With a much-deserved eye roll, I listed the meager contents of my pockets. “I’ve got tinted lip gloss and an empty baggie. Oh, and this.” I pulled out my cell and examined the screen.
“No bars—but look.” A pale square of light illuminated the open journal as I turned my phone into a flashlight.
Clearly impressed, she whistled. “I never would’ve thought of that. That’s why you’re the brains and I’m the talent.”
I ignored her as I turned my attention to the one thing that might help us out of this situation. The journal. “There’s got to be answers in here somewhere.”
Kenna resumed pacing the perimeter of our cell. “We can figure a way out of this. We’re modern women with history and technology on our side. So let’s think creatively … Do you think they know what political asylum is?” I kept searching, unwilling to encourage her by answering.
Undeterred by my silence, her stream of consciousness continued unabated. “We’ll think of something. We certainly can’t stay here. That bed looks like you could catch scurvy from it.”
I didn’t look up from the journal as I admonished, “You can’t catch scurvy from a mattress. You contract it because of a Vitamin C deficiency, and it mostly afflicts sailors.”
“How do you know that stuff? And why? Anyway, you get the point. It’s icky here.”
Now I looked up. “It’s a dungeon, Kenna. By definition, dungeons are icky.”
She ignored my patronizing look and grumbled, “I’ll bet if Fergus had his way, we wouldn’t be in here.”
Now that was a good idea.
I moved to the iron door and craned my head to see out of the tiny, barred window. As I’d hoped, a man-shaped shadow lurked just outside. In a tone similar to the one I used with my dance students, I called into the darkness, “Hello there? Can you hear me?”
Several seconds passed before an unfamiliar voice stiffly answered, “Aye.”
“Do you know Fergus?”
“Aye.”
“Can you please get him for us?”
Coming to my aid, Kenna pressed her face next to mine. “This is probably totally beyond you, but we’re Americans and are, therefore, entitled to a phone call. But since you people don’t have phones, we’ll settle for speaking to Fergus.”
“Nay.”
I nodded and took a step back, giving her permission to let him have it with both barrels.
“Pleeeeeease?” That particular whine had gotten us more than our fair share of candy before dinner back in the day. It chaffed like sandpaper on a sunburn. “I reeeeeally need to speak to Fergus. It’s a matter of life or death. Pleeeeaseeeee?”
From farther down the corridor I heard heavy, measured footsteps moving in our direction and then stop. “I’m here, lasses.”
Kenna tipped me a satisfied nod and stepped back mouthing, “The talent.”
Pressing my face against the bars, I asked, “Is that you, Fergus?”
“Who else would I be?” For a second I thought I’d offended him. Then his quiet laugh eased my concern. “What kin I do for ye?”
“We didn’t just appear out of nowhere—we were led here by Kenna’s aunt, Grace Lockhart.”
“The red-haired lass is Grace Lockhart’s niece?”
“Yes.” From some distance away, I heard commotion followed by the unmistakable voice of Gideon.
Fergus whispered urgently, “Have faith, lass. A higher purpose is at work here, and ye are not without allies.” Then our only hope moved out of sight.
I locked eyes with Kenna, and she gestured to the journal. “Put that back in your pocket.” She was right. We’d already lost the rings; if they confiscated the journal, we’d be screwed.
The gate at the end of the cellblock creaked as multiple sets of footsteps drew closer. Our door swung open and Gideon barged in flanked by several stone-faced guards. Each man had a weapon belted above his kilt. “The MacCrae wishes ta see ye. Come wi’ me, witches. And take care ta hold yer tongues.”