A Celtic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 6) by Debora Geary Page A

four miles off the main highway—but she’d venture a guess that very few tourists found it by accident. 
    Not the most logical place to set up an inn.  Hopefully it would be one of those quirky, underappreciated gems that she loved.  Dave rarely sent her wrong.
    She was still a little way from the huddle of cottages, and slightly uphill.  Until she’d come around the bend in the road, she’d been fairly convinced that her scrawled directions had been written by pixies.
    But the village was here, tucked behind some small, rocky hills that thoroughly hid it from the rest of planet Earth.
    And like the music that flowed in her veins, it was ageless.  Houses on the edge of run-down, framed by brambles and browns that were probably lovely gardens in the summer.  A couple of nets hanging, and a cove with boats visible just beyond the village.
    Not a postcard—but not an eyesore, either.  A humble, hardworking sort of place.
    Oddly Irish.  Home, without all the restrictions.
    A small group of children dashed out of a house and made a mad run for the front door of the church.  Cass grinned—the church had been their indoor playground when she was a kid, too.  The succession of priests had growled at them, issued proclamations about heavenly manners, and left out plates of cookies.
    Her stomach rumbled at the thought of cookies.  She reached over and grabbed the last of the PEI fried potato skins she’d snagged on her way out of Jamieson’s.  The rest of the year, she ate like a normal person.  Something about Nova Scotia turned her into a hungry bear.
    Which seemed backwards—this was supposed to be hibernation, Cassidy Farrell style.
    She crunched, her potato-eating genes entirely happy.  And wondered why the rocks had brought her here.
    Probably not for a game of hide-and-seek in the church pews, and the village wasn’t big enough for a decent pub.  But the rocks seemed to think she belonged here, and their tugging had been very consistent with Dave’s scrawled directions.
    She grimaced and reached for the gearshift.  This was way too much thinking to be doing about a fishing village.  She’d found a comfy spot to lay her head in places far smaller and dingier than this.  The rocks would make their point clear in time—they always did.  Pulling her car back out onto the road, she drove slowly down the hill.
    And smiled as she spied the biggest building in town.  That must be the inn.
    -o0o-
    The wind rattled something fierce this afternoon.  Moira walked to the window, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders a little more tightly.  Nearly enough to shake an old witch’s bones, it was.
    It had blown like that back home this time of year.
    She lifted a cup of tea to her lips, inhaling her gran’s old recipe.
    A lot of nostalgia today—and it wasn’t just the smell of tea and the bite of the weather.  The old energies were moving, whispering tales and calling to those with the ability to hear.
    So few ever bothered now.
    Carefully Moira pulled a light stream of power.  And tapping into the wise and unpredictable magics of the crone, asked permission to listen.
    The whispers got a little louder—and an old witch of small magics and open heart smiled as she heard their story.
    A journey.  A song.  A choice.
    The wind was blowing something in.
    Moira set her cup on the counter and reached for her winter cloak.  If something was coming, she’d meet it in the way of the Irish.
    With warmth in her heart, steel at the ready, and friends at her side.

Chapter 5

    Cass pulled the front door of the inn shut behind her with haste—this part of Nova Scotia wasn’t any warmer than Margaree.  She put her hands over her frozen ears, not entirely sure which were colder.
    Taking a long moment to grin at the spunky daffodils probably hadn’t been smart—but anything dumb enough to bloom up here in March deserved a little love.
    “You must be from somewhere warmer than this,” said a musical voice