A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,68

the window seat of the inn's second floor reading nook, nested in a pile of pillows. And looked at the portrait of Nan, full of life and luminance and comfort, leaning against the wall.

The man who had made it saw so much.

Sophie's story was still causing fracture lines in Cass's heart. Simple, painful words, told by a woman who felt every one of them deeply.

And like the best music, it had come with many layers.

Morgan, and her father's need to keep her close and safe.

The abject bravery of a man who had faced his deepest fear and his oldest sorrow to protect the small girl with the lavender eyes.

A baby he'd dared to love.

A miracle and a tale for the ages. And it had all happened in a sleepy, out-of-the-way fishing village.

It had been the story of a hero. Of a heart crusted with sadness that had still opened to the light. And the astonishing community that had loved the man. The kindness - decades of it - that had saved him. She had watched Nan heal enough patients, and fail to heal enough others, to have some idea of what the journey must have been.

Her musician's ear had taken in all the layers, all the notes. The woman had no idea what to do with what she'd heard.

Because the man who wore teal sweaters and bloomed flowers for his daughter in the dead of winter wasn't broken. Scarred, yes.

But not broken.

And there had been one thing Sophie hadn't said - but it wove through every word.

Marcus Buchanan deserved a life that never shattered him again.

He didn't need an itinerant Irish musician treating his life lightly. Especially one who had apparently tumbled into a bit of a crisis herself. Cassidy Farrell had always known who she was, what she wanted to be. That was suddenly about as clear as the dim shadows out the window.

Evening dark approached. The gloaming.

Cass looked again at the picture of Nan, sitting in the Irish hills of impossible green and light. And knew that no one would have less patience for a confused witch feeling sorry for herself.

Or for one who tread heavily on a kind heart.

It was time to find the part of this song that knew where it was going. Or an ending and an exit Cassidy Farrell knew how to play.

So peaceful when she slept. Marcus reached a hand down to Morgan's curls, smiling when she cuddled into his hand.

She hadn't been nearly so happy when he'd tossed her into their cold and clanky tub to rinse the split-pea soup out of her hair. It was green - he should have known better. Punk girlchild.

He had no idea how he'd ever breathed without her.

Aunt Moira had that much wrong. He was already happy.

Not sparks-and-pipe-dreams happy, but the kind of everyday contentment that still astonished him when he thought of it. Even when the bathroom was drafty, his daughter was cranky, and the kitchen still had cold soup congealing on the floor.

He'd lived with pristine floors and faultless plumbing. It hadn't held a candle to this.

One last look and Marcus backed out of Morgan's bedroom, doing the automatic dance that would keep him off the two floorboards that squeaked. And shook his head ruefully. Fear was a damn stupid reason to be avoiding a sorely needed bathroom renovation. It wasn't the ramshackle cottage that held the secret to his happiness.

She was sleeping in her bed.

He slipped into the kitchen, wanting the cup of tea that heralded his precious solitary hours in the dark. Come summer, he would sit out on his porch and watch the colors light up the sky. This time of year, that was still courting frostbite.

He reached for the light and then paused, attention caught by the shadows moving outside the window. Well-lit shadows tonight - the moon must be full.

It was strangely beautiful, the row of practical, commonsense cottages down each side of the road, punctuated by the occasional weathered tree and a whimsical trellis or two. It still amused him that the fanciest of those belonged to Uncle Billy, the village's best fisherman. Said he used it to repair his nets.

Nobody said anything about the pretty clematis that trailed up it the rest of the time.

Two human-shaped shadows walked down the road arm in arm, pausing now and then to peer at something in the moonlight.

He watched them, his two shadows, oddly caught by the ease between them. And then the taller of the shadows turned and Marcus