by Debora Geary
And underneath it, a longing so fierce, so bright, it was a wonder the wall hadn’t melted.
It gave her heart such great, galloping hope. There was no one who more deserved to be blindsided by something he fiercely wanted than her nephew.
Moira stepped forward, holding on to his stalwart strength as she slid out of her boots. “Come. Show an old lady to her seat.”
It was a measure of their years together that he did as she asked. And a measure of something entirely different when his hand shook as he did it. Together, they walked into the parlor, one beautiful, scared man and the old woman who loved every inch of his cranky heart.
She wasn’t surprised at what they found inside. Morgan was sitting on top of the table, her red curls leaning over Cass’s fiddle. Their visitor sat in a chair, doing a skillful job of keeping her bow out of the toddler’s nose.
Lovely, dancing notes streamed from Rosie—and Morgan was enthralled.
Her father, however, was not. Marcus made it to his daughter’s side in three short steps, nearly yanking her off the table. “She’ll go deaf sitting that close. And the table top is no place for a child.”
Moira winced, at both the tone and Morgan’s wails.
Cass was made of sterner stuff. She looked up at the cranky man hovering over her. “She wanted to see.”
Marcus’s face blackened. “She’s a baby. Much of what she wants is completely irrational.”
The baby in question was quieting now, her attention caught by the interplay in front of her. Moira hid a smile—perhaps Morgan had some Irish blood in her veins after all.
“If I’d let her drink my coffee, you’d have the right to take that tone with me.” Cass’s eyes snapped fire.
An explosion built in the man she stared down. Young and old watched, fascinated.
And then Cass reached out a hand and touched her fingers to his. “She was hoping for some music, I think. Why don’t you sit with her and I’ll play a little for the two of you?”
The giant crumbled. Marcus nearly fell into the straight-backed chair behind him, eyes never leaving the green-eyed Irish witch who’d knocked him over.
Moira sat down on the couch, her own knees none too steady. There were very few people who could breach the thick walls of Marcus Buchanan’s fortress.
And Cassidy Farrell had done it with the touch of her fingers.
-o0o-
He must have the flu.
Marcus sat in a hard chair, squirmy daughter in his lap—and felt like he’d been hit with a bubonic plague spell.
Hissing water ran in his veins, overheating and pushing painfully against the natural order of things. His head radiated shades of the terrible morning after the night he’d discovered bourbon. And something slimy and green threatened just on the edges of his vision.
He shuddered, a man overwhelmed with his own weakness.
Cass raised her violin to her shoulders, a witch oblivious to the devastation she’d caused.
Marcus would have run if his legs had still been attached. Or if his daughter hadn’t cuddled into his chest, soft cheeks glowing as she waited for Rosie to sing.
With eyes only for the child, their visitor began to play, a lilting, light melody that spoke of flowers and meadows and days filled with sunshine.
It delighted Morgan.
And it drained the last drops of blood from Marcus’s heart.
-o0o-
Another ten seconds and her teeth were going to freeze.
Too damn bad.
Cass angled into the twists and turns of the road heading south and hoped the garda were sitting somewhere snug by a fire. They might consider her speed a little extreme.
Her hair streamed behind her, glorying in the sudden, unexpected winter freedom. Ten thousand tiny pricks of salt mist lanced her face, scrubbing skin and washing away the trail of frustrated tears that had exploded as she’d left.
Fisher’s Cove had welcomed her, enticed her. Filled her belly with good food and put a soft pillow under her head. Assembled themselves into a gorgeous dancing, living, delighting audience for her music.
And then they’d dropped her headfirst into a pot of boiling water.
She resisted the urge to stomp on the gas pedal any harder. Her mission was escape, not suicide.
Another mile of desolate coast streamed by, the emptiness gradually soothing the wild beast clawing in her chest. Cass reached up a hand to make sure her ears were still attached—and then, with a sigh, rolled up the windows.
