A Nomadic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 4) by Debora Geary Page A
Authors: Debora Geary
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contentment.
Marcus sighed. “Not going back to sleep, are you?” Amusement snuck in, despite his efforts to bar the gates. “Aunt Moira says wee girls who wake up early are destined to rule the world.” Which sounded like utter hogwash until you were peering into sparkling eyes at 5:30 a.m.
Hecate’s hells. Babies didn’t sparkle, and grown men didn’t listen to old Irish fairy tales.
He glowered down at the girl in his arms—and snorted in surprise as she glowered right back. Feisty little thing, are you?
She scrunched up her face one more time—and then an explosion of major proportions rocked her lower half.
Marcus hadn’t been born yesterday. Anyone stuck in Fisher’s Cove for the last two months knew that babies pooped with a vengeance.
Very carefully, he shifted his hands away from the danger zone.
Time to give her back to the experts. They could hardly blame him that she’d picked 5 a.m. to empty her bowels.
~ ~ ~
Moira smiled into her tea as shadows moved in her garden. Either the faeries were dancing in her flowers again, or a tall man with a baby in his arms was coming for a visit.
She’d be fine with either.
The shadows moved toward her back entry. Marcus and Morgan, then. She got up to pour another cup of tea—her nephew wasn’t a morning witch.
Her back carefully to the door, she waited until the latch closed behind him. No point making it easy for him to run. “The best of the morning to you, then. Scones will be a minute in the oven yet.”
“She’s filled her diaper.”
Moira tucked her grin away before she turned around. “Well, and good morning to you too, nephew.”
He held out the baby at arms’ length. Carefully.
Silly man. Moira picked up his cup of tea and moved toward the table where her cup still beckoned. “You’ll be needing that bag of supplies we sent home with you.” Not entirely true—she always had a nappy or two tucked away—but time he started to learn the basic rules of caring for a wee one.
He looked like she’d asked him to stroll across the ocean barefoot and bring her back a nice Irish cuppa.
Trying desperately not to giggle, Moira bent over her tea cup, inhaling deeply. “You’ll be wanting a fresh diaper and some of the wet cloths in the purple pouch.” Baby paraphernalia had come a long way since her day. She’d stitched whimsies onto the purple wipes pouch herself.
“Bag.” The item in question slammed down on the table.
“Baby.” Marcus towered above her, holding out the tiny girl with curious eyes. “Anything else you need?”
Moira knew a key moment in battle when she met one. “A bit more honey for my tea would be nice, but that can wait until you’ve gotten Morgan a new nappy.”
“I don’t change diapers.” Said with the finality of the Grim Reaper.
“You do now.” Her nephew wasn’t the only witch who could use that tone.
It took a very long time, but Marcus finally blinked. “You change every baby in the village. Why not this one?”
Victors could be gracious—and whether he knew it or not yet, this battle was over. “I do. And I’ll be happy to help you with her care from time to time.” She tried to find words that would make sense to his agile, narrow-minded brain. “When you train a witchling, do you take care of all the magic for them?” She knew the answer—few trainers were tougher on their charges than her nephew.
“No.” The answer came grudgingly. Followed by a small light of defiance. “But you assume I want to learn how to change a diaper.”
Ah, how she enjoyed a dance of wits. “Not at all. I assume it’s a skill you need to acquire. There’s a world of difference.”
“Caring for babies is women’s work.”
For that, he deserved a cup of tea poured on his head—but sometimes the best revenge wasn’t the most obvious one. Moira knew her village, her neighbors, and her nephew.
Marcus sighed. “Not going back to sleep, are you?” Amusement snuck in, despite his efforts to bar the gates. “Aunt Moira says wee girls who wake up early are destined to rule the world.” Which sounded like utter hogwash until you were peering into sparkling eyes at 5:30 a.m.
Hecate’s hells. Babies didn’t sparkle, and grown men didn’t listen to old Irish fairy tales.
He glowered down at the girl in his arms—and snorted in surprise as she glowered right back. Feisty little thing, are you?
She scrunched up her face one more time—and then an explosion of major proportions rocked her lower half.
Marcus hadn’t been born yesterday. Anyone stuck in Fisher’s Cove for the last two months knew that babies pooped with a vengeance.
Very carefully, he shifted his hands away from the danger zone.
Time to give her back to the experts. They could hardly blame him that she’d picked 5 a.m. to empty her bowels.
~ ~ ~
Moira smiled into her tea as shadows moved in her garden. Either the faeries were dancing in her flowers again, or a tall man with a baby in his arms was coming for a visit.
She’d be fine with either.
The shadows moved toward her back entry. Marcus and Morgan, then. She got up to pour another cup of tea—her nephew wasn’t a morning witch.
Her back carefully to the door, she waited until the latch closed behind him. No point making it easy for him to run. “The best of the morning to you, then. Scones will be a minute in the oven yet.”
“She’s filled her diaper.”
Moira tucked her grin away before she turned around. “Well, and good morning to you too, nephew.”
He held out the baby at arms’ length. Carefully.
Silly man. Moira picked up his cup of tea and moved toward the table where her cup still beckoned. “You’ll be needing that bag of supplies we sent home with you.” Not entirely true—she always had a nappy or two tucked away—but time he started to learn the basic rules of caring for a wee one.
He looked like she’d asked him to stroll across the ocean barefoot and bring her back a nice Irish cuppa.
Trying desperately not to giggle, Moira bent over her tea cup, inhaling deeply. “You’ll be wanting a fresh diaper and some of the wet cloths in the purple pouch.” Baby paraphernalia had come a long way since her day. She’d stitched whimsies onto the purple wipes pouch herself.
“Bag.” The item in question slammed down on the table.
“Baby.” Marcus towered above her, holding out the tiny girl with curious eyes. “Anything else you need?”
Moira knew a key moment in battle when she met one. “A bit more honey for my tea would be nice, but that can wait until you’ve gotten Morgan a new nappy.”
“I don’t change diapers.” Said with the finality of the Grim Reaper.
“You do now.” Her nephew wasn’t the only witch who could use that tone.
It took a very long time, but Marcus finally blinked. “You change every baby in the village. Why not this one?”
Victors could be gracious—and whether he knew it or not yet, this battle was over. “I do. And I’ll be happy to help you with her care from time to time.” She tried to find words that would make sense to his agile, narrow-minded brain. “When you train a witchling, do you take care of all the magic for them?” She knew the answer—few trainers were tougher on their charges than her nephew.
“No.” The answer came grudgingly. Followed by a small light of defiance. “But you assume I want to learn how to change a diaper.”
Ah, how she enjoyed a dance of wits. “Not at all. I assume it’s a skill you need to acquire. There’s a world of difference.”
“Caring for babies is women’s work.”
For that, he deserved a cup of tea poured on his head—but sometimes the best revenge wasn’t the most obvious one. Moira knew her village, her neighbors, and her nephew.
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