Feathers (A Witch Central Morsel) (7 page)

This was a fire of comfort, with plenty of fuel to feed it.  Téo crouched down, in deep discussion with Aervyn, Kenna, and Benny about where their next stick of wood should go. 

Nat sat down on the log to Moira’s left and smiled.  “Only a crazy man tries to negotiate with two-year-olds.”

“People have begun to think of your twosome as twins.”  Witch Central rarely needed their truths to be literal.

The love in Nat’s eyes could have felled empires.  “Kenna and Benny got there ages ago.  There are plenty of days Jamie and I swear they share a brain.”

A prospect that would have terrified most parents.  These particular children were what Great-gran would have called “high spirited”—a term that had also been applied to the young hoyden in her gardens more than once.  “They’ll likely mellow with age.”  She let her eyes twinkle at Nat.  “I did.”

“Raising future Moira Doonans, am I?”  Their yogini looked amused by the idea—and intrigued.

Moira watched the duo, hot on Aervyn’s heels, leave the fire area at a dead run.  “Well, they’re a mite faster than I ever was.”

Nat’s chuckle rolled out into the night.  “They practice.  A lot.”

Aye.  In their own ways, both children had chosen the right family.  One where speed and fire and force of personality would be given fuel and room to grow and mature and find purpose in the world.

A promise made to every youngling in Witch Central. 

Moira smiled at Nat, knowing exactly what stick she wanted to lay on Téo’s fire.  “It’s good they took us in, isn’t it?”  The Sullivans collected very good people.

“I hear it’s the other way around.”  Nat’s eyes softened in pure happiness.  “Retha insists you collected
them
.”

In her own way, perhaps she had.  Moira remembered well the day when a battered station wagon driven by a bemused couple had stopped on the side of the road in Fisher’s Cove, just outside her cottage.  And a slim, bouncing teenager had emerged from the back and declared she’d come for Witch School.

Which, until the moment Retha Brenner had uttered the words, had been only a seedling idea sprouting in the back of a much-younger Moira Doonan’s head.  A way to find and gather the young ones with power.

She’d never expected the first student to show up on her doorstep and demand to be taught. 

However, Irish witches knew better than to disagree with someone who had the sight.  And so Witch School had been born.  They’d had three students that year.  Retha, and a young boy from down the way Moira’d had her eyes on for a while.  And as they’d sat in her garden, figuring out what magics lay in their hearts and hands, one of the youngest of the fishermen had walked in and quietly joined them.

He’d never had more than a sniff of water power—just enough to read the currents a little.  But the day he took a seat, the village had nodded in acceptance.  They’d known she was a witch, of course.  Or a healer, as many had taken to calling her when they came to her door.  But on that day, Fisher’s Cove had embraced the witches as their own.

And in the fifty years since, Retha had never missed a single summer’s journey to the tiny fishing village in the middle of nowhere.  First she’d come alone, and then with the gentle gardener she’d married, heart full of young love.  And then had come her little ones and their joyful, burgeoning magic.

She’d been gathered, indeed.  By a master collector.

Moira shook her head as the flames leaped higher again.  She was woolgathering, entirely.

Oh, I don’t think so.
  Somewhere in the time between the flames, Retha had joined Nat on her log.  She smiled, the memory of those early days lying in the air between them. 
I think you’re just getting ready to tell a story.  I don’t think Benny’s heard that one yet.

Benny was nowhere to be seen—but Moira knew it mattered little whether his ears heard.  His blood would feel it.  They all would.

The history of those called together by need and daring and love.

She touched the feather in her hair.  And began to tell the story.

For those who don’t know…

There will only be one more book in the world of
A Modern Witch
.  I know that will be a shock to many of you—you can find my initial announcement in June
here
, and the update
here
.

The short version is that my marriage exploded back in December, and that has deeply impacted my journey as a woman, as a mama, and as a writer.  In the last few months it’s become clear to me that I can no longer write enough good words with enough ease to continue to create the magic of Witch Central—my heart no longer lives in the place where my witches are rooted. 

But I have one last story to offer you.

A Dangerous Witch (Witch Central book 3)

It is not the typical ending of a series, because it was largely written before I knew this would be my final book.  But after much work and tears and laughter and grief, it has turned into a good story, and one that I think deserves its place in the fabric of my witches.

Debora