Doon

house arrest, what is there to do in this pile of bricks?”

Mentally cringing at her choice of words, I tried for a little counterbalance. “Since you’re stuck with us, what would you like to do today, Fiona?”

“I typically help make baskets fer the community on morns like this. Would ye care to lend a hand?”

“Definitely. If you think we’ll be welcome.” As supposed witches, I knew we couldn’t take anything for granted, including our acceptance by those inside the castle.

“Extra hands are always welcome.” Fiona fluffed her strawberry-blonde hair and smoothed her skirt. “Let’s go see Mags.”

A half hour later, we were in the castle kitchens, being inspected by a thin, elderly woman wearing a pristine chef’s hat and apron. She possessed the slightest trace of a French accent.

“I am Margaret Benoir, though you may call me Mags. In case you wonder—newcomers often do—I am originally from Geneva, but I came to Doon during the last Centennial by way of the Paris Culinary Academy.”

I couldn’t help but blurt, “Are you the one who made our pancakes? It was the most amazing breakfast … ever!”

The chef gave me a small grin. “Thank you. I will be sure to make them for you again.”

We then followed Mags through the bustling kitchen and into a cavernous room where several dozen women of all ages and a handful of men were busy at work. As we entered, activity ceased and smiles melted from what had been carefree faces.

I heard Roddie MacPhee and Millicent Ennis move through the room in a swirl of whispers, and several of the workers crossed themselves superstitiously.

Mags cleared her throat and overlooked the less than welcoming reaction. “This is the Great Hall. It is also where volunteers assemble weekly provisions for the sick and elderly, or anyone else who has need. We can always use extra hands.”

As Mags escorted us across the room, I wondered what the infirmed would say about our hands. Would they care that their basket had been assembled by girls allegedly in league with the Witch o’ Doon? Right on cue, the girl who could read my mind leaned in so that no one would overhear. “Maybe we should curse their cucumbers.”

“Be serious, Ken.” I gently touched her shoulder, just below the deep purple reminder of what some Doonians were capable of.

“These are Mackenna and Veronica—and they have come to help.” Although Mags addressed the table where we’d stopped, she clearly spoke for the benefit of everyone present. She turned to us once more and tilted her head in approval. “On behalf of the castle, I thank you for your service.”

As Mags retreated, a few of the more petrified volunteers slipped away as well. But for every worker that left, two more nodded their approval to remind me that, although the kingdom was divided, our accusers were the minority.

Fiona picked up Mags’ role as our tour guide/goodwill ambassador. She paused to return the wave of a grinning red-cheeked blonde. “That’s Mario’s wife, Sharron, and next ta her are their daughters, Sofia and Gabriella. I expect they’re most anxious ta meet you.”

Then, like an anxious hostess, Fiona rushed us over and introduced the family. Sharron, with her fair skin, golden hair, and emerald eyes, epitomized Scottish beauty. And Gabriella was a breathtaking sixteen-year-old miniature of her mother. But Sofia captured my attention. She had a riotous mass of black curls and huge ebony eyes, which peered at us curiously through long, silky lashes. She was so tiny that I nearly mistook her for a child, but on closer examination I realized she was my age—which in Doon years was probably somewhere closer to sixty.

As we settled across from Mario’s family, the younger girl, Gabriella—who insisted we call her Gabby— pointed first to Kenna and then me, excitedly. “You must be Mackenna and Veronica. My papa told me all about you.”

Italian pronunciation interspersed her lovely Scottish accent to give her speech an exotic quality. “How nice of you to help assemble baskets for those too infirmed to join us tonight.”

Kenna’s eyebrows lifted toward her hairline as she reached for a basket. “What’s tonight?”

“Tonight is the weekly feast,” Sharron answered. “The evening before the Sabbath, we gather as a kingdom ta celebrate our blessings. ’Tis a great pleasure ta make yer acquaintance, by the way.”

“There’s dancing.” Gabby’s eyes sparkled with the look of one whose dance card was always full.

“And you girls will be most welcome to join us,” Sharron said with a warm smile.

Focusing on the basket in front of me, I managed a casual shrug. “Maybe we should skip it this time.”

“Nonsense.” Fiona’s firm voice told me the matter had already been decided. “Do not bend ta the will o’ fear and ignorance. Are ye really going to let a couple o’ small-minded bullies keep ye from joining us?”

Kenna’s eyes met mine, letting me know this was my call to make. Fiona had a good point. I would never prove we weren’t in league with the witch by hiding in my room. “No. We’re not.”

Gabby clapped her hands in delight. “Excellent! You’ll have a wonderful time, I know. The festivities after the meal are the best part.” She nudged her sister. “I predict that Prince Jamie will ask Sofie for the first dance.” At the mention of Jamie’s name, I fumbled a jar of pickled vegetables, and tried to ignore the fact my stomach had plummeted with it.

Mrs. Rosetti’s proud eyes shone with enthusiasm as she explained, “Jamie’s been paying particular attention ta our wee Sofia.”

Sofia blushed a deep red and lowered her inky lashes until her expression became unreadable. “None of that matters, Mamma, if someone—He’s received a Calling.”

“A Calling?” Gabby gasped. Her eyes darted across my face to focus on Kenna. “Oh. Have either of you had a Calling then?”

From the conversation at the tavern, I knew I’d probably experienced a Calling, but I wasn’t about to fess up to my crazy visitations. Instead, I blinked and feigned incomprehension. “Uh—I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

Gabby might have inherited her mother’s coloring, but she’d inherited her father’s mannerisms. Her hands started to flail as she explained with great enthusiasm how hearts called across the Brig o’ Doon. “The Calling of true love. The heart calls to its soul mate, who answers back. The lovers actually inhabit one another’s dream space, or in rare cases share a waking vision.” My ears pricked. “It’s usually strongest in the weeks leading up to the Centennial, when the Brig o’ Doon opens and the lovers can be united. My parents dreamt of one another in this way. It was the dreams that brought my papa to the bridge.”

I gripped a loaf of bread so hard my fingers poked holes in its crust. Both Gracie and Cameron, and now Gabby’s parents, had dreamed of each other. But what if the Calling was one sided? Did seeing Jamie in my world—without his apparent knowledge—constitute half a Calling? A predestined condemnation to live a life of unrequited love?

Gabby’s inquisitive eyes shifted between us. “Is a Calling what brought you ta Doon?”

“Nope.” Kenna shook her head and put extra enthusiasm into packing her basket with fresh fruit.

I, on the other hand, panicked. If I told a boldface lie, would they be able to tell? And if I didn’t say something quick, would the hesitation give me away? Kenna gave me a small kick. “Ow! I mean—No! No dreams or anything. Kenna inherited the rings from her aunt. I’m just along for the ride.”

Gabby deflated and reached for an orange, but her mother’s attention only became more focused on me. “No one comes ta Doon unless it is the kingdom’s will. I wouldna dismiss yourself so easily, dear.”

It wasn’t that I’d dismissed myself, but it was hard to believe in your destiny when the boy you thought was in it was intent on dismissing you. I shot Kenna a mental SOS.

She nodded slightly and shifted into Kindly Kenna mode. “Sofia, did you say something about dancing?”

Sofia shook her head. “Yes, there will be some dancing, but with Laird MacCrae being so ill … he will not be able to attend as usual.” She trailed off uncomfortably.

Sharron paused in her work to regard us gravely. “He’s taken a turn for the worse. Doc Benoir does no’ think he will last ‘til the Centennial.”

Before we could lapse into another silence, Gabby spoke in a lowered voice for our benefit. “If Laird MacCrae passes before the Centennial, his successor must be crowned before the Brig o’ Doon opens.”