Doon

contemplated each of us with keen, blue-gray eyes. “This tale is not for the faint of heart, lasses.”

Kenna’s lips tilted slightly as she met his challenge. “I think we can handle it.”

The old actor shifted his attention to me and I gave him a nod of assent, my voice trapped in my chest.

“All right, then.” A grin creased the man’s craggy face, lighting his countenance like a sunrise. “What most people dinna know, my fair lassies”—he rested his crossed arms on the table and lowered his voice in a theatrical whisper—”is that Robert Burns dinna create the legend of Brig o’ Doon. He borrowed it from an even older tale.”

I leaned forward and the clamor of the crowded pub faded away.

“Once upon a time, there existed a prosperous kingdom called Doon. It was rich with fertile lands and abundant mountain streams, its beauty beyond compare. The wise and just leader, King Angus Andrew Kellan MacCrae, was adored by all.”

A slow shiver crawled up my spine. What were the chances of my dream boy and this mythical king sharing not one, but two names? I glanced at Kenna, her foot tapping to the music as she drew a series of circles in the condensation on her mug. Could I tell her about the connection? The answer was an easy no. She’d make some crack about “obsessive delusions” then never surrender her aunt’s journal. I had to find out what Gracie knew.

With effort, I reigned in my focus and turned back to the old man. He angled toward me so that the candle’s glow distorted the plains and recesses of his face, giving the appearance that his jaw unhinged as he spoke.

“But what is seen as light will forever be coveted by the dark. And so it was that the kingdom o’ Doon was targeted by a coven of witches who desired to possess the realm for themselves. For years, they tried to seize the kingdom. No matter what strategy they employed—be it covert tactics to undermine the royal family or open warfare—they were thwarted at every turn.

“One legend has it that the witches raised an army of the undead to fight against the king’s forces. But even against this aberration of nature, Doon’s royal army reigned supreme. And yet, our witches didna give up.” Alasdair paused dramatically to lean even closer to our captivated ears.

“’Tis purported that they made a pact wi’ Auld Clootie hisself. A foul bargain that would deliver Doon into their hands. In exchange, the witches would place the Great Deceiver on the throne as their king, and all the righteous subjects o’ Doon would be bound to him for eternity.

“So the kingdom was beset by catastrophe at ever’ turn. First, illness struck the palace. The king’s true love—his lovely queen—died, crippling the ruler with grief. Then the undead army returned in numbers so great not even the brave knights of Doon could keep them at bay. Finally, King MacCrae’s infant son succumbed to the very illness that killed the queen and so many others.”

The old man slumped back in his seat, silent. Several long seconds ticked by while we waited for him to continue. When he seemed disinclined to do so, I couldn’t hold my silence any longer.

“That’s it? Evil wins?” This tragic tale could not be the end of the legend!

“I was no’ finished, young lady. Give an old man a moment to rest,” he said with an impish grin and a wink.

After finishing half his ale in one long draw, Alasdair settled back into his tale. “So, bein’ the God-fearing man that he was, the good king locked himself in the chapel and spent seven days and nights on his knees in prayer. He wouldna accept food nor drink, nor the counsel of his advisors. When he finally emerged, his youngest son was healed, and what was left o’ Doon’s army returned to the palace claiming the undead monsters had vanished.

“Gatherin’ all his people, the king explained that their kingdom had been placed under an enchantment that would protect them from destruction at the witches’ hands … that they would, in fact, be an island to themselves and no one would be able to get in or out of the boundaries save for one day ever’ hundred years.”

No one at the table spoke for several seconds, and in the lull the sounds around me began to filter back into my consciousness. A haunting melody played in the background accompanied by a clear, sweet voice, “Will ye go, lassie, go …”

By all logic, an enchanted kingdom was too perfect to exist—didn’t exist. But I couldn’t silence the voice in my head asking, What if? What if the boy who shared a name with the original king of Doon, the same boy who’d wedged himself in my otherwise lifeless heart, was out there somewhere waiting for me to find him?

“So,” Kenna said with a smirk, snapping me out of my reverie. “How does one find this Scottish Shangri- la?”

“Ah-hah. You see, that is the great mystery. Many learned people have made it their life’s work to discover the kingdom of Doon.” His faded blue eyes narrowed. “But I happen to know of a reliable source that saw Doon with her own eyes.” He lifted his glass toward Kenna. “To Grace Lockhart! God rest her soul.”

Kenna sat straight up in her chair. “How did you know my aunt?”

“’Tis a small world, Mackenna Reid.” With a tip of his head, Alasdair wished us good night and shuffled back to the bar, Ally following on his heels.

“He’s such a liar. My aunt may have loved to tell tales, but I don’t believe for one minute she thought any of them were real.” Kenna turned to me and hitched a thumb over her shoulder at the departing old man. “Do you believe that guy?”

“I don’t know …”

“Oh, come on, Vee, fairy tales don’t exist. You of all people should know that.”

She was right. I was no longer that little girl who wished on falling stars. I’d learned from experience hoping for the impossible just ended in heartbreak … but did that mean I’d stopped believing altogether?

I clenched my teeth and stared into my empty mug, the buzzy feeling its contents had given me long gone. “You’re right.” I pushed down my melancholy, and gave her a bright smile. “Make-believe can be fun sometimes, though.”

Her gaze caught mine. “Sure. But like with acting, one needs to be able to tell the difference between fantasy and reality.”

That was the thing, I did know the difference. And the more information I discovered, the less I could shake the feeling that whatever was happening to me was very real.

I listened to the clock in the library chime once and glanced at Kenna. She sat slumped on the living room sofa, snoring softly while a DVD of the latest Les Miserables remake played on the flat screen. Although she’d been the one insistent on a movie musical marathon, she’d not even lasted through Fantine’s fall into ruin.

Mindful of the creaking wood, I crept up the stairs and down the darkened hall to her room. Why I was creeping, I wasn’t sure. Once Kenna was out, nothing but a gaggle of zombies could rouse her … and maybe not even that.

My skin prickled with anticipation as I switched on her bedside lamp and began searching for the journal. I wanted to find proof for Kenna, but I also needed to see what was inside the tiny book —needed to find validation for myself that the voice inside my heart whispered the truth.

Both cluttered nightstands were empty of books. Moving to the dresser, I opened drawers and sorted through familiar articles of Kenna’s colorful wardrobe. Sneakiness was not really in my nature, and a vague sense of guilt gave me pause until I reminded myself I was doing this for Kenna’s own good … as well as mine. The question of Doon’s existence was already driving a wedge between us. She was too pragmatic to believe without concrete proof. And without evidence, she would continue to dismiss my instincts as literary-influenced romanticism—or in Kenna speak, nuttier than a squirrel on crack.

Opening the right bottom drawer, I pushed aside haphazardly folded piles of pajamas until my fingers connected with cool, smooth leather. I scooped up the journal, my hands trembling slightly as I carried it into the light. I carefully undid the tie and opened the fragile book to a random entry. The words blurred for a moment, forcing me to close my eyes to regain my focus. The pages felt stiff like parchment and smelled faintly of old sandals and lavender. Breathing deeply, I opened my eyes and began to read:

Nearly a century had passed since Cameron had been born, though in Doon this had been but the blink of an eye. With his midnight hair, smooth skin, and gray-blue eyes, it was clear he was not yet twenty years of age. He explained that Doon did not exist as part of the mortal world.

I sat down, hard. Luckily the desk chair was there to catch me. Kenna’s Uncle