Morna’s Inn—Present Day

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Writers live in stories. We spend most of our days vividly imagining the worlds we are creating when we write. It’s sometimes even worse when we read. With our imaginations already overactive and without the pressure of having to create the world ourselves, we read and are truly taken away to the world the writer has created for us. Pulling up in front of the inn in the same car as a man I’d read so very much about felt like stepping right into a storybook.

It looked exactly as I imagined it would. With the unbelievable act of Jerry awaiting us in the airport, I felt the old hope and dreaming rise up inside me again. That little voice that whispered “what if” so many months ago when I’d read Morna’s story in one of the bedrooms of Conall Castle crept back into my mind.

Marcus appeared bug-eyed with shock. Even with the letter, he’d been certain someone was playing tricks on us. He never believed for a moment that the inn would actually be here. The fact that it was had him more than a little rattled.

As soon as Jerry parked the car out front and exited the vehicle, I turned to him.

“Are you okay? You look like you might be ill.”

“This inn was not here before. You know that, right?”

I nodded. “Yes. I do know that.”

“Then how is it here now? How do you explain this?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain any of it any more than you can.” I reached out to squeeze his hand gently. “I don’t mean to sound harsh, but I have a feeling you better strap in. Everything so far is exactly how she described it. If this trend continues, we’re in for a bunch more unexplainable things.”

Knuckles rapped against the window, and I twisted to see Jerry smiling, his face all but plastered against the glass.

“Just what are the two of ye doing? I told ye that my wife is not a patient woman. Leave yer bags and come on inside. We can get those in a bit.”

I didn’t wait for Marcus to exit the car. I was now too excited to worry too much about his psychological wellbeing. I wanted to see the inside of Morna’s home. Even more than that, I wanted to see Morna, worse than just about anything I’d ever wanted in my whole life.

She stood just inside the doorway, her graying hair framing a face that was still just as beautiful as I’d known it would be. Looking at her, there was no doubt in my mind that she was the same Morna from the story. The only question was how much of her novel was true.

“Laurel, lass, it certainly has taken ye long enough to get here, though o’course I understand why. ’Tis terrible what happened to yer sister, though I can promise ye it will all work out just fine for her in the end. Come here and give me a hug.”

Of course she knew about Kate. I doubted there was anything I could tell her about myself that would surprise her.

“I…” I faltered as I walked toward her with open arms. “It’s lovely to finally meet you. I have to tell you, I feel as if I know you after reading your book.”

“Why, surely ye hear the same thing from yer own readers often, do ye not?”

I laughed as her arms wrapped around me. She was significantly shorter than me, and I had to crouch to bring myself down to her level.

“Not really. Though, my stories aren’t about me. They’re about the characters that choose to tell their own stories through me.”

“Ah. Well, I suppose ’tis true.”

Releasing me, she grabbed my hand and led me to a cozy living room just off the main entry.

“Come, dear. I know ye must have lots of questions for me.”

“You have no idea.”

She turned to wink as she laughed.

“Oh, I bet I do. Though, let’s wait until yer friend recovers from his shock and comes to join us. ’Twill be easiest to explain everything to the both of ye once.”

As if summoned, Marcus appeared in the doorway. I took a seat on the couch as Morna stood to greet him. After simple niceties were exchanged, Marcus joined me. After a short moment of awkward silence, Morna spoke.

“All right ye two, should I go first, or would ye like to?”

I had a list of questions I’d been waiting to ask her for months. I raised my hand as if I were in school.

“I’ll go.”

She nodded and lifted her palm from her lap to tell me to begin.

“How much of the story was true? Obviously, the love story was, but the rest of it—the time travel, the magic—it can’t be real, right?”

She seemed surprised by my question.

“I have to say, lass, ’tis not what I expected ye to ask me. If it wasna true, how could ye be here right now? How could I have written to Marcus? How could I have known ye were returning to Scotland? If the magic wasna real, why would I have needed to see ye?”

I smiled and shook my head as I shrugged.

“I don’t have the slightest idea on any of it. For argument’s sake, let’s say everything in your story was true—that you are a witch born centuries before now—that still doesn’t explain why you needed to see me at all. You don’t know me. Why would you want me, of all people, to read your story?”

“I doona choose who I’m meant to help, lass. The names and faces come to me at all times of day, and yers came through clear as a bell.”

I didn’t feel as if I was in need of any help whatsoever.

“And just how are you meant to help me? Do you plan on sending me into the past?”

She smiled and nodded excitedly.

“Aye, precisely.”

Marcus spoke up for the first time since sitting.

“Not that I believe any of this, but why? Why would Laurel need to go into the past?”

A small piece of Morna’s story entered my mind, and a nagging nervousness lodged itself in my stomach as I whispered the answer under my breath.

“She’s a matchmaker.”

Jerry spoke up from across the room.

“What’s that, love? I canna hear as well as I once could.”

I straightened in my seat as I looked directly into Morna’s eyes.

“You’re a matchmaker, right? If that’s what you’re trying to do with me, let me just bid you good day now. I’m so not even remotely interested.”

Marcus chuckled, and I had to press my palms into my legs to keep from shoving him off the couch.

“Why not? Lord knows you need a man in your life, Laurel. You might as well be a nun as empty as your love life is.”

Morna laughed and Jerry quickly joined in. I glared back at all of them.

“Doona worry, lass. ’Tis true that I’ve been known to make a few matches now and again, but ’tis not how I intend to help ye.”

I relaxed noticeably in my seat.

“Okay. Well, then why exactly do I need your help?”

She raised her brows as if I should already know the answer.

“How long has it been since ye’ve written?”

I knew the answer by heart.

“Thirteen months and sixteen days.”

“That is how I shall help ye, lass. I will send ye back for inspiration. So that ye may find the exact story ye were meant to tell.”

That appealed to me much more than I wanted her to know.

“And in what century does my inspiration lie and where in Scotland?”

“The year 1651 on The Isle of Eight Lairds.”

A familiar chill swept over me—the same I’d felt when glancing at the book that Mr. Crinkles pushed from my shelf.

“The book?”

“Aye, the book and the documentary, o’course. I intended for ye to see them both.” In response to my open mouth, she chuckled and continued. “Do ye really believe that coincidences are ever truly that? Let me assure ye, ’tis not the way this world works. People are so unwilling to see the tiny miracles, the tiny pieces of magic, that happen in their lives almost every day. ’Tis a shame really.”

I smiled as Kate sprung up in my mind.

“You sound like my sister.”

Standing, Morna motioned for us to do the same.

“Yer sister is wiser than most people give her credit for. Now, come. Let’s get a bite of food in the both of ye. I’ve much to explain and prepare ye for. Ye are due in the village on The Isle of Eight Lairds tomorrow at noon.”

“We?” Marcus sounded horrified. “I’m not going into the past.”

Laughing, Morna placed her hand gently on his back as she guided him out into the hallway.

“Aye, ye are. ’Tis the only way ye will ever truly believe any of this.”

“You’re right about that, but it still doesn’t mean that I want to go.”

Morna wasn’t interested in arguing with him at all.

“Tough. Ye are going, and that is the end of it. Yer destiny is more tied to the isle than Laurel’s.”

Before Marcus could ask what she meant, Jerry, who’d walked on ahead of us, hollered after his wife from inside the kitchen.

All I could think of as I followed after them was the portrait inside the book. At the time, I’d simply thought the man resembled Marcus. Was it possible that it actually had been him?

Was Marcus destined to be one of the legendary eight?