Shades of Doon
PRAISE FOR DOON
“
Doon
, by Carey Corp and Lorie Langdon, is a YA retelling of
Brigadoon
that is fresh and enchanting.”
—
USA Today’s
Happily Ever After blog
“
Oz
meets
Once Upon a Time
.”
— City Book Review
“. . . An imaginative reboot of the classic
Brigadoon
.”
—
School Library Journal
“Musical-theater fans will rejoice . . . Give this romance to fans who can’t get enough of ‘Will they? Won’t they?’ plot twists.”
—
Booklist
“The perfect mix of mystery, magic, and romance; be prepared to get lost in another world!”
— Maria V. Snyder, author of the
New York Times
Bestselling Poison Study series
Other books in the Doon series:
Doon
Destined for Doon
BLINK
Shades of Doon
Copyright © 2015 by Carey Corp and Lorie Moeggenberg
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Blink,
3900 Sparks Drive SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546
ePub Edition © August 2015: ISBN 978-0-310-74236-4
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by the publisher, nor does the publisher vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other — except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
BLINK™ is a trademark of The Zondervan Corporation.
Thank you to the Alan Jay Lerner Estate and the Frederick Loewe Foundation for use of the
Brigadoon
premise.
Cover design: Magnus Creative
Interior design: Greg Johnson/Textbook Perfect
15 16 17 18 19 20 /DCI/ 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedication
For the weak who choose bravery,
the broken who find their strength,
and the oppressed who rise up and fight:
Never bow down to your fear.
CONTENTS
C
heating death tends to make you live with your whole heart — to take risks and enjoy each moment, no matter how gritty. I reminded myself of this as all of Doon stood in hushed anticipation of a potential bloodbath. One involving the boy I loved.
A resounding boom split the silence, and a line of drummers emerged from the arched opening at the east end of the arena.
Their leader in full highland regalia, including a headdress over a foot tall, marched into the stadium while brandishing a bronze staff. The drum beats quickened, echoing in time with my heart as they ushered in flag bearers waving standards from every Doon citizen’s nation of origin.
Italy, Africa, China, America, India, Australia . . . the flags kept coming, their kaleidoscope of colors snapping in the breeze. Everyone in the stadium rose to their feet, and the realization washed over me that this was my kingdom — the beautifully diverse land I was so very privileged to lead.
Sensing my flood of emotion, my best friend, Kenna, wrapped her arm around my shoulders, and we leaned our heads together as the procession filed into rows, and then continued to march in place. The grand marshal twirled his staff and threw it high into the air. The second he caught it, the drums cut off.
Several dozen bagpipers, dressed in traditional kilts, high socks, and matching black tams, streamed in from both sides of the stadium. Their music wove its spell around me, and when the drums joined in, the effect was breathtaking. This dramatic ceremony ushered in the final day of the festival celebrating both our freedom from the evil limbus that had almost destroyed us all and my seemingly miraculous recovery.
The final notes of the song faded away, and the grand marshal gestured for everyone to be seated. I smoothed the fabric of my full-length skirt and adjusted the MacCrae tartan draped across my bodice. Fiona, my ever-wise advisor and friend, had suggested a traditional Doonian dress of celery and forest green stripes. She’d also insisted on fixing my hair herself, plaiting the length into a side braid adorned with silk butterflies and matching ribbons.
The stadium began to shake as two massive war horses, manes and tails flying out behind them, galloped onto the field. Warmth rose in my cheeks at the exhilarating sight of my prince astride his chestnut stallion, Crusoe.
“What are they doing?” Kenna asked, both of us sitting a little straighter as the MacCrae brothers hurtled full speed in our direction.
I glanced down at my schedule of events, but didn’t see anything between the closing ceremonies and the big fight. “I have no clue.”
The brothers, bare chested and wearing identical kilts in
blue and green MacCrae tartan, pulled their mounts to a stop directly in front of the royal box. Duncan, riding his ebony mare, Mabel, quirked a lopsided grin as Jamie dismounted and jogged up the stairs to where we sat in the stands.
Jamie stopped on the stoop in front of us, his gorgeous face a study of contrasts — eyes glinting with mischief while his lips and jaw were set in solemn lines. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish of his hand, drawing giggles from my self-appointed ladies-in-waiting — Gabby Rosetti and her gaggle of girlfriends.
Playing along, I lifted my chin and hiked up my brows, adopting the most royal expression I could manage. But the moment Jamie’s dark gaze met mine, my pretense melted into a wide smile. His stare grew warm as he stated his request in a deep, resounding voice. “I fight this day in your honor, my lady queen. And would humbly request a token to take into battle.”
The Doonians clapped and hooted their encouragement. I bit my lip.
A token?
Was I supposed to give him a kiss, or something more tangible? I tried to remember what I’d seen in movies.
Kenna tugged on the tip of my braid and instructed, “Give him something he can wear, Highney.”
I shot my smart-apple friend a glare at the nickname she’d taken to using recently — a combination of
Highness
and
behind
. To keep me humble, she claimed. I rolled my eyes at her as I stood and pulled an emerald ribbon from my hair. Getting into the spirit of the moment, I cleared my throat and proclaimed, “Prince James Thomas Kellan MacCrae, my bravest knight, I bestow my favor upon thee!”
There were whoops and applause as Jamie took a knee and bowed his head over his flexed right arm. I would never get used to the boy who’d been groomed from birth to be king, kneeling to
me
. Hastily, I tugged him to his feet.
With the entire kingdom watching, I brushed my fingers over his sun-warmed skin and wrapped the ribbon around his bulging bicep, just below his tattoo. Even placing it at the indention of his muscles, the ends of the cloth barely met. As I pulled the knot tight, Jamie leaned down and murmured against my ear, “Thank you, my heart.”
A shiver ricocheted up my spine, and when he caught my gaze with that wicked spark in his eye, I knew he’d felt my reaction.
I adjusted the band of fabric and whispered, “Try not to get yourself killed. I may require your services later.” Jamie grew still and I arched a brow at him, curling up one side of my mouth. “As a chaperone for the festival, of course.”