by Debora Geary
And raged.
She had no words. Only fury and torment.
Chapter 20
It hadn’t taken much work to find their wounded Irish witch. Lizzie and Kevin had been sitting sentry duty at the bottom of the stairs, their eyes hurting. Respecting the privacy of a witch whose heart was cracking.
So many had fallen in love so quickly.
And if Moira’s instincts told her right, she was about to add to the hurt.
She paused at the top of the inn’s main staircase, catching her breath and checking in with the healer’s wisdom that had guided her path for so many years. Sometimes pain was necessary to make things right—but it still made her shudder to do it.
She made her way along the hallway on the second floor, reaching out to touch the bits of beauty Aaron had adorning walls and various nooks and crannies. He was a man who understood the value of nurtured roots.
It was time another soul heard that message.
Moira rounded the corner to the reading nook, a great gray expanse visible through the panes of glass. Cass sat huddled in a corner of the window seat, a picture of misery.
And covered in three wooly blankets, all knit by witchy hands.
Moira touched the top one, a swirling mix of lavender and teal. “Sophie dyed the yarn for this one. I knit it up myself last winter.” Good and warm, which was useful after you’d fled out into the winter’s cold half-dressed.
The eyes that tipped up to hers had long since run out of tears. “I screwed up.”
“Perhaps.” Moira took a seat—close enough for comfort, far enough away not to push on a fragile heart. “Or perhaps not.”
Cass stared out the window, her eyes as bleak as the landscape. “I make friends easily, everywhere I go.”
It was the way of the bard. “That’s not a failing, my lovely girl.”
“They’re going to hurt when I leave. Not just Morgan. Kevin, too.” Cass swallowed hard. “They’re just children—I forgot how easily they love. It didn’t occur to me to take more care with them. Keep my distance.”
“You’re neither foolish nor blind enough to believe that.” Moira let the harsh undertones in her voice stand—she wanted her words to be heard.
“It’s time for me to go.”
Not for those reasons. “Aye.”
Astonished eyes met hers. “I didn’t expect you to agree with me.”
Oh, they were far from agreement just yet. Moira looked out the window herself, always enjoying this bird’s-eye view of her gardens. “Do you know where you’ll be headed?”
“I don’t know.” The honest confusion of a heart adrift. “Maybe it doesn’t matter—I go back on tour in a few days.”
A few days was enough time to change a life. “It seems to me that a traveler ought to know her next destination.” Journeys were a good thing. Aimless wandering was a different matter entirely. “Some place calls to you, no?”
Cass shook her head in momentary defiance. “I don’t have time to go to Ireland.”
“That’s not the kind of place I was thinking of, my dear.” It wasn’t the child who needed caring for—it was the woman. Ireland was the home of the girl.
Green eyes narrowed. “Then what exactly did you mean?”
Moira sighed—it wouldn’t do to let her inner pleasure show just now. Temper almost always meant the patient was getting better. “We all have places in the world where we feel rooted and watered. It isn’t weakness to take time to be nourished. Go to yours.”
Cass flared—and then deflated and nodded slowly. “To Margaree.”
Moira had made the journey to the heart of Celtic music once or twice. It was a place of honesty and hard work. And deep, abiding passion. As a nest, it would do just fine. “A place well worth resting a while. ”
The lovely woman across from her wavered. “It feels wrong to go.”
And that was a very good thing—but it wasn’t yet enough. “It seems that it also feels wrong to stay.”
Sad eyes met hers.
A crossroads on the journey. Moira recited a quiet blessing for safe travels. And hoped she was doing the right thing. “Kevin and Morgan are not the only ones who will shed tears when you go.” She squeezed hands strong from years of discipline and practice. “Go find your truth, Cassidy Farrell—and know that you carry a piece of this old witch’s heart with you when you go.”
Cass’s eyes had found a new supply of tears. And as Moira stood, her own weren’t entirely dry either.
