A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,33

evening had been wonderful. Full of people-watching - always one of her favorite pastimes, and that alone would have kept bow to strings for an hour or two.

But it had been the dancers who had kept her blood beating fast and her fingers flying into the wee hours. Cape Breton was full of Celts - the Scottish kind. Her Irish soul had jumped in delight when young Lizzie had stood up and started a proper Irish reel.

And then they'd started walking in the door - strangers with faces that spoke of long days outside and hands that spent many hours pulling nets and tending hearth and home.

But oh, they could dance. The reels and clogging and jigs of her childhood. A village driving winter away with the pounding rhythm of their feet. The inn had been stuffed to the gills and then some - when she'd stepped outside to catch a moment of frigid night air, several hardy souls had been dancing on the porch.

So she'd grabbed Rosie and played a jig for them before heading back inside.

Cass chuckled up at the ceiling. She might have resisted the temptation of dancers and babies with big eyes, but Rosie had no self-control at all. Her fiddle had a true Irish heart.

And her fiddle loved it here in Fisher's Cove.

It was always good for a traveler to find another place she was welcome. A way station. The good ones were a place to rest her feet and fill her belly. The truly great ones restored her soul.

She rolled over onto her side and plumped the pillow under her head. This one had excellent promise.

With a last sigh, Cass drifted off to sleep, ignoring the persistent, gentle tugging of the rocks. If they had something to say, they were darn well going to have to speak louder.
Chapter 9
Her fingers were creaking. Cass ran Rosie through some light scales, trying to loosen the tightness.

She was getting old. Once upon a time, all that ever hurt the morning after was her head.

The inn was quiet as a mouse and clean as a whistle - not a sign of the previous night's entertainment. Or of any living soul. But Aaron had left out a plate of muffins and a note about cheese, fruit, and fresh orange juice in the fridge.

The innkeeper was sleeping in.

Cass wished she could do the same, but she'd been haunted her entire life by an internal rooster bent on getting up at the crack of dawn no matter what time she'd crawled into bed. She should be grateful that dawn came so late at this time of year.

Her fingers had switched to random noodling, wandering over Rosie, picking out pleasing notes and little riffs of sound. Ready to play.

Remembering Ellie's glorious teenage musical angst, Cass let her hands continue to noodle, but with purpose this time. Telling the story of Fisher's Cove and the magic that resided here.

She resisted the harmonics that wanted to sound. She didn't want to hear about the man with the craggy eyes. The light, bright notes that were Morgan, she allowed - the child wasn't dangerous.

The rocks seemed amused.

Cass snorted and kept playing.

"That's really different."

Quiet words from the doorway nearly got Rosie dropped on her head. "Good morning - you're up early."

"Sean was snoring." Kevin grinned. "And Aaron always leaves out breakfast in the kitchen."

Ah. That explained why the muffin plate held enough to feed half a village. Likely it often did. "Want to go scrounge? I can probably scramble some eggs without poisoning either of us."

"I can cook eggs." He shrugged diffidently. "Maybe you can keep playing."

Cass knew that look. Almost-teenage boys weren't the usual ones wearing it, especially when food called - but she knew when someone was smitten by the music.

And he'd been a steady audience at her feet the night before.

"How old are you?" She sized up Kevin's frame.

"Twelve."

And not hit his teenage growth spurt. Too small for Rosie, yet. But it would be enough to give him a taste. Cass held out her violin. "Give her a try."

Kevin practically stopped breathing. "I don't know how."

"Of course you don't. Just try sliding the bow on the strings for a bit." Tucking Rosie under her chin, Cass demonstrated. "See if you can get a pretty sound out of her. Music's just one pretty note connected to the next."

Kevin took the proffered violin. Set it carefully on his shoulder and reached for the bow. And still holding his breath, laid it on the strings.

The first