s her?”  Daniel squinted at the screen, trying to make out the performer’s face. 

Nell switched to a tab that showed Cassidy Farrell in high-pixel glory.  Wild brown curls, green eyes, and a face that demanded you look.

Daniel’s summary was more succinct.  He whistled at the screen, long and low.

Yup.  By any objective standards, their Irish witch was hot.  Which kept threatening to give Nell a case of the giggles.  “Moira thinks destiny has delivered her for Marcus.”