Not that the crying wasn’t loud enough all by itself. Marcus dismissed Lizzie with a wave of his hand. No point both of them going deaf. Enough, child. This contraption takes time to put on. Keep wailing like that and I’ll leave you out for lobster bait.
The baby’s shrieking stopped in its tracks. Scared of lobsters, are you? Smart girl. Marcus started the acrobatics necessary to get Morgan settled into the pouch.
Dammit. When had she become “Morgan”? “Girl-child” sounded far less… permanent.
He couldn’t keep a baby, no matter what all the powers of heaven, earth, and parts in between had to say. He got a vote, the only one that mattered.
A leg kicked up out of the pouch. Morgan wasn’t going about her usual business of snuggling in. What’s the matter-rethinking the lobsters? A second leg joined the first.
It was the hind end protesting. Maybe she was wet. Gingerly, he poked a finger in the general direction of her bottom. No obvious puddles, and he wasn’t up to dealing with the non-emergency kind.
Which left food and long walks on the beach. Didn’t you get a bottle a couple of hours ago? He headed to the kitchen. Someone much more familiar with baby feeding habits always seemed to deliver a bottle when he needed one.
Which was good, because he was never, ever having a conversation about baby milk.
Or how it got in bottles on his counter.
See, this is how they torture me. He shoveled the bottle in the general direction of Morgan’s mouth, and watched in amusement as all four limbs clutched it like manna from heaven. What, now you’re a baby monkey?
The naked toes wiggled in contented bliss. Marcus was quite sure he’d never seen them before. Lost your socks, did you?
All he got in reply were elephant-sized sucking sounds. No wonder the kid burped like a beer-guzzling biker.
He watched as her eyelids started to droop. Milk was like a baby sleep drug. Giving in to odd temptation, he ran a finger down her cheek, wiping away the milk dribbles. And then, very carefully, not thinking about why, set a monitoring spell.
Basic common sense. Nothing more.
Chapter 8
Some moon harvestings were quiet and reverent. This one was anything but. Sophie looked over at her companion and chuckled. “If the giggles get any louder, we’ll wake up half the village.”
Moira smiled, waving a quick incantation before she picked another bit of lemon balm. “Fisher’s Cove is well used to strange happenings in the night. The girls are just excited.”
Either that or they’d sniffed a little too much magically powered mint. Sophie grinned, watching Lizzie hop lightly over the gathering basket. “Don’t spill what we’ve gathered, wild child.”
“We won’t.” Ginia grinned as she hopped over the basket too, albeit with a lot more clearance than her younger friend. “Is it time for us to start the special moon gathering yet?”
Moira looked up at the sky. “Just a few more minutes now. We want to wait until her face is right where she can see us.”
Lizzie tilted her head sideways. “I don’t see any eyes on the moon.”
“They’re not the kind of eyes we can see, silly.” Ginia crouched down, kindness taking any sting out of the words. “They’re eyes that we feel in our hearts.”
It was one of the better explanations of magic Sophie had ever heard.
“My mom has those kind of eyes. She says they’re in the back of her head.” Lizzie stared up, suddenly suspicious. “She can see stuff I do even when I’m on the other side of the village. How come the moon can’t do that?”
Moira chuckled. “Perhaps she can, child. All the more reason not to tip over the basket.”
Ginia picked up a handful of stems. “Does the moon like flower wreaths? Maybe Lizzie and I can braid some.”
“I haven’t danced with flowers in my hair for ages.” Moira dropped an approving kiss on two small heads-and then winked at Sophie. “And no turning it into physical therapy for old hands, either.”
It had only been an idea. One Sophie rapidly tossed overboard. Tonight was for magic.
Lizzie sat down, exuberance happily traded for a heap of flower stems. “So, I checked. Uncle Mike has lots of ear hairs. He must be a really good daddy.”
Sophie rolled her eyes and was grateful both the moon and her husband had high tolerance for small-girl hijinks.
Moira, chuckling, leaned over and picked several stems out of Lizzie’s lap. “Twist them together like so, darling girl. We want them to stay together while we dance.”
Apparently teaching could go where physical therapy didn’t dare. Ginia, braid already forming under her skilled fingers, grinned at Sophie. When Moira had that twinkle in her eye, all was right in the healer world.
Sophie breathed in the cool air of a late spring night-and gave thanks. To the flowers, and the hands, young and old, that had kept Moira’s brain alive.
They still needed her heart. The witching world wasn’t ready to lose its matriarch, even with several candidates in training.
Ginia, always sensitive to the unsaid, grabbed Lizzie’s hand. “Let’s go get some of the special cornflowers for Aunt Moira’s crown.” She glanced at the flowers’ owner. “Can we?”
“Get some for all of us.” Moira reached out and touched two shiny cheeks. “They’re such a pretty blue-they’ll match your eyes.”
The girls sped off, racing toward the patch of the best-tended flowers in the witch universe. It had been cornflowers under Moira’s hands when she’d fallen in her garden. And every witch with even a mote of earth talent had poured their love into that patch of blue ever since.
“We should harvest some extra. A nice bouquet for my nephew’s windowsill.”
Sophie hoped Marcus never found out how much healer meddling snuck in right under his nose. “We could add some of the pretty clematis that matches Morgan’s eyes.” And opened deep heart channels, given enough time. She’d set Lizzie to tending that patch too.
“He’s warming to wee Morgan.” Moira’s hands continued to braid. “Slowly, but he’s stopped trying to find any woman in the village ready to take her.”
Even Marcus couldn’t be totally blind to the united wall of womanhood he faced. “He’s learning how to take care of her. The bottles keep coming back empty.”
“Mmm. Not sure if he’s learning, or just bribing Lizzie to do it instead.” Moira looked less than pleased by the most recent rumors.
Sophie nodded, understanding, but she’d picked up a key piece of intelligence-one that evidently Moira’s sources had missed. She checked to make sure the girls were still down at the other end of the garden. “Know what he’s bribing her with?”
Moira frowned.
“A saber.” Sophie grinned. “Top of the line, with lights and Darth Vader sound effects.”
It took a moment for realization to dawn-Darth Vader wasn’t a cultural icon for old Irish women. “Those things the twins wave around?” Moira’s smile bloomed. “Our Lizzie’s been wanting one of those since the moment they were unwrapped. Smart little devil, she is.”
That was the very best part. “It wasn’t Lizzie’s idea.”
Moira froze, a hydrangea stem in her fingers. “Marcus thought of that?”
Sophie nodded-and waited.
And watched as the shock on Moira’s face shifted into something deeper and more vulnerable. “He’s opening. The babe-she heals him.”
Sophie hoped fervently it would be that simple. It wasn’t only Marcus carrying heavy scars. “He has a long journey.”
“Aye, I know.” Moira’s face, turned up to the moon, held joy. “But tonight, we can celebrate what has begun.”
It was what healers did.