Relieved, Moira led the way into her kitchen. “I’ve some nice chamomile, and perhaps a cookie or two left in my canister, if you’d like.”
Denise chuckled. “You have grandchildren, do you? Mine always have their hands in the cookie jar.”
Moira revised her estimation of the stranger’s age. “We’ve wee ones aplenty in Fisher’s Cove.” She reached up for tea cups. “Some related by blood and some not, but they all belong with us.”
Denise fingered the soft leaves of her kitchen sage. “I’m not here to take what belongs to you.”
That remained to be seen. “Why are you here, then?”
“I got a message from Mr. Buchanan. He reported that a baby had been left on his doorstep. We’re not open on the weekend, and he didn’t call our crisis line, so I only got the message early this morning. I did call to tell him I was coming, but kept getting his voicemail.”
Betrayal warred with guilt in Moira’s heart. “When did he call you, exactly?”
Denise pulled a well-used day timer out of her voluminous bag and consulted its pages. “10:37 a.m. Saturday.”
Morgan had arrived on Friday night. On Saturday morning, Marcus had been trying to give the baby to anyone who would take her. Moira sighed. And she’d been one step ahead of him, making sure every woman in Fisher’s Cove said no.
Time to clean up the mess she’d helped create.
“Saturday was a bit of a difficult morning. Quite a bit of confusion. It’s entirely possible my nephew didn’t mean to leave you a message.”
“Oh, I most certainly did.”
Moira’s head snapped up at the quiet menace in her nephew’s voice. He stood in her small doorway, his black cloak swirling around his shoulders. He looked like he’d walked out of a fifteenth-century grimoire-except for the small fuzzy head sticking out of the bundle strapped to his chest.
Marcus scowled, which did nothing to soften his dark and brooding image.
She’d only been trying to help. Moira shuddered-this wasn’t a man ready to make the choice he needed to make.
Denise Warren stood up from the table, wide-eyed-and blind to the blood flying in the room. “You’re Marcus Buchanan?”
“I am.”
Moira put her hands over her heart-and prayed. It was all that was left.
Denise reached out and touched Morgan’s head gently. “And this is the baby you want me to collect?”
Marcus just stood, a granite rock with a baby on his chest.
It was Denise who finally broke the silence. “She’s beautiful. You’ve taken good care of her.” She tickled naked toes. “And I see she loses her socks, just like my smallest grandson.”
“Won’t keep them on.” Marcus, voice gruff, pulled two wee socks out of his pocket. “I’ve ordered her some of those sleepers with feet.”
Moira blinked in astonishment.
Denise leaned in. “She smells wonderful-what do you use to wash her hair?”
“Some girlie concoction,” Marcus growled, cheeks turning a most interesting shade of pink. “She seemed to like it.”
“I’m sure you did, didn’t you, sweetheart,” Denise crooned at the drooly girl. “And you look well fed.”
Moira watched her nephew turn forty shades of crimson, and finally found her voice. “We’ve several nursing mothers in the village with extra supply. She’ll never want for milk.”
“Not entirely within regulations.” Denise winked. “But we can be flexible for the right situation.”
Something had righted itself, Moira could feel it. She just had no idea what. “For which situation, exactly?”
Dark brown eyes met hers. “The one we find ourselves in. I’m not in the business of carting off happy babies.”
Denise turned to Marcus. “I can file emergency paperwork to designate you as a temporary foster home, authorized to care for one infant. I’ll need to come out for regular visits, and we’ll require your full cooperation in an attempt to locate her biological parents.” She paused, five feet of suddenly daunting grandmother. “If that’s what you want.”
The silence was absolute-and it took a decade off Moira’s life.
But when Marcus finally nodded, his answer was yes.
The news had spread through both Realm and the village like wildfire. Marcus was keeping his baby.
Sophie bounced Adam on her shoulder as they walked through Moira’s garden. She’d paged Nell. Time to gather and get the scoop from the single eyewitness.
The flowers were still nattering. Sophie spared a hand from her cranky baby to send them a quick flow of power.
Aunt Moira was already settled in the warm waters when they arrived, smiling in welcome.
Sophie grinned at the tea tray poolside-there were a lot of cups. “Been telling your story a few times, have you?”
“The broad details, yes.” Moira reached for Adam. “Come here, beautiful boy. Gran wants to hold you.”
Visitors to Fisher’s Cove could be forgiven for being entirely confused as to which babies were actually related to Moira by blood. Adam wasn’t-but nobody remembered that much of the time. “Give me a minute to peel his clothes off.”
It didn’t take long. Sophie handed him down and then stepped into the pool herself, grateful as always for the warmth. Her baby boy floated on his Gran’s gentle hands, calm in a way he rarely was on land. “He so loves it in here.”
“As he should.” Moira leaned over to drop a kiss on his forehead. “Mayhap it’s water power that will flow in his veins.”
“Possibly.” Sophie smiled softly, long used to the game of guessing future magics. “Or maybe he just likes to float.”
“Aye, it could be that, too.”
“Aervyn loved to do that.” Nell spoke from the edge of the pool, newly arrived and bearing sandwiches. “I heard there’s juicy gossip.”
“Mmm.” Moira leaned back, cradling Adam in her arms. “Sophie tells me I need to spend more time typing. Good physical therapy. Perhaps we can have a chat session later, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Sophie snorted-she knew her patients. This one never left juicy news until later.
Nell slid into the water. “Only if I get a soak first. I had to duct tape my girls to the floor to come without them. We have thirty minutes before Daniel releases them.”
“Good gossip takes time.” Moira’s eyes twinkled. “And perhaps a wee bit of food to fuel the talking.”
“You’re putting your audience to sleep,” said Nell wryly.
Sophie grinned at her drowsy boy-child. Some people survived without an Irish grandmother next door. She had no idea how. “So the strange lady showed up to take Morgan away…”
“Hardly.” Nell snorted. “Marcus called her.” She grinned at Moira. “I have my sources.”
“Indeed you do.” Moira smiled down at the baby in her arms. “You forget how innocent they are at this age. And how easy it is to make them happy.”
Sophie resolved to remember that the next time she was walking the floors with a cranky baby at 3 a.m.
“The flowers called him.” Moira looked up. “When Marcus was a small boy, he heard the old magics, just as you do, Sophie. Somehow, in the last forty years, I’d forgotten that.” Her voice quieted. “The old energies were strong this morning. Our Morgan stirs them.”
Sophie shivered. The old magics made most witches very nervous.
