A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,32

It rises and falls with her music."

She and Mike were both earth witches, and both healers - but there the similarities stopped. Her affinities were for plants and green things, heartbeats and brain neurotransmitters. Ephemera. Things with short, precarious life. Her husband's magics were for things more eternal. Bones and genes, metals and rocks.

And of all the Fisher's Cove witches, it was Sean who most shared his magic.

How music fit into all of that, she had no clue. "Any idea what it is?"

Mike shook his head slowly, eyes suddenly glued to something on the other side of the room. "No. But whatever it is, our son feels it too."

Sophie's head snapped around in the direction of her husband's gaze. And found Adam, the boy who hated crowds and noise, sitting up in Moira's arms.

Alert, happy, and enthralled by the music.

Moira treasured every moment the universe allowed her to stay amongst the living - but some were particularly special.

Somehow, on this bleak evening in March, she'd tumbled into one of them.

The music of faeries and angels weaved through the room, teasing some, waking others. Calling. Enticing.

There was magic in Cass's bow - of that, Moira's Irish heart had absolutely no doubt. Talent, to be sure, and hours of fierce and focused practice. But Cassidy Farrell had been born to lift her dear sweet fiddle to her shoulder and make people laugh. Weep.

Dance.

Already the feet were moving, and given the close quarters of the village and the local penchant for joy, there would be more feet arriving shortly.

But while she awaited their arrival, Moira basked in the small miracle happening right in her lap. Adam was a baby that most would have called difficult. Restless. In some of Ireland's darker days, perhaps even possessed.

A boy not comfortable in his own skin.

A comfort beyond the ability of the healers of Fisher's Cove to give him - they'd tried. And Moira was quite sure Sophie tried far more often in the wee hours of the night than she admitted. Love would demand it.

Moira kissed the head of the small boy in her lap. He'd been there when the music started, restless as usual. Momentarily distracted by the shiny pendant she'd worn just for him. Aching for the outside, just as he always did.

And then Cass had begun to play.

An old healer's hands knew what it was to feel a soul relax. Patients did it when the pain went away. When sleep overtook. Or when death paid a final visit to one ready to go. The soul of the bright, alert boy in her lap had answered Cassidy's music with that same exhale.

Old witches knew how to accept glorious gifts and not ask for more. But as Sophie and Mike gazed on their sweet boy, Moira offered up a prayer anyhow.

For the music. And the child. And the parents who loved him.

Cass collapsed into bed, utterly exhausted - and mind going a thousand miles a minute. She'd played for six hours straight. Not a record, by any means, but enough to feel it right through her body.

She hadn't had the heart to stop.

Kevin had sat at her feet most of the night, mesmerized, a parade of little ones taking turns in his lap.

Moira had beamed from her place of honor on a large sofa, clearly the center of all that happened in this out-of-the-way village.

A smiling Aaron had seen to it that Cass had plenty of snacks, water, and an excellent Guinness to cap off her night.

And Marcus of the craggy face and mysterious eyes had watched from the corner, Morgan never far from his side. Her griffin - her protector. There was a story there. She remembered a baby Nan had delivered, a tiny thing who had survived through sheer guts and a very long week of medicine and magic that had flattened any healer within fetching distance.

The babe had been fine - tough and fiery and adorable. And his mama had lurked over him just like Marcus shadowed his purple-eyed girl. Love tinged with fear.

Cass shook her head, sinking deeper into the soft pillow. Rosie was seeing things again. Maybe Marcus was just a little overprotective.

She sighed. There had been plenty of tugs from the rocks, and from the man as well. None of which fit the life of an itinerant musician looking for a few weeks of peace.

Brooding men were not on the menu.

She smiled up into the darkness, pushing away the notes of discontent. They weren't right for this night. The