A forty-four-year-old woman could only throw a tantrum for so long. And even if her ears didn’t need it, the car’s snazzy red leather interior probably didn’t appreciate the frozen, pelting salt.
The sudden quiet assaulted her—and let the mind garbage she’d been trying to blow away come rolling back.
Sophie’s gentle, insistent offers of friendship and the unspoken pleas on behalf of her beautiful boy.
Cass had no idea how to help him—just the pressing feeling that she should.
Kevin, and his mute desire to learn how to play.
And the man with the gruff manners and the gentle soul. Such a mass of contradictions. Rosie’s music had pulled him into the room, but his eyes had blazed with the need to run. Fierce and proud—but a simple touch had scared him silly.
A man who invited no one into his life. And she had the insane urge to push her way in anyhow.
Dammit, she was a musician. A free spirit who had been happy wandering the roads for twenty-six years. A woman who had chafed under the pressures and demands and commitments of a close-knit community in a land not so very different from this one.
The music that surged in her veins didn’t leave room for a life like that.
Tears pricked Cass’s eyes again. And this time, she knew they needed release. With the exaggerated care of someone toppling-over drunk, she pulled over to the side of the road. Not that it mattered—she hadn’t seen another car in more than an hour.
Stumbling, vision blurred, she headed across the rocks to the lonely beach.
Solitude. Not an easy thing to come by in the tiny village by the sea. They lived together, ate together, chased small children together.
Did magic together.
She’d felt that awesome communion with others before. Musicians—good ones—did it all the time. It was a big piece of what pulled her back to Margaree for three weeks every year.
And a big part of what chased her away the other forty-nine. Music didn’t share like that. Not hers—it never had.
The rocks under her feet were a minefield now, grabbing at her toes. She couldn’t run even if she knew where to go. Cass slowed, swiping at the tears. Hating the need for them.
She’d always been quick to cry, even for someone born in the green hills of Ireland. But she wasn’t weak. Three weeks of the year she softened. Opened.
And somehow, this time, her soft nest had been tipped over.
But life wasn’t always fair, and usually Cassidy Farrell knew how to dust her knees and get back up.
Calmer now, she sat down on a large boulder and waited for the rocks to scold. To tug. And finally to soothe.
All her life, they’d offered her comfort.
Now, they only hummed. A quiet, monotonous sound that didn’t have any answers at all.
Chapter 12
The next time she ran away from home, she needed to pack food. Cass’s stomach had yelled at her all the way back to the village. Almost loudly enough to drown out the sixteen voices fighting in her head.
Aaron set a tray on the kitchen table, loaded down with a mouthwatering array of snacks and two cups of tea.
Cass eyed the second cup with unease. She wasn’t ready to deal with the wise and needy hearts of Fisher’s Cove just yet. Even the nonintrusive ones. “You joining me?”
“No.” He unloaded the tray with easy grace. “We had a second guest arrive today. She says she knows you.”
“She does,” said a voice from the hall.
“Ah, now. Shoosh, shoosh.” Strong hands patted her head, much as they always had. “It’s so very good to see you, a leanbh mo chroí.”
Good didn’t begin to describe it. Cass pushed back and looked at Nan’s lined, twinkling face. “What are you doing here?” Nan Cassidy left her village only rarely. To travel across the ocean was tantamount to space travel.
A smile slid into place under damp eyes. “I heard you wanted your old violin. She’s upstairs in my room, waiting for you.”
It didn’t begin to compute. “I meant for Mum to mail it.” Not send an eighty-two-year-old woman as fiddle courier. Not that it had likely been Mum’s idea.
Nan’s eyebrows pulled together. “You’ve been away from home for twenty-six years, Cassidy Meagan Farrell. And not once in all that time have you asked for Samantha. I came to see why.”
Oh, crud. Cass squirmed away from the wise steel in her grandmother’s eyes. “There’s a boy here who likes the music. I thought he might like a chance to play, that’s all.”
