Boston, Massachusetts—Present Day

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“You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up and leave, Laurel. Please don’t sabotage this date before it even begins.”

“This date,” I placed as much snark into my tone as I possibly could as I answered her, “wasn’t my idea. I can’t pretend to be excited about it.”

Kate didn’t seem at all bothered by my bad attitude.

“Are you seriously still mad at me about the dating profile? You have to admit that I did a fantastic job writing it. I picked only the best photos of you, and…” She waited, leaving a pregnant pause while I stared at her. “It’s taken someone who had previously gone three years without a single date and turned her into someone who has gone on ten dates in the last three months.”

“Ten first dates in the last three months and every single one of them was awful. I’m not sure we can call that a win.”

Scooting herself from her seated position on the couch so she could look back at me, she smiled.

“Okay, I’ll admit that none of them were stellar and there were definitely a few weirdos in the mix, but that doesn’t mean this date will be bad.”

“It’s just a feeling I have.”

“You always have that feeling. Tell me, how does someone who writes romance novels for a living have such a blatant dislike for all men? It seems to me that would be counterproductive to what you do.”

I didn’t want to admit that she was right, but since my fallout with the one man I’d thought hung the moon since elementary school, I certainly hadn’t seen many examples of great men.

“I don’t dislike all men. It’s just that I seem to come across more rotten men than good ones. And it’s called compartmentalizing. People across all professions practice it every single day. If we all had to believe in what we do for a living, the workforce would cease to exist.”

My sister’s smile dropped as she closed her eyes and shook her head at me.

“Jesus, Laurel, that’s the most depressing thing you’ve ever said. Have you ever considered that your attitude may be the reason why you never seem to stumble across any good men? The law of attraction is real, big sis. Maybe your attitude is just scaring them off. Your vibes are toxic.”

She lifted both arms and flailed them around as if to clear the air of my toxicity. The stump on her right arm and the burns over her left hand caused my heart to squeeze painfully in my chest and in an instant I gained a perspective that riddled me with guilt for what a complete and ungrateful snob I was.

All my sister wanted was for me to have something that she believed she could no longer ever have. And while I knew she was wrong—her beauty could hardly be marred by injury—I understood her need to fill her empty schedule with something that made her feel useful. She would happily trade me each of these terrible dates, if she felt she could.

Blushing in embarrassment and shame, I walked around to the front of the couch and sat down next to her.

“You’re right. It’s not fair of me to judge each of these guys before I even meet them. I promise that I’ll give him a chance.”

“Thank you. Now, you better go. It’s eight o’clock now and you’ve still got a ten minute walk to the restaurant.”

Leaning to kiss Kate on the cheek, I stood and reached for my purse. The moment I reached the front door of my apartment, I heard my phone ding from inside my bag. Unzipping the bag, I retrieved my phone and looked down at the photo message in horror.

“And…I’m out.”

Dropping my bag, I kicked off my shoes, hung up my jacket, and began to undress as I tossed my phone onto the couch with my sister and made my way to the bathroom to draw up a nice hot bath.

“What’s wrong?”

Unable to form a proper sentence in response, I simply said, “Just look.”

Stunned silence was quickly followed by uncontrollable laughter as Kate read the message and then looked at the photo that would be forever ingrained in my mind.

“Hurry up, babe. The bread basket is getting cold. Here’s a taste of what you can have for dessert.”

Ignoring her cackles, I turned on the hot water all the way. I generously poured bubble bath into the tub and all but dove into the water. When I looked up, Kate stood in the doorway, still laughing hysterically.

“I mean…you gotta give him some credit. Most men lacking in that way wouldn’t feel confident enough to send you a dick pick. Do you want me to text him back for you?”

I rested my forehead against my palm as I shook my head.

“No. There are so many things wrong with that message. It doesn’t even deserve a response. First of all, I don’t know this man. I don’t know where the hell he gets off calling me ‘babe.’ Second of all…” The shockingly tiny appendage flashed through my mind and I started to laugh as well. “Second of all…ew. Just block his number for me.”

Giggling, Kate turned and left as I disappeared beneath the bubbles.

