always been her guide would make the decision for her.
Moira moved about her kitchen, taking care of the bits and pieces that company always left behind. And said not a word.
So much for someone else taking charge. Sophie sighed and refilled her tea cup. "Am I the only one worried that he might ask and she might say no?"
The old woman's motions stilled. "No."
"It takes two to bloom together." Sophie felt her worry deepen, even as she assembled the words. "Cass wants to believe she's a simple musician. A traveler."
Wise eyes met hers. "Can you blame her?"
Not really. And that was part of what had Sophie tangled. "Magic comes with responsibilities." So did families and small-town lives, but it was the first that haunted their itinerant musician the most. And that she acknowledged least.
"Aye."
And Cassidy might have a bigger helping of those responsibilities than most. "Mike says he thinks she hears the planet."
"Aye." Said more softly now. "And those of us with small powers can't ever truly understand the burden of those of you who hold something larger."
Something clenched in Sophie's chest. "I'm just a healer."
"No, my girl." Moira's eyes ran over with love. "You're the strongest healer I've ever known. The evidence of that lies inside my own head."
Repairing the stroke damage had taken every healer the witching world could port on a moment's notice. "I didn't work alone."
"No. You worked with the help of the child who will one day surpass you."
Sophie gripped her tea - this wasn't the oracle she'd come to consult. "Ginia."
Moira nodded. "Our Lizzie will be a good healer. She's talent and training and a tough mind and strong heart."
But Ginia had all of those and deep, vast power. All wrapped in a steadfast desire to be a ten-year-old who loved glitter and hijinks. Sophie nodded, wondering, as she often did, just which way the teaching flowed. "We all want to be something simple."
"Exactly." An old hand reached out to touch her cheek. "A young girl. Or a woman who mixes potions on her stove." A touch of humor hit Moira's eyes. "Or perhaps even a grumpy old bachelor."
The wise matriarch waited, and Sophie filled in the rest. "Or a fiddler."
"Yes."
Sophie considered the odd tapestry that threatened to weave the fiddler and the bachelor together. "For someone who's usually bent on matchmaking, you've been awfully quiet."
Moira smiled into her tea. "That I have."
Sophie frowned - when a certain elderly witch chose, she could keep her cards very close to her chest. "You don't approve?"
"What on earth would give you that idea?" Moira's eyes fairly crackled. "She's a lovely Irish lass with a sturdy heart and magic in her fingers. What could be more perfect for that boneheaded nephew of mine?"
It never paid to question the judgment of old witches. "So why no meddling, then?" Not even a good nudge that Sophie was aware of.
"We've meddled aplenty with Marcus." Moira stared off into the distance, pensive now. "Each of us has a free will and we need to stretch and grow it, just like every other leaf and branch that keeps us healthy and strong."
From oracle to wise one, all in one cup of tea.
"When wee Morgan arrived, our Marcus was still so very hurt. A plant rent asunder from its soil, the roots dry, the petals withered."
Marcus would have a fit at that description, but the healer in Sophie understood. "He needed nursing."
"Aye. When a plant's that close to death, it's the gardener's job to be making decisions. My nephew still had some kick in him, but he needed good, strong hands showing him where the growing soil lay."
"And now?"
"Now he's healing." Moira's voice wavered even as she smiled. "He's found good soil, and grown some sensible roots and leaves. Collecting sunshine, he is."
"Blooming." Sophie looked down at her hands, remembering his shock as the first daffodils had come up from the dirt under his palms.
"Yes. And that means it's no longer our place to do the watering. That will be up to him." Moira's eyes twinkled. "And there's a good Irish lass with her hand on the watering can too, I'm thinking."
One who couldn't figure out what she wanted to water. Quite the pair they were at the moment.
Moira picked up the teapot, her voice carefully casual. "It's perhaps not our Marcus who needs a gardener at the moment."
Cassidy. "I can't." The words ground past the sudden lump in Sophie's throat. Fear. And guilt.
"A good friend is often the one who best does