“Mmm.” Someone was entirely unconvinced. “And there are no music stores in this great land, is that it? Or you’re short on pennies to buy the boy a violin?”
She’d bought more than one over the years, for eager eyes all over the continent. And it truly hadn’t occurred to her to do so this time. Cass blinked. “I just… Samantha’s a good violin. She deserves to be played.”
“Indeed.” Nan helped herself to a muffin. “We’ve hardly let her sit in a closet and molder. She’s gotten two fine musicians off to a nice start.”
That possibility hadn’t occurred to Cass either. “Oh, no—was someone using her?”
“No, child.” Nan patted her hand. “Don’t you fret about that. She was sitting idle in my spare bedroom. Waiting for that boy of yours, I expect.”
It kind of felt that way. Which didn’t ease the voices in Cass’s head any. And she was still feeling gobsmacked. “You’ve never left Ireland. You hardly ever leave the county.”
Nan smiled gently. “I go where I’m needed.”
That usually meant sick patients or breeding cows. Cass frowned, very sure she was neither. “You felt pulled here?” No one questioned Nan’s instincts—she’d saved countless lives showing up moments before the crisis arrived.
“No one is ailing, girl.” The hand reaching for hers was warm and sure. “I came to see you. The rocks were calling.”
Damned interfering boulders. Cass squeezed back, so very glad to see the person she loved most in all the world. And for the first time in her life, truly cursed the rocks and their antics.
-o0o-
Such a delight it was to have a guest at her table who spoke in the melodies Moira had grown up with. Especially one with a desire to chat—it was hardly an accident that Nan had shown up on her doorstep not two hours after she’d arrived. And come alone.
Moira sat down, tea happily steeping in two cups. “I’ve a lovely scone or two, if you’re wanting something to eat.”
“Perhaps by and by. Young Aaron took good care of my stomach. He’s a good man, he is.”
Aaron was one of Fisher’s Cove’s best treasures. “Wait until you taste one of his stews.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it.” Nan’s smile spoke of more than just the stew. She looked out the window at the mostly dormant gardens. “You came over the waters, just like my Cassidy.”
She had. “Aye, but without her talent. She must make you very proud.”
“She does.” Eyes gleamed bright with it—and with sadness. “I miss her dearly every day that she’s gone.”
Such love. Moira reached out a comforting hand. “She’s a traveler still seeking roots, I think. Perhaps she’ll yet find her way home.” They both knew it was a lie—but the Irish knew the value of one that comforted.
“She has a heart with a singular focus. I believe she’ll settle when her heart is ready to make space for more.” Nan looked out the window again. “You’ve grown strong roots here. Hardy ones that still love a bit of pretty frippery now and then.”
Conversational meandering—it was the way of their people. “Aye. Nothing wrong with a pretty bloom or two.”
“Or a glass of good green medicine, I’ll wager.” Nan shifted her gaze from the window and winked. “Miss Lizzie took me on a tour of your herbals pantry. You teach the old ways here.”
Moira chuckled. “Don’t be telling our wee girl that.” Their youngest healer fancied herself a modern scientist these days, and they were doing their best not to disabuse her of the notion. Herbal lore was a long road of learning, and anything that kept a student’s feet happy on the journey was welcome.
“The traditions die, even at home.” Deep-green eyes swam with power and heartache. “What you do here, it pleases me greatly to see. A home for the old magics.”
And some of the newest, but today wasn’t the time to chat of Net power and the like. “Your Cassidy has some of the old in her veins.”
“She does.” Caution now, from a witch long used to taking care with what she knew.
Not everything Irish was wonderful.
Moira silently blessed the pragmatic, tolerant villagers of Fisher’s Cove who lived peaceably with the witches in their midst, happy for a glass of the green if they ailed and always ready with a cookie or two for a hungry witchling. She studied her old and wily guest and took a cue from her Nova Scotia villagers. They never used three words where one would do. “Is she a healer?”
Nan blinked at the directness. “My Cass?”
