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 Cameron? Skimming the rest of the page, I noted that Gracie described a picnic date, but I wasn’t clear if she and Cameron were in Doon or the “mortal world” at the time, so I skipped ahead a few pages to a crude map labeled The Kingdom. There were bodies of water, mountains, house shapes labeled as crofter, market, blacksmith, clustered buildings marked as The Village, and a huge structure set at the end of a vast lake labeled The Castle MacCrae. I traced my finger from the bridge depicted at the bottom of the drawing past a forest, through the village, up to the castle, and wondered how far it would be on foot.
Pulling my mind back to the challenge at hand, I realized this proved nothing, other than the fact that the journal’s author had an even richer imagination than my own. I flipped through the pages to see if anything caught my eye. Near the end, a single loose piece of paper drifted from the book and landed facedown at my feet.
I picked up the paper, and as I turned it over a shock ran through my entire body.
“Jamie.”
The name left my lips as I stared at the lifelike drawing of the unbelievably gorgeous boy who’d haunted me for weeks. His eyes, dark and intense, smoldered at me from the page. Broad cheekbones, stubble-covered square jaw, perfect lips, slashing brows, and yes, the delectable dimple in his stubborn-looking chin were captured on the page in a perfect likeness.