roots matter."
Perhaps she wouldn't be home. Marcus gritted his teeth and made his way to Moira's back door, fairly certain he wouldn't be so lucky.
All he needed was a damned egg. Which he would have plenty of if the cooks of Fisher's Cove didn't use his kitchen as the local grocery store. Aaron had swiped his last half dozen less than an hour before Morgan had tugged sweetly on his pants and asked for "awfuls."
Google had come up empty - waffles either required eggs or bizarre ingredients that he was very sure did not live in his cottage.
He reached the door, offered a quick prayer to the patron saint of bachelors, and entered as quietly as a man clad in rubber boots and winter wear could move.
And discovered not only was Moira home - but she had company. Old Irish witch company.
The elderly woman with Cass's eyes looked at him, bright interest shining from her mind. "Well, hello there. You must have come to save me from eating this whole plate of scones by myself."
Marcus scowled - the scones were probably made from his blasted eggs. "I'm not hungry, thank you." A lie, but an expedient one. He focused in on his amused aunt. "I need an egg, if you have one to spare. Morgan wants waffles."
"I'm all out, I'm afraid." She didn't look at all sorry. "But I've two dozen coming back with Aaron this afternoon. You're most welcome to as many of those as you need."
He had his own coming back from the weekly village shopping trip, but that wouldn't procure his daughter waffles for lunch.
"Perhaps a wee bit of porridge?" The visitor smiled mildly. "My little ones always liked a bowlful for lunch."
Morgan hated oatmeal. With a floor-heaping, wipe-it-in-her-hair vengeance. "I'll go raid Aaron's cupboards for crumbs."
"You won't." Moira looked thoroughly horrified. "I have a tureen of split pea soup in my fridge and I can whip up some biscuits in a jiffy. Those don't need any eggs at all. Why don't you go fetch my sweet girl and bring her back here? We'll share a bit of lunch together."
He'd learn to cook his own biscuits in the fires of hell before he ate lunch with two meddling Irish grannies. And given Morgan's recent penchant for decorating her hair with the contents of her bowl, he wasn't touching green soup, either. "We'll manage. I've got Lizzie, Kevin, and Sean to feed as well." Maybe some of the evil macaroni and cheese powder in a box. They all consumed it with unholy glee.
"There's plenty of soup."
"Sean and Kevin don't eat runny green stuff." He had it on very good authority.
The stranger laughed. "Neither did my Cassidy as a girl. Avoided green food in all its forms."
He didn't want to think about Cass as a girl, a woman, or anywhere in between. "She probably knew one too many healers who tried to slip things into her soup." He eyed his aunt as he spoke. No telling what she'd done to her split peas before she turned them into food.
Her mind only chortled at him. Which by no means meant she was innocent.
"We've a duty to keep those we love well and strong." Moira smiled in communion with her visitor.
Damnation - two healers? Marcus picked up the mental undercurrents. "Those you love can darn well doctor their own immune systems."
Two sets of eyes regarded him skeptically.
"Heal the sick." He wasn't only speaking of coughs and colds now - the room reeked of meddling. "Leave the well and happy alone."
Smart Irish grannies didn't miss conversational subtext. Both of them graced him with impressive glares.
He glared right back. "She's here to relax and eat some good food. She's got a right to do that without a couple of old witches deciding to help fate throw her a curveball." He ground to a halt, mystified by his sudden need to defend Cassidy Farrell.
The visitor from Ireland watched him for a moment, face as still as a world-class poker player. And then she picked up her cup of tea, mind leaking satisfaction. "Well, then. It looks like fate might not need a hand at all."
She smiled at him over the brim of her tea - and he knew the trouble he'd landed in was deep indeed.
Cass walked the beach and tried not to sulk. Nan had wanted her daily communion with the rocks - and a granddaughter's temper tantrum wasn't allowed to get in the way.
She kicked a pebble or two. Walk she would,