A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,13

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.

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 of 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