-o0o-
It had always been Rosie who knew how to speak when she couldn’t. Cass poured her aching heart into the instrument on her shoulder, every note painful.
And every one inching her feet back underneath her.
A traveler, finding her balance before she hit the road.
And a witch, trying to find her courage. Perhaps it wasn’t cowardice to leave, to go seek solace in the music and the rocks and the people of Margaree.
But she had one thing to do before she went.
A gift she wasn’t at all sure was in her power to give.
Cass gentled the music now, preparing. Gathering. Sophie and Nan believed healing lived in her hands. The power to share the rocks with others. A conduit for the heartbeat of the planet.
It sounded absurd. Her fingers danced, quick notes of disbelief. She was only a simple fiddler.
The rocks hummed steadily under her feet. They were simple too.
Cass closed her eyes, fingers slowing to a quiet lullaby. And setting aside all notions of the impossible, prepared to show a small boy where to find the gentle heartbeat of sleep.
She sank down into the timeless vastness of the rocks, letting them soothe. Listening. Ears seeking a baby this time. A boy not quite in step with his world. A child loved so very deeply by two who lived in harmony with the earth.
Ever so slowly, distinct beats emerged. The quiet notes of each life in Fisher’s Cove. Some bright and quick, others ponderous and slow. One at the center—wise and waning and well beloved by the rocks. That would be Moira.
Cass marveled. The rocks had never shown her this.
A dancing brightness that was Lizzie, and the quiet sureness of Kevin. Those with earth magics were the music’s clearest notes. Cass shifted, playing in harmony with those she could hear best. Seeking the two that should be strongest.
Marcus, she wouldn’t find. He had fled, Morgan tucked in the back of his car, even as gentle hands had brought her in from the cold.
She would go so that he could stay.
His note wasn’t here, but she played for him anyway. Apology. And sorrow. A wish, and a hug for the small girl who couldn’t possibly understand.
And then, heart ready to crack, Cass moved on, listening for the waterfall chord that was a family in constellation.
She found them, clustered. Waiting. Healer, rock witch, and a baby whose note was still muddy and uncertain. Rosie picked up Adam’s signature, her rosewood and ebony shaping the note he was trying to be. The baby’s muddy sound cleared, resonating in time with Rosie’s exacting harmony.
Again and again, Cass drew her bow. Solidifying. Teaching.
And then remembered she was leaving. Adam needed an anchor that wasn’t victim to a musician’s whim. He needed the rocks.
Carefully, quietly repeating the note that was Adam, she backed into the womb of the rocks. Calling him to follow.
His sound wobbled, shaken by the growing distance.
Babies needed to be held close. Cass riffed in frustration. Rocks didn’t move.
And then she knew the answer.
Mums and daddies held their babies close. And this baby’s daddy knew the rocks. It was time to teach him to listen.
-o0o-
When your husband was six-foot-three and pulled metal from rocks for fun, you didn’t expect to see him start swaying.
And when he was as tone deaf as Moira’s coffee table, you didn’t expect to hear him humming.
Especially humming a note tha
t made your baby boy vibrate.
But Sophie was a healer. And whatever was suddenly happening in her living room was pure healing magic. The kind where you held very still and didn’t interrupt. Adam had gone from slightly cranky to still and calm—and Mike had pulled enough power to melt a freight train.
Sophie closed her eyes, acknowledging the only possible source. Rejoicing in the evidence in front of her—and grieving for what else it must mean. The flowers had been whispering for hours. And Aunt Moira’s face had been streaked with sorrow.
Cassidy Farrell was leaving.
A woman torn had run into the rough edges of a man awakening to his life. And now the woman was stepping out on the next step in her journey. A friend in pain, leaving behind the very best gift she could.
Sophie scanned Adam, looking for any signs of distress—and felt them in Mike instead. Her giant was running out of gas. Pulling every ounce of power she could reach, Sophie stepped to his side. Whatever Cass was doing, it was damn well not going to fail because Adam’s daddy needed a few more cookies.