It was time to lay her cards on the table. “She’s meant to be here. You know that as well as I do.”
The nod came very slowly—but it came. “Yes. The rocks are strong here.”
Moira smiled. “We’re a bit of a haven for those with earth magics.” Even old bachelors unimpressed by their new powers.
“Perhaps her heart readies after all.” Nan nodded slowly. “She will surpass me—I no longer know where her magic goes.”
“I’ve some experience with that.” So many with such talent through the years, and each one so very dear to her heart. “But that doesn’t mean a couple of old Irish grannies are entirely useless.”
Nan smiled, one crone to another. “Old, I’ll give you. But there’s power in these hands yet, and craftiness.”
Good. They understood each other. Moira stood up to collect the tea. “Help me understand your Cass, then.”
Gnarled hands reached for the sturdy mug. “She was born on the spring equinox, forty-five years ago, in the midst of a raging storm.” Eyes glistened in memory. “It was a difficult birth, but my daughter knew how to bring a child into the world. And when that little bundle landed in my hands, I could see power shimmering on her like a halo.”
Something all the old midwives watched for—it had long been those babes who faced the most dangerous lives. Not everyone loved a child with the ancestral powers. “It runs in your family.”
“Aye. We’re hereditary witches. Kitchen witches and healers, mostly, with the occasional wee one who’s fey.”
Old words for mind magic. Moira nodded, recalling her sense of Cassidy Farrell. “It’s something different your granddaughter’s got.”
Nan’s brows flew up. “And how would you be knowing that?”
Moira held out her palms “As you said, there’s power in these hands yet. I’ve a little earth magic and healing. I’d know those in your Cass.”
Again, the slow nod, and a careful sipping of tea still piping hot. Nan’s gaze gravitated to the garden once again. “You’ve the magic of plants and growing things.”
“Yes.” Comprehension dawned, and more old words. “You’ve the rock magics.” A healer of Mike’s ilk, then.
“You know of them.”
Moira smiled. She probably knew more of them than almost any witch living. “I’m a bit of a historian when I’m
not out talking to my flowers. The Cassidy clan has long been known for hearing the rocks.” She considered her next words carefully. “What lives in Cass is stronger than that, no?” Mike had been awed by what he’d seen—and he wasn’t easily impressed.
Something akin to fear hit Nan’s eyes. “I believe so.”
“She’s safe here.” Moira spoke with the assurance of fifty Fisher’s Cove winters at her back. “We’ve some experience with witches of unusual strength.” That was an understatement—more power visited her kitchen every day looking for cookies than could be found in most of Ireland.
Nan looked down and spoke so softly her words were almost swallowed by the tea. “I fear for what will be asked of her.”
Crones didn’t dodge hard truths. “She’s had a long time to prepare.”
“Perhaps.” The words were quiet now, with much history behind them. “Time doesn’t always make a heart ready.”
Moira thought of Marcus, stuck for half a lifetime. And Aervyn, asked to be so much, so quickly. Elorie, who had waited with a ready heart for far too long. And young Ginia, at ten, ready to face her destiny with more courage than most witches ever found in their lifetime. She sipped her tea and met her visitor’s eyes. “Aye. But you raised her right.” It was a grandmother’s highest compliment.
“It was a long time ago that she was mine.”
“I know.” Moira looked out at her own garden, the place she’d nurtured for nigh on fifty years. “But good roots matter.”
-o0o-
Perhaps she wouldn’t be home. Marcus gritted his teeth and made his way to Moira’s back door, fairly certain he wouldn’t be so lucky.
All he needed was a damned egg. Which he would have plenty of if the cooks of Fisher’s Cove didn’t use his kitchen as the local grocery store. Aaron had swiped his last half dozen less than an hour before Morgan had tugged sweetly on his pants and asked for “awfuls.”
Google had come up empty—waffles either required eggs or bizarre ingredients that he was very sure did not live in his cottage.
