A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,1

gleaming in the middle of her happy, dirt-rimmed grin.

Dammit, how had he missed that? "Ate yourself some greenery already, did you?" Marcus reached for the baby bag, sighing. That was three times this week. People were going to talk.

"You needn't fret." Moira smiled contentedly from a chair by the fire. "A little dirt never hurt anyone."

Perhaps not - but it probably wouldn't mix well with the pea gravel she'd already ingested that morning. He released Morgan from his face-cleaning ministrations. "Why in tarnation is she trying to consume half of Fisher's Cove?"

"Could be a lot of things." Sophie sat at the table, sporadically working on her laptop in between mad dashes to keep Adam out of the room's collection of cords and plugs. "Mineral deficiencies, teething, emerging earth powers."

"Aye. Or maybe you just like strange tastes, sweet girl." Moira handed a few cookie crumbs to the cruising Morgan. She looked over at Marcus. "They can have some odd opinions at this age. It's nothing to worry about."

He always had plenty to worry about. "Is she old enough for cookies?" Google had been very clear - no milk or eggs until she was at least a year old. Not that he had any idea when that blessed event would be - Morgan had shown up on his doorstep missing a lot of basic facts, like the day she'd been born. "What if she has allergies?"

Moira raised a pointed eyebrow. "Do I look like a witch fresh out of healing school?"

"We can scan for allergies." Sophie stared studiously at her laptop, doing a very poor job of hiding her amusement. "And we have. You needn't worry on that account. Morgan's healthy as a horse."

Yes, and assuming he could keep her away from garbage cans, potted plants, and the cookie-bearing womenfolk of the village, she might stay that way. He raised an eyebrow at Adam, who was making his slow and steady way over to the pile of dirt Morgan had left on the floor. And decided he had better things to do than play guardian to a potted plant.

Muttering under his breath, Marcus layered a simple containment spell over the greenery and raised an eyebrow at Adam. "See what you make of that, young troublemaker."

Adam sat back on his very well-padded bottom and contemplated the dirt for a while.

"Well, you've slowed him down at least." Sophie watched her son from the table.

Sometimes parenting required asserting control, whatever the female population of Fisher's Cove believed. He glanced over at Morgan, who had made her way up onto the couch and was now playing with Moira's pendant. And wondered if it was ancient enough to be full of lead and hexing spells.

"Don't be silly." Moira eyed him over her teacup. "I've yet to poison any grandchild of mine."

He hadn't said a word.

"Sit," said Sophie gently, nodding at the pair on the couch. "Take a little downtime while you can get it. She's not going anywhere for a bit."

It was tempting - he had a very good book sitting on the arm of the parlor's most battered and comfortable armchair.

"You parent alone, and you're doing a marvelous job." The respect in Sophie's eyes shook him. "But the weight doesn't have to be yours every moment of the day."

He knew that. And if he forgot, a steady stream of people arrived on his doorstep every couple of hours to remind him. "I have plenty of help."

Sophie looked over at her own son now, busy raiding a set of toy cups he'd found hidden on a shelf. "But you worry alone. Set that down for a bit too."

Marcus had the oddest feeling they weren't talking about him or Morgan anymore. Sophie's eyes were far too bleak. And there had been quiet, concerned rumors. He tried, in his supremely awkward way, to offer comfort. "Adam is fine."

She only gazed at her son.

Marcus was missing the circuits to talk to a woman - but he knew the rules of communal life. And much as he hated to admit it, he cared about a small boy and his mother. "What worries you?"

This time, the twinge of fear was stronger. "He's different, Marcus. I can't say how or why yet, but he's not wired like most babies."

So said the whispers. Small leaks of distress and love for a baby who just wasn't quite right. He studied Adam, trying to ignore the niggling fear blooming in his own head. And finally knew what to say. "A lot of us are different." He