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

by Debora Geary

  Ah. More going on than just the usual parenting slog. “It’ll work out. Morgan will keep you wrapped around that little finger of hers, and together, you’ll make it happen.” She thought of her triplets and smiled. “Trust me, they have minds of their own.”

  “But there’s all that girl stuff.”

  Nell resisted the temptation to make him squirm—he hadn’t been nearly as obnoxious as usual today. “I grew up with six brothers, and my girls have still managed to cover half my house in glitter glue and shiny things.” Maybe more than half.

  “But you’re a girl.” His cheeks reddened as he set their plates back down on the table. “I mean, a woman. But you were a girl once.”

  Nell hid a grin. Marcus’s happily sexist bubble was full of a lot of pinholes these days. “I wasn’t that kind of girl.”

  She moved the carrots from her plate to his. Cheese was orange—that was good enough. “It’s not our job to teach them about glitter and coordinating outfits. It’s our job to teach them to be loved and have generous hearts.”

  He scowled. “Glitter might be easier.”

  Nell picked up the cookie that had shown up along with the carrots and contemplated the man who thought his heart was lacking. “I have three girls you can borrow any time you like.”

  He nodded, distracted, eyes back on Morgan.

  And then turned to Nell again, eyes suddenly intent. “Thanks.”

  She blinked and chewed slowly on her cookie. Marcus Buchanan had figured out how to be a friend.

  Miracles really did happen.

  -o0o-

  Cass sat quietly, Rosie on her lap. She’d heard the notes of a musician hard at work and wandered in, looking for some musical company.

  And found a child playing.

  Or not quite a child. Ellie Brennan had been a fixture at The Barn ever since she was a baby. Fastest toddler in the nation, her father had called her.

  She wasn’t a toddler now. Brown waves of hair haloed a face of beauty and fierce concentration. Ellie Brennan was growing up.

  And if looking at her long, teenage legs and screaming pink fingernails hadn’t made that clear, the music pouring out of her fiddle would have.

  The talent wasn’t surprising—not in this town. Musical genius flowed in the Margaree water. But the focus was, and the finger calluses that spoke of long hours with fiddle strings underneath them. Cass had noticed those the night before when Ellie had been keeping the fiddlers’ glasses full.

  Now she knew that Ellie had the talent to match her calluses, and something else as well. The girl had been aware of Cass’s presence for almost ten minutes—and she’d stuck out her chin and kept fiddling. A very intentional performance.

  Talent and ambition, living strong in the girl who played and the woman who listened.

  For some, music was a hobby—a way to pass the time with friends and family. For Cass, it had always been a vocation, a calling, and occasionally a prison sentence.

  Listening to Ellie play was like visiting a time warp.

  Except Cass hadn’t been that good at twelve. Or remotely that determined.

  At twelve, playing her violin had been a very good way to get out of milking the cows, nothing more. At sixteen, it had been a way to avoid the overtures of Tommy Murphy, sixth-generation cow farmer and arrogant turd. And at nineteen, it had been her ticket over the waters.

  Away from the cows. Which probably made her current location a bit ironic.

  Ellie finished and set her violin on her knee.

  Cass had no idea where to start. “You’re very good.”

  A shy smile. “Buddy says maybe one day I’ll be almost as good as you.”

  “You’ve done more practicing.” Cass grinned wryly. “My double stops weren’t that good for another decade.”

  “Is that all it takes? Practice?”

  Most kids would have run screaming at the thought. And because this one hadn’t, Cass tried to be honest. “Nope. You need raw talent, which you have. Not everyone who practices can be the best.”

  Ellie stared solemnly for a while. “And?”

  The girl was no dummy. “And it takes some luck. The industry changes a lot. The audiences and the important people are a moving target.”

  “Buddy says smart people make their own luck.”

  That was an awful lot of support from the local legend. Buddy wasn’t one for fawning praise. Cass frowned—she was missing something. “Do you play something besides reels?”

  Now the nerves hit, great big waves of them. “Mostly I try to play what I hear.”

  A twelve-year-old virtuoso who couldn’t read music. Ireland was full of them—this side of the waters, not so much. “Well, you have lots to listen to here.”

  More nerves.

  Something else, then. “The first time I got up on a big stage, I thought I was going to puke.” Cass settled into her chair more comfortably.

  Curiosity poked through the nerves. “Did you?”

  “Yup.” Several times. “But not until I was finished.” Cass eyed the girl—time to see what she was made of. Nerves could kill a career as surely as lack of talent.

  Ellie stared. And then she picked up her fiddle, eyes flashing with twelve-year-old pride, and walked to the middle of the stage.

  The first three notes would have made angels cry. It wasn’t technique anymore, or the fiddling of a master rendered by twelve-year-old fingers. It was joy and yearning and the slow tumble of emotions that would rock the soul of anyone who had ever been a teenage girl.

  It was pure magic.

  Cass leaned forward, willing the notes to continue. This is what Buddy had seen. This wasn’t someone else’s work—it had Ellie Brennan soaked into every note.

  Cass let the music wash over her, the song of a heart that saw every possibility and danced to them all. A soul that had not yet chosen a road, but had the courage to do so. It was the kind of music that would bring ten thousand people to their knees in two measures—and kill the innocence of the bright child who had been able to create it.

  She took in a deep, shuddering breath as the notes came to a close. Ellie was a child—and one cradled in a place that would protect her innocence for as long as she let it. She’d need to leave eventually. If you wanted music to be the singular thing in your life, eventually you had to go. But no way was Cassidy Farrell going to walk her to the road. “You’re a composer.” It was a limp word for channeling the music of a thousand teenage heartbeats.

  “I like to improvise a little.”

  That was no improv. Cass knew polished brilliance when she heard it. But girls on the cusp of young womanhood were allowed a secret or two. “What do you want to do with it?” She was pretty sure she already knew—the answer had streamed from the music.

  “I want to travel like you do. Play for really big audiences.” Stars shone in the girl’s eyes.

  Cass just shook her head. That greener-grass thing had always been hard on Celtic souls. And music was a demanding passion. Often a selfish one. “The Barn’s pretty much the best audience there is.”

  “It’s just people.” Ellie sounded totally unimpressed. “And they hear me play all the time.”

  And didn’t appreciate her talent often enough. Cass knew how that felt. “Have they heard you play that?”

  Ellie shook her head slowly. “It’s not fiddling.”

  She didn’t have to say anything more. Not Celtic. Not tradition and roots. Not Margaree. Cass knew the unwritten rules. And she also knew the man who had the clout to break them. “Be ready to play it tonight.”

  Ellie’s eyes grew bigger than buckets. “At the square dance?”

  Cass only smiled and picked up her violin. “Help me warm up a little.” She grinned as her young companion rolled into a reel that would have made most grown fiddlers cry. Accepted the challenge, cranking Rosie up to speed in ten seconds flat.

  And pondered roads taken.

  Ellie aimed for the crossroads that had called to nineteen-
year-old Cassidy Farrell.

  And twenty-six years into that journey, of all the roads she traveled all year long, it was the few miles of detour to the middle of nowhere that she looked forward to most.

  Because, despite all the things two and a half decades had changed, she still lived for the music. Not the fame, not the accolades. The pure, glorious beauty of what she and Rosie could create together.

  And coming here helped her remember that.

  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 l
ocal 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.