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I stayed in the tub until I was thoroughly warmed and wrinkled, and I saw Mr. Crinkles’ paw swipe underneath the closed bathroom door as he tried to get inside. The solid black cat was my sister’s baby and the reason she’d not escaped the fire that had destroyed her home unmarred. Not that I could blame her. The cat was ornery, lovable, and incredibly cuddly. After the past six months of having him live under my roof, I was completely in love with him. I would’ve done exactly as my sister had done if the situation had been reversed.

“Hang on just a second, mister. I’ll let you in.”

Slipping on my robe and slippers, I opened the bathroom door to allow the cat to slink inside. He immediately dragged his body against my leg before flopping over onto his side between my legs as he purred and begged for me to touch him.

My sister wasn’t the only one who lost something in the fire that had pulled me away from my once-in-a-lifetime trip to Scotland so many months ago. Mr. Crinkles—injured by the same beam that had fallen on my sister’s right arm—had lost his eye. While it must have been an adjustment for the cat, I quite liked the way he looked with just the one eye—it gave him character and added a little bit of edge to his otherwise friendly disposition.

“Hey, Laurel, if you’re out of the tub, come here for a second. I want to show you something.”

“You heard her. We’ve been summoned.”

Mr. Crinkles meowed as I lifted him from the floor and carried him into the living room where Kate sat with her eyes glued to the television screen.

“Have you heard of this castle before? Maybe it will provide you some inspiration for your next book.”

My next book, which was months past due, didn’t exist. I’d been unable to write anything in over a year. I seriously doubted that some television documentary would give me the inspiration I needed to dive back in. Inspiration was the reason I’d left for Scotland, with Marcus in tow as my sidekick, in the first place. I needed an idea, needed to see the sights and the people in the flesh to know which direction my new stories needed to go. I’d almost found it in Scotland, thanks to a mysterious book and an even more mysterious message inside, but just as I’d been about to go in search of answers to the questions the book had posed, we received word of the fire back home, and my trip had come to an immediate end.

“I don’t know. What castle is it?”

Lifting her legs, I scooted underneath them as I snuggled into the couch next to her.

“The Castle of Eight Lairds is what it is known as now. I’m sure at one time it had another name, but the documentary hasn’t mentioned what it was. Just watch. There’s a really fascinating legend behind it.”

Something about the name of the castle sounded familiar, but I couldn’t recall why. As the commercial ended and the program resumed, I turned my attention to the screen and listened in.

Kate was right. It certainly was an interesting legend, and one, surprisingly, I’d never heard before. If anything was capable of stirring my imagination enough to make me write again, it was this. For the first time in many, many months, an idea began to bud in my mind.

An isle off the mainland of Scotland—much like the name of its castle—was known as The Isle of Eight Lairds, and the story surrounding its legend went back over four hundred years.

The legend went that eight druids must always pledge their magic to the territory and its castle to prevent a hidden darkness from re-emerging and destroying the people of the village. Each generation of eight must pick a new eight to follow them, for if ever one of the eight passes and they are left with just seven, the evil within the castle will rise again and destroy the isle until it is but a blip in Scotland’s memory.

The story, as depicted by below-average actors and the narrator’s deep baritone voice, weaved a tale of heartbreak, magic, and lore. Of ghosts and banshees and witches. The general consensus now was that little of the legend was true, but I couldn’t help but think of the parallels between this story and the one I’d discovered inside Conall Castle so many months ago—of Morna’s strange tale of magic and love, and her insistence from the notes inside that all of it was true.

I’d felt the magic throughout Scotland every day I’d been there. I couldn’t so easily dismiss the stories, for all stories have some basis in truth. I desperately wanted to know just how much of it was real.

Just as the documentary ended, there was a crash to our left and we both turned to see Mr. Crinkles causing a ruckus on the shelf of one of my bookcases. As I watched one of the books drop to the floor, I realized why the name of the castle had sounded so familiar. Just two weeks earlier, I’d found a book in the middle of the street just a few blocks from my apartment—it was a book about The Castle of Eight Lairds. I’d yet to open it. At the time, the only thing that had been on my mind was how I couldn’t bear to see any book left abandoned in the street, so I brought it home. Now, I couldn’t wait to look inside.

