Forever Doon by Carey Corp, Lorie Langdon Read Free Book Online Page B

cottage’s back door. Before I could knock, Greta flung the door open, nearly running me over in her rush to get outside.
    “Whoa! What’s the rush? Is it SpaghettiOs day or something?”
    “Sorry,” she chirped as she skidded to a halt with an infectious smile. “Canna be late fer afternoon lessons.”
    Without Lachlan, Greta had stepped up as the leader of the Crew—the Doonian equivalent of a mini-me service organization sponsored by Jamie himself. Her number-one responsibility was getting the other members to attend our improvised school. Which was easier said than done, especially when it came to those over the age of nine. Although the lure of SpaghettiOs did wonders to keep them in line.
    “Do you need some help rounding the others up?” Tween wrangling had become one of my unofficial tasks.
    “Nay, ma’am. Everyone’s in attendance. We canna wait to start the new course after dinner.” Despite her throat nearly being slit by Adelaide’s henchman when the witch had overtaken Doon, the girl had bounced back from the near-death experience without any discernable scarring. She beamed at me, waiting for me to take the cue and ask what had her pantaloons in a bunch. I knew what would do it for me—Broadway karaoke—but Greta was not a drama geek.
    “What are you learning this afternoon?”
    “Well,” the girl drawled as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “Missus Alsberg said we were unmanageable in the classroom, so Prince Duncan suggested we take up physical education in the afternoons.”
    Really? That’s what all the fuss was about? PE? In my world, PE had been a punishment straight from the pits of Mordor.
    “Okay. You’d better hurry then.” I swallowed a laugh as Greta bolted past me. “Have fun.”
    “I’m sure we will, ma’am,” she replied as she jogged down the path toward the river. “We’re learnin’ combat trainin’ with actual weapons!”
    What? By the time that little grenade registered in my consciousness, Greta was long gone. Had I heard her right? Had Duncan suggested teaching children to fight with real weapons ? Prince or no, the boy had some explaining to do. Deciding Cheska could wait, I set off to find my boyfriend.
    As I backtracked along the river, I saw them—two boys, sitting on the bench at the mouth of the Brig o’ Doon where Vee and I had sat just moments before we’d crossed over for the first time. I can’t say what first captured my attention, perhaps it was the way these two sat huddled: close and woefully underdressed for the temperature, their dark complexions ashy from cold.
    As I moved closer, I noticed one boy was older than the other. His feet were bare, while the younger one wore discolored slippers. Their clothes appeared to be a hodgepodge of mismatched, threadbare hand-me-downs that were either too big or too small. Nobody dressed that way unless they were homeless, not even in the Midwest.
    “Excuse me—” I began, and then paused as two dark heads slowly turned to stare at me, their bloodshot, ebony eyes wide with amazement. “Are you guys okay?”
    The older boy swallowed so that his Adam’s apple bobbed against his chalky throat. “Please, miss, is this heaven?”
    “Heaven?” For a moment, I was dumbfounded by the oddness of the question. “No, you’re in Alloway.”
    The same boy, whom I deduced was the spokesperson for the duo, frowned. “Is that in Africa?”
    Something clicked. The clothes, the odd cadence to their English—these boys were definitely not from these parts. “No. Scotland.”
    The older boy turned to the younger one, his eyes and smile bright. “Did you hear that, Jeremiah? We are no longer in Africa. We are saved.”

CHAPTER 7
Veronica
    W hen I was ten years old, we were forced to move from the candy-colored Victorian home I’d lived in all my life—forced because my father had lost his umpteenth job. As we packed, Mom and I agonized for weeks over which belongings to sell, keep, and store, wrapping