A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,3

"where the hell are you" emails from Tommy and his minions.

Where she always was this time of year - taking a break and feeding her soul. No hoopla, no advance team, no schedules. A chance to listen to the rocks and go where they called.

Email number forty-two made her laugh. Tommy wanted to install a bunch of safes for her fiddle. One for the bus, one for her apartment in New York, and some portable thingie that looked like a torture device. New insurance estimate. Apparently she was a legend now, and that made Rosie worth more money.

She refrained from emailing Tommy back and letting him know her precious million-dollar fiddle was currently sitting in a closet at The Barn along with several other violins. Strings didn't like quick trips out into the blowing cold, and anyone could practice in The Barn day or night.

And maybe Rosie would snuggle up with Buddy's fiddle and learn something.

Tommy probably didn't want to hear about that, either.

She picked a tour schedule email at random and replied. I pay you the big bucks to figure this stuff out. Stick to the rules, and we're good.

The rules were simple - no more than two towns a week, and she got to play at a dive in each one. Or what Tommy had taken to calling "a small, intimate venue."

Someplace where Rosie could sing and she could see the faces of people swept up in the music. Or swept up in each other - at the last pub, she'd spent half the night watching an elderly couple in the corner. They'd shared a pint and held hands until the wee hours, and their eyes had gleamed with something that had tugged notes out of Rosie far later than planned.

Half a chocolate bar left and too wired to sleep. Cass pulled up her chat window - maybe someone in Ireland was up early. The little circles were all gray. Figured. Mum was probably out in her garden, trying to tease some poor bulb into sticking its head up early. Bri was likely chasing the twins, and Rory was either sleeping or eyeing the latest version of brunette and sexy sharing his bed. And Nan hated technology with a passion she usually reserved for husbands who'd caught something itchy in their nether regions.

Gah, she missed them all. Cape Breton always tugged on her Irish heartstrings.

A small light at the bottom of her chat window flashed purple. Cass raised an eyebrow - that was interesting. She pulled up a quick coding window. Something had been tracking her online lately. Nothing very obvious, just a whisper following her around. She'd tweaked the chat alert to let her know when it was close.

A wee Internet ghostie, as her mum might say. A benign one - the rocks would have let her know if danger lurked.

Cass brought up a couple of preprogrammed chunks of tracking code and tossed one casually at the ghostie. "Let's see if we can follow you around for a bit instead, hmm?"

Her coding chunk slid off some invisible wall.

Huh. A wee ghostie with armor. Amused, she tried a second tracker, this one with a few more teeth, and chuckled as the flashing purple light faded away, a small bit of her code stuck to its butt. "Gotcha, cutie. Maybe tomorrow I'll know who you are."

The light flashed one last time, making her laugh. "Cocky, are you?"

She ate her remaining square of chocolate and closed the laptop. Next, she'd be talking to the cows outside the window. Definitely time for bed. The music had filled her up - she'd sleep like a baby.

And then do it all again tomorrow.
Chapter 2
Cass walked into the inn's informal dining room, her mouth already watering. In the summer, the place would be hopping. On a Thursday morning in March, she would likely be eating alone.

Or not. Dave looked up from a table in the corner, papers spread out around a heaping plate of pancakes and some of the inn's delectable blueberry preserves. He smiled and pointed at a chair. "Your French toast will be ready in a few minutes. Join me?"

It sounded like a choice, but she was well aware he'd pout if she sat elsewhere. "Predictable, am I?"

"8 a.m. like clockwork, and I don't think you've ever eaten anything different than French toast."

When you discovered heaven, you stayed put. "Got some of that blueberry jam?"

He tapped a stumpy white pot sitting by his papers. "Filled it up for you fresh this morning."

She