Mike squeezed her hand, grateful for the assist, and still utterly focused on his odd monotone humming. A note Sophie heard as much with her body as with her ears. Their son listened, the same way as he did when Rosie was in the room.
And then it stopped. Her husband’s magic shut off with a crunch and he toppled to the couch none too gracefully, eyes glued to Adam. The baby sat on his bright green play rug, attention back on his blocks. Happy. Content to push on the wooden cubes with his toes, child engineer in the making.
Sophie put a hand to Mike’s forehead, clearing his channels almost automatically. “What was that?”
“A lesson.” Her big man’s words wobbled, high emotion in his eyes. “She showed me where Adam belongs.”
That made little sense—and all the sense in the world.
Mike hummed three notes. “That’s what we sound like. The three of us. You’re the top one.”
The sudden humor of it caught Sophie by surprise. “She taught you music?” Mike couldn’t sing Happy Birthday without setting the village cats to wailing.
His grin was the size of Adam’s head. “Yeah. She did. Adam is the lowest note in the whole village.”
That hurt. Sophie looked at their son and murmured her pain. “He’s always on the outside.”
“No. Not like that at all.” Mike kissed the top of her head, comforting and insistent. “The low notes are like the roots of a plant. The foundations.” He smiled into her hair. “The next lowest note in the village is Aaron.”
The quiet, steady man who was the glue of Fisher’s Cove. Sophie closed her eyes, suddenly overwhelmed. “Hum them again. The three of us.”
She felt Mike’s lazy pull of power. The rumble of his chest.
And this time, when he hummed Adam’s note—the baby hummed back.
Sophie soaked in the sound of treasure. And then she got to her feet, one act of limitless friendship inspiring another.
Her husband frowned. “Where are you going?”
To do the right thing. “To offer to look after Morgan for the night.” Assuming Marcus was back in town—and an elderly witch hadn’t gotten there first.
Her husband’s eyebrows practically bounced off the ceiling. And then he connected the dots. “You think that’s a good idea?”
She listened to the still-echoing vibrations of a family chord and knew the answer. “Yes. I do.” Marcus and Cass deserved to hear the music they could be together.
Mike grinned. “Tell Marcus good luck. And that if he needs help making a diamond ring, I’m his guy.”
Sophie rolled her eyes even as she fingered the wedding ring on her own finger.
And glancing one more time at her baby boy, took heart. Miracles were absolutely possible.
-o0o-
A fool’s errand.
And he was definitely a fool. Marcus reached down for his daughter, her mittened hands still carefully guarding their treasure.
A little glass trinket they’d found as he’d stomped through the market in Halifax, trying to occupy his daughter and right his capsized soul. He wished he could blame the shiny purple fairy playing a violin on his girl.
But it had been his fingers that had reached for the utter silliness. And his heart, run through by a trinket, that had known it was time to come home.
To apologize. To beg. To hope that the ridiculous bit of shiny glass Morgan had cradled the whole way back would somehow begin to mend the damage.
He held his daughter as gently as she held the musical fairy and tipped his face down into her fuzzy hair. Wishing.
Cassidy Farrell had an enormous heart. He could only pray it was big enough.
Feet heavy, he walked up the stairs. Morgan nestled into his chest, silent and watchful. The most important walk of his life.
He made it almost all the way to the top before he knew.
She wasn’t here anymore.
Frantic, he lunged the last few steps to her room and pushed open the door.
Empty.
He stared at the vacant space, the vibrations of Cassidy Farrell already seeping away. And felt his hope seep along with it.
Marcus stood in frozen despair, the gray finality of the empty room soaking into every atom.
And heard, of all things, the voice of a ten-year-old girl in his head—strong and clear and staring down the battlements of Realm. Are you going to kiss her? If you want to, you should. Mama says she first wanted to kiss Dad behind server number three, but she didn’t, and she’s always regretted it.
He teetered, speechless.
