Suddenly the walls closed in around me. I had to get out, had to come up with a plan—guards or no guards. Careful not to wake Kenna, I pushed the coverlet back and slid to my feet. After tugging on my skirt and blouse, I retrieved the journal from its soggy hiding place and tucked the tiny book in my skirt pocket.
I knew what I had to do—how I could save the kingdom. Grabbing an apple out of the bowl on the coffee table, I moved to the door and flung it open—only to stop just short of barreling into a teary-eyed Fiona. Before she even spoke the words, I knew what she would say. I didn’t want to hear it, but like so many other things in Doon, I had no choice in the matter.
“The Laird MacCrae has passed on.”
My throat tightened as I moved to embrace Fiona. There was one choice still left to me. I would not let the king’s vision, the effort it’d cost him to warn me, go to waste. I’d get the cursed journal out of Doon before it was too late.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of dark, drab clothing and Kenna’s cryptic references to Our Town. I numbly went through the motions of getting ready for the funeral while also looking for my chance to escape. Despite my resolve, I both dreaded and longed for that moment; alternating between the desires to speed time up and freeze it in place.
After what felt like an eternity, we arrived at the Auld Kirk. From my vantage point in the middle of the church, I let my eyes slide over the sea of mourners, searching for the face of my prince. He and his bother sat alone in front, opposite, yet the same; one dark, one light, their broad shoulders squared in an almost identical steely bulwark against their anguish—stoic islands of grief. I wished I was sitting next to him, if only to hold his hand.
Pain shot up my jaw and I unclenched my teeth. Jamie wouldn’t want reassurance from me. He’d made his feelings abundantly clear, and after what I’d done, it was for the best. I shifted in my seat, the impulse to duck out the back door, to grab the journal and go, almost overwhelming. Fearful to bring the witch’s evil into the Doonians’ place of worship, I’d stashed the book outside the doors of the chapel, in the pot of a tall fern.
A deep silence pulled my focus back to the front of the church where Jamie made his way to the center of the altar. Stopping behind the podium, he stood tall and strong, sincerity shining from his face. As he began to speak, his words filled the chapel with an almost visible peace, his internal strength comforting and encouraging his grieving kinsmen.
Kenna shifted beside me. She slipped her warm hand into mine and squeezed. If she chose to stay in Doon, this could be the last moment I spent with her. I squeezed back, hoping she knew how much she meant to me.
“You okay?” she whispered.
Afraid she would read my thoughts, I nodded but kept my focus on the eulogy. As I listened, something inside of me shifted. The resentment I’d felt since discovering it was my responsibility to save the kingdom transformed into quiet acceptance. Jamie MacCrae would make a wonderful king, and it was my duty—no, my destiny—to give him that chance.
Even if it meant leaving the two people I loved most in the world … forever.
CHAPTER 22
Mackenna
As I followed the funeral crowd around the side of the Auld Kirk to the pavilion behind, I asked myself WWSSD: What Would Stephen Sondheim Do?
I thought about the two gladiator princes who, despite all their strength and cunning, were powerless to stop the death of their beloved father—even in an enchanted kingdom. Bittersweet, coming-of-age melodies swirled in my head. If only Stephen were here to give them a musical silver lining to cling to in their time of need.
Instead, they had a whole community of loved ones who grieved in harmony with them. And the discord of two alleged witches, causing unease in their realm at a time when they needed it least.
Make that one witch.