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hand. Mackenna was so soft and elegant, at times I felt overlarge and awkward when I touched her with my rough, fumbling hands—like the giant who went about grunting fee-fi-fo-fum . But each time my mouth pressed against hers, the self-awareness drained away as I dissolved into her, evaporating into nothing so that her love could rebuild me one atom at a time into the best version of myself.
    Maybe this version would be able to let go of his secret resentment. If not, the least I could do was lose myself in what she offered.
    Sometime later, after my universe had been decimated and rebuilt multiple times, she pulled back with a contented “Holy Hammerstein.” Her glorious eyes were large and shining as she rested her hand against my pounding chest. “I love you.”
    It was a sort of miracle, that this vibrant, talented lass had accepted my heart and given me hers in return. I’d been seeking her for nearly the whole of our lives. I still remembered the first time I saw her, not as part of the Calling but in the flesh at Castle MacCrae. I’d heard that two foreigners had been apprehended near the coliseum, a dark-haired lass and her brash, ginger-haired friend. I instantly knew it was her. I’d been planning to go find her at the Centennial, but somehow she’d come to me first. Perhaps our love had been too strong to wait for the opening of the Brig o’ Doon . . .
    I barely recalled rushing down the castle corridors to the antechamber where Jamie was interrogating her.
    Pausing at the doorway, I tried in vain to collect myself. It was then that I heard Jamie’s accusations of witchery. A strange female voice challenged him and Jamie ordered the lasses back to the dungeon. Next, I heard her voice—a voice I would recognize in any world, in any age, and in any circumstance. My love.
    Mackenna hadn’t come to Doon as an agent of the witch; she was here because she was mine.
    I burst into the antechamber—“A word, brother”—intent on setting Jamie straight and fully expecting Mackenna to make a gesture of recognition, to gasp or call out “Finn,” the name she knew me by as a child, but she remained mute.
    My brother did not. “Not now, Duncan.”
    I wasn’t fooled by his expression. He’d been practicing his impassive face ever since he understood he was to be the future ruler of Doon. “These wee lasses are—”
    Jamie’s face turned as dark as a thundercloud. He shot to his feet and grabbed me by the arm. For an instant I imagined punching him in his sanctimonious face, but my second thought, that of Mackenna, enabled me to control my temper and allow him to pull me into the alcove.
    As soon as we cleared the room, Jamie leaned in, hissing, “What are ye doing, Duncan?”
    “They’re no’ who you think,” I whispered back.
    “Who are they, then?” He glared at me impatiently. “If ye know, speak.”
    I opened my mouth to explain, but words failed me. As boys, Jamie had made fun of the wee friend I played with at every opportunity, who was not only invisible but also female. I never questioned why I was the only one to see her, or why, when she appeared, the small creek and bridge in the Royal Gardens seemed to transform into a raging river and the Brig o’ Doon.
    “Well?” Jamie barked.
    He didn’t believe in Callings—our belief that your true love could be called to you across the portal that hid our kingdom from the rest of the world. During lessons in Doonian history, he’d been very vocal about his thoughts on the matter. Why would he put any credence in my Calling? “Well,” I hedged, careful to keep my voice low. “I’ve a feeling those lasses are not in league with the Witch o’ Doon. I think they were sent here on purpose.”
    “Duncan, I can’t risk the safety of our kingdom based on your feelings.” He moved to brush passed me, but I blocked the doorway. There were advantages to being the little-yet-big-in-stature brother.
    Jamie sighed. “Get out of my