Vee had wandered away from the masses at the first opportunity. Ever since the picnic at Muir Lea, she’d been a ghost girl, barely here. Considering the whole Sofia thing, I figured she just needed some space.
But this morning had been different. Whatever happened between Vee and the auld laird before he passed had seriously messed her up. In our entire friendship, I’d never seen her so devastated—or withdrawn. Not even when her dad went MIA.
It was time for a Kennavention … just as soon as she returned.
Moments after Vee slipped away, I watched Jamie follow. From what little she’d told me, Prince Not-So-Charming had a lot of sucking up to do. Maybe after some alone time they’d be able to reach an understanding.
To take my mind off my bestie’s drama, I focused on the scene before me. Wooden tables, laden with food and drinks, bordered the length of the space closest to the church. At the far end, a band—complete with bagpipes and drums—began to set up just in front of the Doonian crest. The opposite side of the tent opened to reveal the spectacular shoreline of the Loch o’ Doon. In the middle of the shore, a small wooden ramp sloped into the gently lapping waters of the lake. A rectangular pyre of twigs sat on the makeshift dock in preparation of the king’s final journey.
As the good citizens of Doon gathered in the pavilion, the musicians took up their instruments. Accompanied by the sad, slow strains of the fiddlers, the bagpipes began to weave their haunting tale of sorrow. Perhaps Sondheim’s spirit was present after all.
Fiona wove her way through the crowd to check on me. Her swollen eyes spoke of a grief I wasn’t entitled to share. Feeling like an intruder, I picked the first safe topic I could come up with. “I think it might rain.”
At my seemingly benign statement, Fiona stifled a sob. “Aye. I’ve no doubt that it will. The weather and the kingdom share a distinct connection. Although we have seasons, the weather is always harshest when we Doonians are—struggling.” Her voice broke on the last word, and I decided my curiosity was better left unsatisfied. As she moved on, the first fat drops of moisture began to fall, giving the impression that the sky cried along with the people.
Or maybe these were the tears of God?
I’d heard someone say that about rain once, and the thought sent a shiver trembling up my spine. Would God cry at the death of one king? Or any single Doonian for that matter? What about my world? Had he cried over my mother? Would he cry for me?
He would cry for Duncan—that I was certain of. The younger prince of Doon had a simple faith that resonated from his being. He was kind and loyal, and … good. Everything nobility ought to be.
My gaze roamed restlessly through the crowded pavilion, seeking the face of Duncan MacCrae. Over the past few days he’d been absent, busy with the Centennial and grieving over his dad. His playful banter seemed to have died along with the soldiers in the meadow. Now the unsettling feeling of missing him, if only as a friend, tugged at me.
He was easy to spot—a dark-haired hulk standing a full head above his peers. Well, not peers exactly … In this case, he held court with a half dozen girls, each one prettier than the next. A dozen lashes batted in unison, as mouths of all shapes and sizes curved in empathy. Large doe eyes of every hue imaginable gazed up at Duncan with invitations of solace.