“Kate, that book that your cat just shoved onto the floor is the one I found the other day. I didn’t make the connection until now, but look at what it’s called.”

Standing, I moved across the room to grab the book. After glancing at the title, I extended it toward Kate’s remaining hand.

With eyes wide, she stared down at the cover as her jaw slowly opened in surprise.

“Wow, what are the chances of that? This is a sign, Laurel. This castle is what you’re supposed to write about.”

My sister was a bit of a wannabe mystic. She ate up horoscopes, signs, and all things whimsical like candy. But in this instance, I couldn’t deny that the coincidence did indeed feel like a sign.

“Maybe so. It definitely has sparked more ideas than I’ve had in a very long time.”

My sister was no longer listening. She’d flipped the book open to a double-spread portrait towards the middle of the book and was staring at the image intensely.

“Laurel, look at this. This guy looks just like Marcus. I mean, just like him.”

Leaning over her shoulder, I looked down to see what she was talking about.

Across the page was a group portrait of eight men. Sure enough, the man on the far right did bear a startling resemblance to my best friend.

Kate twisted to look up at me.

“You should call him, Laurel.”

“What for? To tell him that I found a portrait of someone who looks like him? He wouldn’t care.”

Kate reached up and grabbed my arm to pull me around to the sofa.

“No, of course not for that. It’s a strange coincidence—another sign that is perhaps telling you that you need to reach out to him—but I hardly see why Marcus needs to know. You need to call him for you. He’s been calling every two weeks for months now. I don’t know what happened between the two of you since you’ve refused to tell me, but I know Marcus, and it couldn’t have been anything bad enough to warrant you cutting him out of your life. He’s too important to you. You haven’t been yourself since the fire. You mope around here pretending to tend to me, which we both know you refuse to do.”

She winked at me, and I knew she meant to reassure me that she wasn’t angry with how stern I’d been with her. During the first two months following the fire, our mother had stayed in Boston to help me care for Kate. It had been an unmitigated disaster. Heartbroken for her daughter, Mom had doted on Kate in a fashion that only furthered her new difficulties. She would do anything and everything for her. It did nothing but slow her recovery. Eventually, fed up and eager to have my house under my control again, I sent Mom back home to Florida. Kate healed more in the three weeks following our mother’s departure than she had in the two months prior, simply because I wasn’t as sympathetic. Even when she cried, even when she begged me to do simple tasks that were easy for me to take for granted but were now incredibly difficult for her, I made her do it herself. Each new victory increased her confidence and slowly, she healed.

Seeing how much Kate had improved was the only thing that helped Mother forgive me for how I’d treated her.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you’ve been such a hard ass. I’m just saying, you always pretend that I need you, but you don’t really do anything for me when you’re here anyway. It’s an excuse. I’m tired of being your excuse. It’s time for you to get your life back. You need your best friend. You need to start writing again. You’re not the one who lost everything in a fire, Laurel, yet you walk around here like you are. Whatever you need to do to get back to the life you had before I moved in here with you, you need to do it.”

Someone’s words had never had such a profound effect on me. I reeled back on the sofa as if she’d slapped me. She was right, but I didn’t know how to begin. Everything felt so completely off course.

“I don’t know how, Kate. I don’t know what to do. I’m not blaming you. I don’t ever want you to think that, but before the fire, I felt like things were just beginning for me, like I was on the verge of some big shift in my life. Then just like that, with one phone call, everything stopped. I floundered, and then I got comfortable in the floundering. Now, I can’t see how to pull myself out of it.”

Kate leaned forward to pull me into a hug.

“I know you don’t blame me, but I’ve upended your life all the same. And don’t worry about what you need to do. Signs always come in threes. You’ve another one due anytime. Just watch for it. You’ll know what to do.”

Squeezing her tight, I laughed at her confidence.

“Is this what you intend to do for your next career? Are you going to start predicting people’s futures?”

Gently pushing me away, Kate stood and reached for Mr. Crinkles.

“It’s not fortune telling, Laurel. It’s common knowledge. As a writer, I’d think you would know that. Anything important almost always comes in threes.”

I smiled at her as she made her way to her bedroom. It took all of three minutes for me to fall asleep on the sofa.

A loud banging on the front door woke me up from a dead sleep at three a.m.