poured a second mug of tea from the cozy pot sitting in the middle of the table. "He seemed to like the music."
Sophie felt a lump rising in her throat. "He loved it. He's never that peaceful in a crowd. Usually we're outside walking the road with him." She could sense Aaron's attention - still stirring his pots, but he was listening now.
So many people quietly worried about her little boy.
"Lots of babies like the music." Cass smiled. "My mum says my nan used to play me to sleep when I was teething. Says it worked better than bourbon."
Well, those were two things they'd never tried with Adam. Sophie wrapped her hands around the warm mug, debating how carefully to tread. "Perhaps there was magic in your nan's music, too."
"Maybe so." Cass smiled, taking the words at face value and missing the question underneath. "Or maybe your Adam will play the fiddle one day."
She was pushing too hard. Sophie took a breath and tried to relax. The mystery didn't need to be solved today - it was enough of a gift that it existed at all. "If you play again while you're here, I hope you don't mind if we sneak in to listen." Probably with half the village in tow. They had a few locals who could put together a passable evening of music, but Cass had grizzled old fishermen talking of angels.
"I play every day." Their visitor stood up, her eyes glued to the scones Aaron had just pulled out of the oven. "Particularly if it earns me one of those."
Aaron chuckled. "The Sea Trance Inn feeds you whether you play or not."
Cass winked at Sophie and shrugged. "And I play whether anyone listens or not, but you and the babe are welcome anytime. If he's restless, bring him on by and I'll see if I have my nan's touch."
The easy generosity was irresistible, even to someone who normally made friends slowly. "If it does, can I sign my husband up for violin lessons?"
"Not in my inn." Aaron's eyes were merry as he set two plates down on the table. "I've heard Mike sing. He's as tone deaf as a rock."
"Rocks aren't tone deaf."
It was an offhand comment, said by a guest staring in deep pleasure at a steaming scone. And it tickled the small hairs on the back of Sophie's neck. Sometimes healers had to venture into the unknown with nothing but those tickles guiding them. "The rocks like your music?"
"Mostly." Cass looked up, eyes less glazed by baked goods now. "My nan says the planet listens better than most people, at least if you've got something worthwhile to say."
A lifetime of conversations with Moira, and Sophie had learned to hear what hadn't quite been said. "Your grandmother is an earth witch."
A noncommittal shrug. "That's a word that means something different on this side of the waters, I think."
Maybe not as much as their guest thought. With casual hands, Sophie reached for the vase of flowers tucked behind the sugar bowl and teased out a bud that was still closed. A little morning glory needing just the lightest touch of magic to open its purple face to the sky.
Sophie smiled and sent it a gentle apology - the sky wasn't so hospitable at this time of year.
"Ah." Cass breathed out quietly. "Yes, my nan can do that, but most of our other healers can't."
"Not all healers are earth witches. Lizzie is primarily a water witch, although she's got enough earth magic to bloom a flower or two."
"That fits." Cass nodded. "She doesn't dance like an earth witch."
That was interesting. "She's unusual. We think she might yet develop earth magics. Often one kind of power developing can tug on others, especially when the witch is young."
"I didn't know that was possible." Their guest looked at her uneaten scone. "I've been away from the magic a long time."
Sophie wasn't so sure of that. But her instincts were tickling again. There were times to push - and times to back away gently. Whatever flowed beneath the surface here, it wasn't a simple conversation over scones. She topped up both their mugs of tea. "I think we can eat without burning our tongues now."
Cass grinned. "It would hardly be the first time I've scalded a body part or two. Nan used to say I had the patience of a three-year-old boy in a mile-long line for the outhouse."
That was the most apt description of Sean that Sophie had ever heard. "We