Jamie MacCrae
Eternal esteem? What the heck did that mean? I hope that you will cherish this small piece of Doon, always. What the …? I read the note again in silence.
“Well, tha’ was verra nice,” Fiona said cheerfully. “So thoughtful of the MacCrae.”
“Nice?” I glanced up, but her encouraging smile didn’t reach her eyes. I read the note again. It was like he was patting me on the head and sending me on my way. Sorry ye couldna be with me Verranica, but here’s a little somethin’ to remember me by. The medieval version of a text breakup!
Not that we were ever really together. I slumped in my chair and threw the note on the table. Kenna placed her hand over mine and squeezed supportively. “Vee, sweetie. Aren’t you going to open the gift?”
My mouth pulled down in a pout, and I shrugged. “You can if you want.” Not caring what consolation prize was inside the box, I stared out the window as sounds of ripping paper filled the room.
“Oh … wow.”
Kenna’s reverent observation prompted me to look in her direction. My heart did a tiny jeté as I stared at the detailed miniature of the Castle MacCrae I’d fallen in love with at the marketplace. How did he know? Then a startling realization hit me. He’d been there—maybe the entire time—watching me.
I met Kenna’s smirk as she handed me the perfect little statue. “I think Kilt Boy likes you.”
Holding the castle in my hand, I couldn’t deny the thoughtfulness of the gift, but that cryptic note was another story. “I’m not so sure.”
Kenna’s scrutiny narrowed in on my face, and in BFF solidarity she changed the subject. “So if we’re on house arrest, what is there to do in this pile of bricks?”
Mentally cringing at her choice of words, I tried for a little counterbalance. “Since you’re stuck with us, what would you like to do today, Fiona?”
“I typically help make baskets fer the community on morns like this. Would ye care to lend a hand?”
“Definitely. If you think we’ll be welcome.” As supposed witches, I knew we couldn’t take anything for granted, including our acceptance by those inside the castle.
“Extra hands are always welcome.” Fiona fluffed her strawberry-blonde hair and smoothed her skirt. “Let’s go see Mags.”
A half hour later, we were in the castle kitchens, being inspected by a thin, elderly woman wearing a pristine chef’s hat and apron. She possessed the slightest trace of a French accent.
“I am Margaret Benoir, though you may call me Mags. In case you wonder—newcomers often do—I am originally from Geneva, but I came to Doon during the last Centennial by way of the Paris Culinary Academy.”
I couldn’t help but blurt, “Are you the one who made our pancakes? It was the most amazing breakfast … ever!”
The chef gave me a small grin. “Thank you. I will be sure to make them for you again.”
We then followed Mags through the bustling kitchen and into a cavernous room where several dozen women of all ages and a handful of men were busy at work. As we entered, activity ceased and smiles melted from what had been carefree faces.
I heard Roddie MacPhee and Millicent Ennis move through the room in a swirl of whispers, and several of the workers crossed themselves superstitiously.
Mags cleared her throat and overlooked the less than welcoming reaction. “This is the Great Hall. It is also where volunteers assemble weekly provisions for the sick and elderly, or anyone else who has need. We can always use extra hands.”
As Mags escorted us across the room, I wondered what the infirmed would say about our hands. Would they care that their basket had been assembled by girls allegedly in league with the Witch o’ Doon? Right on cue, the girl who could read my mind leaned in so that no one would overhear. “Maybe we should curse their cucumbers.”