by Debora Geary
“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 o
f 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.
Chapter 4
An Irish traveler, following her heart. Cass looked out the window of her sporty ride, watching the steady flow of traffic across the bridge in the other direction. It wasn’t exactly a dusty road and a rucksack.
But still, she walked the path of generations that had gone before. The footloose. The restless souls. Those with stories to tell and a need to move to do it.
It had always perplexed her parents, much as they loved her. Only her nan had understood—the grandmother who could count on one hand the number of times she’d left the village of her birth. It had been Nan who stood quietly at the window the day Cass turned nineteen, letter from Juilliard in her hand, and told her to go. To walk the road she needed to walk.
Juilliard had only lasted six months—but the road had stretched out twenty-six years now. Mile after mile, the first ones full of Ramen noodles and cheap bus tickets, the last ones well supplied with beef stew and good chocolate.
Cass grinned as a blast of icy wind pummeled the side of her car and hoped the bridge was built on good Nova Scotia rock. Hell of a day for a walkabout, even with Dave’s care package riding on the seat beside her.
But the need to go had been clear.
The purple light had gone off on her computer right after she’d packed her bag to leave in the morning. Maybe she’d scared it off with her fancy new firewall—but her heart couldn’t shake the conviction that it quietly approved of her travels.
A little tugboat whose work was done.
And Dave’s care package had been on the table when she’d come down for breakfast.
But it was the rocks that had spoken most firmly. Across the waters and not much farther.
She looked out the window at the expanse of gray ocean rolling under the bridge. Water nearly crossed. So long as there was food and a little peace and quiet on the other side, she’d let all the little tugboats in her life guide her feet for a while.
Her cell phone rang as she reached the edges of Halifax. Damn—she must be getting reception again. She picked it up without looking. “Hello, Tommy.”
“About time you picked up. How’s life in the middle of nowhere?”
His growl sounded like second-generation Mafia—probably on purpose. As a B-list actor, he’d played all the accented tough-guy parts. Fortunately, that was as far as mediocre talent and a big nose had been able to take him. However much he annoyed her, he was an excellent manager.
And a good friend. One who understood her need to head for the hills far more than he admitted. “It’s good. I’m recharging.”
“That’s the point, doll.”
She snickered. They both knew if he’d tried calling her “doll” in person, she’d have slugged him in his big nose. “I’ll be ready to go in three weeks, as promised.” April Fools' Day—it had somehow seemed appropriate. “What’s up?”
“You want the big stuff first, or the annoying piddly details?”
They had a deal—he had to handle ninety percent of the piddly stuff without bugging her, and she didn’t get to hang up when he needed an answer on the rest. “From the top.”
“The Kennedy Center wants you. Celtic gala, huge promo budget.”
Even for Cassidy Farrell, that was pretty big. And Tommy’s voice was suspiciously neutral. “Okay. What’s the catch?”
“They want you for a Thanksgiving deal. Late November. Kickoff to the holidays, all that. Let you dust off those carols you like playing so much.”
Ah. “That’s way past three months.” She had an ironclad rule—no booking gigs more than three months out. Her Irish soul couldn’t handle that much commitment.
“It’s the Kennedy Center, babe.” Sinatra voice this time.
He was trying to make her laugh—that meant it was a really big deal. “Did
they promise you Batman’s car or something?”
“Would it close the deal?”
Damn. That was serious. “Why this one?”
“Lots of money, lots of fame. Why else do we do this?”
It was easy to take Tommy at face value—she’d spent the first two years of their rocky professional relationship doing just that. “Something else is going on here, dude. Spill.”
Vague embarrassment filtered through her phone. “Nonna wants to hear you play again.”
Tommy’s very Italian grandmother had landed on the banks of New Jersey as a young girl and never left again. Claimed to have an allergy to trains, planes, and automobiles. And she loved every inch of her grandson’s big-nosed soul.
She also made a mean lasagna and mailed one out to Tommy every month, regular as clockwork. With instructions to share it.
Cass grimaced—and knew the deal was already done. “You should have led with that, you know.” She was good at resisting money and fame. Mafia grandmothers were a whole ’nother kettle of fish.
“You’ll do it?” The airwaves were back to gruff.
“Yeah.” She sighed. “Just this once.” Even ironclad had to bend sometimes.
Her phone was silent for a long moment. “Thanks.”
“I get a double helping of lasagna in April.” The Irish knew how to negotiate.
“Done.”
“Hit me with the rest.”
She made her way through Halifax and its quaint, oddly polite traffic circles, listening to a litany of tour minutia. Jonny’s new baby had arrived four weeks early. Missing snare drum. Bar in Portland promising the owner’s firstborn if she’d come back.
For Jonny, she listened as Tommy trotted out to the tour bus and found the blue-and-gold baby blanket squirreled away at the bottom of her knitting bag. Hopefully the baby would be a Notre Dame fan like his daddy. The drum could be replaced. And the guy in Portland had some of the best microbrew this side of Ireland. No promises, but he’d get a call the next time they headed west.
