wouldn’t leave my mind.
I glanced at Kenna sleeping peacefully beside me. I longed to wake her and tell her everything, but then I remembered the king’s words: I alone could save the kingdom. Did that mean if I involved my best friend, I’d fail to save Doon? Or that it was best if I acted alone? I had no idea how the curse on the journal worked. But why endanger others if I didn’t have to? I was the one who brought the journal across the bridge in the first place—the one who’d put the people of Doon in danger.
Picturing the dead guard’s faces, frozen in agony, tears leaked out of the corners of my closed eyes. My fault. The king had given me the vision for a reason. And Jamie’s dreams had nothing to do with Kenna. This was my responsibility, my problem to fix. But the bridge was closed until the Centennial, and the king had taken the rings.
Suddenly the walls closed in around me. I had to get out, had to come up with a plan—guards or no guards. Careful not to wake Kenna, I pushed the coverlet back and slid to my feet. After tugging on my skirt and blouse, I retrieved the journal from its soggy hiding place and tucked the tiny book in my skirt pocket.
I knew what I had to do—how I could save the kingdom. Grabbing an apple out of the bowl on the coffee table, I moved to the door and flung it open—only to stop just short of barreling into a teary-eyed Fiona. Before she even spoke the words, I knew what she would say. I didn’t want to hear it, but like so many other things in Doon, I had no choice in the matter.
“The Laird MacCrae has passed on.”
My throat tightened as I moved to embrace Fiona. There was one choice still left to me. I would not let the king’s vision, the effort it’d cost him to warn me, go to waste. I’d get the cursed journal out of Doon before it was too late.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of dark, drab clothing and Kenna’s cryptic references to
After what felt like an eternity, we arrived at the Auld Kirk. From my vantage point in the middle of the church, I let my eyes slide over the sea of mourners, searching for the face of my prince. He and his bother sat alone in front, opposite, yet the same; one dark, one light, their broad shoulders squared in an almost identical steely bulwark against their anguish—stoic islands of grief. I wished I was sitting next to him, if only to hold his hand.
Pain shot up my jaw and I unclenched my teeth. Jamie wouldn’t want reassurance from me. He’d made his feelings abundantly clear, and after what I’d done, it was for the best. I shifted in my seat, the impulse to duck out the back door, to grab the journal and go, almost overwhelming. Fearful to bring the witch’s evil into the Doonians’ place of worship, I’d stashed the book outside the doors of the chapel, in the pot of a tall fern.
A deep silence pulled my focus back to the front of the church where Jamie made his way to the center of the altar. Stopping behind the podium, he stood tall and strong, sincerity shining from his face. As he began to speak, his words filled the chapel with an almost visible peace, his internal strength comforting and encouraging his grieving kinsmen.
Kenna shifted beside me. She slipped her warm hand into mine and squeezed. If she chose to stay in Doon, this could be the last moment I spent with her. I squeezed back, hoping she knew how much she meant to me.
“You okay?” she whispered.
Afraid she would read my thoughts, I nodded but kept my focus on the eulogy. As I listened, something inside of me shifted. The resentment I’d felt since discovering it was my responsibility to save the kingdom transformed into quiet acceptance. Jamie MacCrae would make a wonderful king, and it was my duty—no, my destiny—to give him that chance.
Even if it meant leaving the two people I loved most in the world … forever.
CHAPTER 22
Mackenna
As I followed the funeral crowd around the side of the Auld Kirk to the pavilion behind, I asked myself WWSSD: What Would Stephen Sondheim Do?
I thought about the two gladiator princes who, despite all their strength and cunning, were powerless to stop the death of their beloved father—even in an enchanted kingdom. Bittersweet, coming-of-age melodies swirled in my head. If only Stephen were here to give them a musical silver lining to cling to in their time of need.
Instead, they had a whole community of loved ones who grieved in harmony with them. And the discord of two alleged witches, causing unease in their realm at a time when they needed it least.
Make that one witch.
Vee had wandered away from the masses at the first opportunity. Ever since the picnic at Muir Lea, she’d been a ghost girl, barely here. Considering the whole Sofia thing, I figured she just needed some space.
But this morning had been different. Whatever happened between Vee and the auld laird before he passed had seriously messed her up. In our entire friendship, I’d never seen her so devastated—or withdrawn. Not even when her dad went MIA.
It was time for a Kennavention … just as soon as she returned.
Moments after Vee slipped away, I watched Jamie follow. From what little she’d told me, Prince Not-So- Charming had a lot of sucking up to do. Maybe after some alone time they’d be able to reach an understanding.
To take my mind off my bestie’s drama, I focused on the scene before me. Wooden tables, laden with food and drinks, bordered the length of the space closest to the church. At the far end, a band—complete with bagpipes and drums—began to set up just in front of the Doonian crest. The opposite side of the tent opened to reveal the spectacular shoreline of the Loch o’ Doon. In the middle of the shore, a small wooden ramp sloped into the gently lapping waters of the lake. A rectangular pyre of twigs sat on the makeshift dock in preparation of the king’s final journey.
As the good citizens of Doon gathered in the pavilion, the musicians took up their instruments. Accompanied by the sad, slow strains of the fiddlers, the bagpipes began to weave their haunting tale of sorrow. Perhaps Sondheim’s spirit was present after all.
Fiona wove her way through the crowd to check on me. Her swollen eyes spoke of a grief I wasn’t entitled to share. Feeling like an intruder, I picked the first safe topic I could come up with. “I think it might rain.”
At my seemingly benign statement, Fiona stifled a sob. “Aye. I’ve no doubt that it will. The weather and the kingdom share a distinct connection. Although we have seasons, the weather is always harshest when we Doonians are—struggling.” Her voice broke on the last word, and I decided my curiosity was better left unsatisfied. As she moved on, the first fat drops of moisture began to fall, giving the impression that the sky cried along with the people.
Or maybe these were the tears of God?
I’d heard someone say that about rain once, and the thought sent a shiver trembling up my spine. Would God cry at the death of one king? Or any single Doonian for that matter? What about my world? Had he cried over my mother? Would he cry for me?
He would cry for Duncan—that I was certain of. The younger prince of Doon had a simple faith that resonated from his being. He was kind and loyal, and … good. Everything nobility ought to be.
My gaze roamed restlessly through the crowded pavilion, seeking the face of Duncan MacCrae. Over the past few days he’d been absent, busy with the Centennial and grieving over his dad. His playful banter seemed to have died along with the soldiers in the meadow. Now the unsettling feeling of missing him, if only as a friend, tugged at me.
He was easy to spot—a dark-haired hulk standing a full head above his peers. Well, not peers exactly … In this case, he held court with a half dozen girls, each one prettier than the next. A dozen lashes batted in unison, as
