Page 7

“Good.”

“Not good. I said 51 Dornie Street…”

The address was 15 Dornie Street. Rogene felt the blood leave her face. He sometimes reversed the numbers or the letters in a word and read things like “left” instead of “felt.”

“Karin was upset because of me,” he muttered.

Rogene searched for David’s hand to squeeze it like she had when he was younger. A dyslexic born to professor parents, and with his older sister receiving a scholarship to do a PhD at Oxford, he’d always felt inferior. That was part of the reason he’d gone into sports and was now a football team captain.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said.

He scoffed and shook his head. “Who else’s?”

“Mine. I should have never left you. I should have sent Anusua to get the bouquet.”

He sighed and lowered his head, looking at his shoes. “Whatever. It wouldn’t change a thing about me. My only hope for a good future is a football scholarship, and it’s still up in the air. I’m the black sheep in a family of geniuses, and you know it. Mom and Dad were professors. You will be, too, one day.”

She wasn’t so sure about that. The date of her thesis defense was fast approaching and she still didn’t have any tangible proof of her mom’s outrageous hypothesis that Robert the Bruce had come to Eilean Donan in 1307 on his way to surrender but something or someone had changed his mind.

“David, come on. You’re not a black sheep.”

“Stop,” he said and pulled away. “I don’t want anyone’s pity.”

He pushed himself off the banister and strode into the castle.

“David!” Rogene called.

Guilt weighed in her chest. He was upset, and she couldn’t just abandon him, not again.

She went after him, fighting against the icy wind, her heels clacking against the stones. She hurried down to the ground floor, hoping he had gone back into the Billeting Room where the reception was taking place, but he wasn’t among the guests. Maybe he’d gone into the kitchens? She turned, trying to think of the best route to get there when she heard steps against stone. The tiny foyer had only three doors, two of which led to the Banqueting Hall.

Could he have gone through the third one? Wrought iron hardware held together the planks of massive wood under the arched pathway. A barrier with a red rope guarded the entrance, but that wouldn’t stop an upset teenager. She thought she heard footsteps descending.

There were no museum workers present. She went around the barrier, opened the door, and flicked the switch. Lights came on, illuminating stone steps leading down.

“David!” she called as she made her way down the stairs into the grave-like coldness of the basement.

Downstairs was a surprisingly large space illuminated by electrical lamps. Tables and chairs covered with protective sheets stood along the rough stone walls. The chilly air smelled like wet stone, earth, and mold. Light didn’t quite reach the very far end of the hall where she noticed a massive door in the shadows.

“David, where are you?” she called.

Only her echo answered, jumping off the ancient, vaulted ceiling. Looking around, she remembered an old legend claiming the castle’s name didn’t originate from a sixth-century saint, but from a colony of otters that had inhabited the island. Supposedly, the King of the Otters was buried beneath the foundations of the castle. Cu-Donn meant an otter, or a brown dog, but it was also very likely that a Pictish tribe might have been called this. There had been, after all, an Iron Age fortress here before, which had burned to the ground.

Suddenly, Rogene felt like a little girl again, like the first time Mom had gotten her fascinated with history. They had been on a trip in Stirling, and Mom had told her a ghost story, and then the real story behind it. Life would never be the same for Rogene.

She wished she could spend more time here, but she needed to find David. The reception would be over soon, and the wedding party would head to the hotel for dinner. Huddling in her bolero, she walked towards the dark door.

“David?” she called.

The echo of her heels was loud and felt foreign here, as though she could wake up the ghosts of Bronze and Iron Age people, the Picts, and generations of Mackenzies and MacRaes. She could almost feel their eyes on her.

With a shaking hand, she pushed the cold wood of the door and it opened with a gnash. The scent of wet earth and mold breathed on her from the pitch darkness. Was it even safe to be here?

She stepped in.

For a moment, she had the weirdest sense she had left the world as she knew it and stepped into another one. She also had the sense that someone was there.

“David? Hello?”