“Yes, sir,” I answered as Kenna and I broke apart.
“Mackenna, are ye hurt?”
“I’ll be fine. No permanent damage—at least to me.” She absently rubbed the back of her head as she looked around.
“And you, Veronica?”
Meeting Fergus’s pale blue eyes, I searched for answers I knew he didn’t have. “I’m fine.”
“Go on and get back ta the trail. I’ll be right behind ye.” He picked up Gideon’s rag doll body and effortlessly hoisted it over his shoulder.
I picked my way down the rocky trail with care. How had those poor men died? The Doonians were certain the witch had no power here—but I was beginning to wonder. A conversation I’d had with Fiona after the tavern incident circled through my mind. There had been no crime in Doon before we came. No violent acts, no unexplained disappearances, no black petunias growing on dead ground, and certainly no murders—aside from the time long ago when the witch had bewitched a man into doing her bidding. What were the odds of Doon having a sudden crime wave at the same time the two American girls showed up?
My heart squeezed in my chest—everything Jamie thought of me could be true. It was possible that when we crossed the Brig o’ Doon we made the kingdom vulnerable to the witch’s influence. And if we didn’t find a way to stop it, more people could die.
The next morning, I sat curled in the alcove of the window seat and stared into the crackling fire, picking out patterns in the flames. It was hard work keeping my mind blank, but everything that’d happened in the last twenty-four hours hurt too much to contemplate. Kenna and I had been ordered to stay in the turret room—for our own protection, according to Fiona. But with a guard inside the suite, as well as outside the door, the confinement felt more like a prison sentence.
Kenna paced the other side of the bedroom, mumbling to herself. The occasional word reached my ears: “mob,” “pitchforks,” “dungeon,” “beheading.”
We’d both fallen into bed after dinner the night before, too exhausted to speak. Now, listening to my friend babble, I realized I couldn’t put it off any longer.
“Ken, please stop. We need to talk.” I patted the cushion next to me.
She flopped down, her arms crossed under her chest and her lip jutting out like a kid who didn’t get the last pink balloon at the fair.
“Yesterday in the meadow, what happened before I got there?”
“One minute I was urging Duncan to go to his father … and the next, I was lying on the ground surrounded by a bunch of dead guys.” Her eyes were silver with tears. “I have no idea what happened to those poor men.”
I nodded and took her hand. “It’s not your fault, you know.”
She shrugged and then wiped her cheeks. “I can’t find a single box of Puffs in this joint.”
I bit my lip against a chuckle, popped up, and jogged into the bathroom. Thankfully, Doon was progressive enough to have toilet paper. As I wrapped a few pieces around my hand, I stopped and stared up at the toilet tank above me. Maybe the tiny book hidden there contained some clue that I’d missed. What I’d said to Kenna was true; the deaths weren’t her fault. But I couldn’t absolve myself so easily. I’d been the one obsessed—the one Kenna followed to the bridge.
Jamie’d said there was a price for everything. It seemed as if the price I’d paid to enter this paradise was costing my best friend as well as innocent Doonians. After delivering the tissue to Kenna, I sank down at the table. I cradled the journal in my hands, knowing it was too late to turn back the clock, but praying there was a way to stop what I’d inadvertently set into motion.
Hours later, I closed the journal with a sigh and picked up the page of notes I’d taken. The pieces were here; I could feel it. But for some reason I couldn’t fit them together. I ran my finger across the last paragraph of my notes.
The Rings of Aontacht are purported to do different things depending on the Protector’s will. Page 47 says that their purpose is to enable individuals to cross the Brig o’ Doon at times other than the Centennial. This seems consistent with pages 73 and 109. But on page 148 Gracie says the symbols on the rings indicate they can be used for the purposes of protection and substitution. The prominent symbol indicates that someone can take the place of another at a spiritual level. Sacrificial substitution.
Opening
Kenna, fresh from a nap, flitted around the room, singing snippets of show tunes and lighting lamps to push back the growing darkness of the stormy afternoon. When she stopped to light the lantern on the table in front of me, I lightly touched her hand. She paused mid-song, her brows pinched together.
I pointed to the open page at a three-looped knot labeled Unity. “Does this look like the first symbol on your aunt’s rings?”
“I think so.” She sat across from me. “Why?”
I ran my finger down the drawings, to another one that looked familiar. “And this one?”
She leaned over and studied the triple spiral. “I do remember that one. What does it mean?”
I read the tiny script beside the picture aloud. “The Triskele is the symbol of substitution or rebirth.” I moved to the next symbol I recognized. “And this one represents sacrifice or an exchange offering.”
“It’s pretty, but I wouldn’t get it tattooed on my lower back or anything.” I glanced up to find Kenna’s scrutiny on me rather than the symbol. “What’re you doing, anyway? As soon as the bridge opens, we’re gone. We’ll probably never see those rings again.”
“Has it occurred to you that all the horrible stuff going on in Doon started after we got here?”
“I guess, but I figured that was just a coincidence. I mean, Glinda and Elphaba we’re not.” She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “But I could totally get my Glinda on if you think it’ll get us out of here faster.”
Not in the mood for one of her
At the guard’s signal, Kenna and I moved to the bedroom and waited for him to answer the door and then sound the all clear.
When we returned to the living quarters, Fiona stood beside a flushed Fergus, whose bright red nose and eyes told me he’d been crying. The giant guard turned to me, lifting his chin in an attempt to hide his anguish. “Our good king seeks an audience with Miss Veronica.”
My heart stuttered, my eyes darting to Fiona and then back to Fergus. “Why?”
Fiona lifted her pursed lips and exchanged a meaningful glance with Fergus, then said, “The Laird MacCrae doesn’t have long for this world.”
I’d figured as much, but that didn’t explain why the king wanted to see me. Unless it was to punish me for what I’d allowed into his kingdom. I fastened my concentration on Fergus, hoping he was gifted in cryptic conversation. “Does the laird—uh—know about the meadow?”
Fergus cleared his throat, a sheepish look on his mottled face. “Ye kin speak plainly in front of Fiona. She knows about the guard’s deaths, as does Duncan. But we’re keeping it from Jamie and the Laird MacCrae, fer now.”
“What about Gideon?” Kenna asked. “I figured he’d be screaming my guilt from the rooftops by now.”
“Hard to do when he’s locked in the dungeon.” The corner of Fergus’s mouth lifted in a hint of a smile. “Everyone thinks he and his men are on a border mission for Centennial preparations.”
Fiona’s pretty mouth in turn twisted into an expression that was equal parts smile and frown. “Veronica, you should go. I’ll stay with Mackenna until ye return.”
Fergus placed a meaty hand on my bicep, his voice both reassuring and urgent as he guided me toward the door. “That’s true. We need ta hurry, m’ lady.”
As I moved with the giant, I glanced over my shoulder and met Kenna’s guilt-ridden face. Without exchanging a word, I could tell she was relieved she wasn’t going with me and at the same time ashamed she felt that way. “Don’t worry,” I said, fostering confidence I didn’t feel. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”
Right.
Knees shaking like an arthritic granny as I descended the stairs, I tried to reassure myself with worst-case
