Remember the stories I used to tell you as a child? I pray, my dear, that your heart is still open to extraordinary tales, because I am about to tell you the most miraculous one of them all.
In 1882, at the age of nineteen, I finished my studies, and had just accepted a position as a governess in Glasgow when the visions began. I was haunted by a boy with black hair and whimsical gray eyes. He called to me from the Brig o’ Doon.
My stomach catapulted into my throat. She had visions too?
Although I had not intended to detour on my way north, I felt drawn to the small village of Alloway. Along the journey, I stumbled upon an antique ruby ring in a curiosity shoppe and spent most of my meager traveling allowance to purchase it. From the moment I slipped it on my finger, I felt a sense of urgency and purpose.
I glanced at the ruby ring on my finger and then up at my best friend. She sat motionless, staring into the shadows.
The minute I laid eyes on the Brig o’ Doon, my feet moved as if they had wings. I burned with the need to cross to the other side. As I reached the center of the auld brig, my ring began to glow.
On the far bank, the boy I’d been dreaming of stepped from the mists, his silver and emerald ring glowing in answer to mine. Behind him stood a glorious castle that grew sharper with each step. The ring had led me to Doon—a beautiful kingdom outside of time and place—where Cameron, my true love, waited. We were married that same day.
Cam and I spent twenty bliss-filled years in his kingdom before destiny led us back across the Brig o’ Doon. Strangely, the world I remembered was gone. Over eighty years had passed on this side of the portal. The year was 1960.
Eventually, I was able to track my sister’s descendants to America and reconnect with my only living relatives. I shared my secret with your mother when she turned eighteen, but her future lay elsewhere. Now I leave the legacy of Doon to your keeping, dearest Mackenna. The kingdom is your destiny, if you are courageous enough to embrace it.
All my love,
Aunt Gracie
The rain had stopped, plunging us in a shroud of silence as Kenna stared into her hands. Her mouth opened and closed but formed no discernible words. Unsure of what to say, I set the letter down and asked, “What do you think?”
She shrugged and twisted the emerald ring on her finger, her lips pursed and trembling.
I searched her profile and tried to put myself in her place. As far as I knew, she hadn’t experienced any visions of her own, but surely she couldn’t dismiss the words of the woman she’d known better than her own mother. When I spoke, it came out as a whisper. “This is all pretty extraordinary—don’t you think so?”
“My aunt was always making up stories for me … Pretending they were real. I guess she wanted to leave me with one last fantastical tale.”
“It doesn’t sound like a made-up story. Don’t you think it lines up perfectly with what Alasdair told us at the pub?”
“He probably heard it from her.” Beads of sweat dotted Kenna’s forehead and upper lip.
“Maybe your aunt’s journal would help clarify things? We could read it together.”
“Just stop.” She held up her hand, her eyes clamped shut.
I didn’t tell her that I’d skimmed the first several pages—mostly genealogies, and family trees—while she’d been in the shower, or that I was already plotting to examine it again after she fell asleep. It would be so much easier if I could study the journal without the secrecy. I didn’t want to lie to her. Maybe if she knew how similar my visions were to what Gracie and Cameron experienced, and if I showed her the sketch … “What if I could prove—”