And felt his atoms launch a rebellion.
He didn’t want a life with any more regrets. For reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom, Marcus Buchanan was ready to fight for what he wanted.
And he knew where she’d gone. Anyone born in Nova Scotia knew of the place Cass nestled in the happiest part of her mind.
The one not so very different from here.
Crazed hope began a drumbeat in his chest.
He would remember later that Morgan made nary a peep on their hell-bent run across the village, the little fairy still clutched in her mitten. And that daffodils had pushed up through the earth as they’d run. Yellow bits of color, cheering his haste.
Faster.
Marcus thundered into his aunt’s house, ignoring the other women of the village seated at her kitchen table. “Can you watch Morgan?” Reality slammed into his chest. “I might not be back until tomorrow.” He set his girl down, arms suddenly weak.
Pleasure snapped from her mind. “For as long as it takes, dear one.” She reached for his hands, their growing frailty a lie. She was the strongest person he knew.
He drank from what she offered him—and then pulled her in for an awkward hug. “You’ve always been the best part of me.”
She put her hands on his cheeks, over-bright eyes drilling into his. “Go.”
Doubt assailed him one last time. “Am I doing the right thing?”
“Yes.”
Marcus spun—and then spun back. “Is she the one to do it for?”
His aunt’s voice never wavered. “I don’t know yet if she deserves you. I know only that she might.”
That would have to be enough. His brain spun crazily, loose cogs suddenly without a wheel. “There’s food for Morgan in my fridge. Lizzie knows what she likes to eat best. And her blankie is at the inn under the blue sofa—Sean or Kevin could fetch it for you. It has to be her purple one, she won’t sleep with anything else.”
“Hush now.” He was being herded to the door. “The day has not yet come that I can’t take care of one small girl.”
He knew that. He just wasn’t sure the day had come when he could leave her.
A firm hand pushed at the square of his back. “Go. You’ve a right to know your own heart. And hers. Morgan will be fine.”
She would be. He wasn’t nearly so sure about himself.
As he bolted for his car, chased by
demons, wishes, and pounding need, he heard more of Warrior Girl’s words in his head. It’s not what’s strongest that matters. It’s what’s most surprising.
His laughter hiccupped out around the strain. Gaming advice was a hell of a way to run a life.
But for a man who’d barely had a life, it was all that he had. It would have to do.
Chapter 21
Dave had taken one look at Cass’s face and tucked her into a remote corner of The Barn with Rosie and a heaping plate of French toast.
Ellie Brennan had shown up ten minutes later, out of breath and far too casual. To practice.
A message from the careful Scots of Margaree. They hadn’t sent Buddy. They’d sent a young girl ready to stake her life on all things being possible.
Cass listened to the same raw teenage angst she’d heard a week before—and felt the music land its punches. Ellie’s talent. The soaring comfort of being back in a part of the world where fiddles were limbs and music was just another way of breathing.
And the daring.
It reverberated in her bones and shook the heart that stood poised on the edge of a limitless abyss. Cass had jumped before—but Rosie had been in her hands and Ellie’s teenage exuberance had been in her veins. Now she was old, cautious, and aware the world wasn’t simply Cassidy Farrell’s plaything.
Ellie didn’t know fear, yet.
There were hearts at stake. A tiny girl with purple eyes. A man who had walked through hell and come out the other side still able to love. A boy who didn’t share Ellie’s flamboyance, but might well share her talent. A quiet healer who had made room for a new friend and a wise Irish matriarch who dispensed truth and comfort and so touched the part of Cass’s heart where Nan had always lived.
Somehow, in less than a fortnight, she’d acquired a clan.
And clans came with rules.
Ellie had switched music now, to something less angsty and more complicated. A girl trying to grow up. It tormented something painful and raw in Cass’s chest. She reached for Rosie and started picking out a harmony. Soft, insistent sound that flowed underneath the notes of a young woman contemplating what freedom might look like.
A warning. Freedom’s cost was very high.