“Are you done stuffin’ your face, Dylan?” Dusty called.

“Give me a minute!” I growled back.

“She’s finished.” Mom somehow materialized and placed a warning hand on my back.

“Not finished.”

“Yes, you are,” she whispered, removing my plate. “You can go ahead and start the tour.”

“A tour?” I swallowed carefully. Mission: Chew Successfully, accomplished. For once. “Is this mandatory?”

“Oh, don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud, wee sister.” I glared at Jamie but stood to join him. At least that somehow got Mom to back off. “Maybe we’ll find a secret passage. A trapdoor. One of those bookcases that spins around to reveal a chamber.”

“Do they really have that stuff here?”

“Only one way to find out, I suppose,” Jamie said.

The rest of the group was massing together. I was still studiously ignoring the camera crew, so besides them, it was just me, Jamie, Mom, Dusty, and Ronan. Small group for such a big castle.

“How did everybody know there was a tour?” I asked.

“Did you not get an itinerary?”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s in my other pants.”

At the front of the group, Dusty performed a quick head count.

“Where’s your mama, Ronan?” she asked.

“Mum’s not—well, she’s not, uh—she’s not feeling well.” Ronan flushed. Hmm. Weird. Well, maybe not weird, but the first time Ronan came over to our house, Mom practically threw him a parade. There were balloons. This fancy-pants Queen Mum couldn’t even be bothered to show up for a tour of her own castle. And I certainly hadn’t seen any balloons. Not that balloons were essential for my enjoyment of life or anything; they just add that certain je ne sais quoi to a festive occasion.

“Well, that’s all right, I guess.” Dusty frowned. “You gonna show us around, then, lovebug?”

“But of course, my bride!” And just like that, Ronan was back to his usual jovial self. Jamie and I shuffled into the back of the group.

“If I see anything that’s even remotely mysterious,” Jamie said in a low voice, “I intend to abandon the tour immediately. And I expect you to do the same.”

“Naturally,” I agreed. “At the first sign of suspicion. I’m planning to push on all the paintings, too. Just in case they spin open to reveal a shadowy passageway.”

“Excellent thinking.” He nodded decisively. “No one will suspect a thing as you randomly slide priceless works of art away from their appointed places.”

“As ye may know, William the Conqueror tried to invade Scotland in the eleventh century, but he couldna do it.” Up ahead, Ronan had started the tour, leading the group out of the dining room and down the hall. We were starting all the way back in the eleventh century? This was literally going to take forever.

“So how do you know Ronan, anyway?” I whispered to Jamie, so Ronan—or worse, Mom—wouldn’t overhear me talking during the tour. “You’ve been here before, right?”

“Oh. Ah. Yes, I have. Although I haven’t conducted a thorough secret-passage investigation as of yet.”

“You guys must be pretty close if you’re in the wedding.”

“Aye, the days followin’ the Norman Conquest were verra peaceful for the clans—or as peaceful as life in the Highlands ever was.” I looked up to see Ronan thumping his chest.

“I think he’s getting increasingly Scottish with age,” Jamie whispered fondly, ducking his head down. “We’re old family friends,” he explained as we lingered in front of a painting of a foxhunt, letting the tour progress a bit down the hallway without us. “Our mums have known each other since they were in nappies. And they’ve been throwing us together since we were in nappies—or since I was in nappies, at any rate. I suspect it was because we’re both only children,” Jamie mused. “Mum wanted to make sure I didn’t miss out on the fraternal experience. Ronan’s quite a bit older than me, so we’ve never been fast friends. But friendly, certainly. It was a bit as I imagine it would have been like to have a much older brother who went off to university when I was still in school.”

“Got it.” We ambled down the long hallway, still keeping our distance behind the group. “Must be nice, having a prince for a family friend.”

“It certainly has its advantages.” He smiled, like he was enjoying a private joke. Probably about polo ponies or something equally royal. “You know, of course, though, that Ronan’s—”

“Not really a prince?” I finished for him. “Yes! Thank you! Finally! I’m not the only one!”

“But one can hardly blame TRC,” Jamie said. “Lord Dunleavy in Disguise doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.”

“Fair enough.”

“Which brings us, of course, to the Battle of Stirling Bridge, a grand day for us Scots—and Clan Murray,” Ronan announced. The rest of the group was already in the next room. Jamie and I hurried to catch up.

We stepped over a wide threshold and into a large space with books lining the walls. There was even one of those rolling ladder things, just like in Beauty and the Beast! One wall of bookshelves was almost entirely eclipsed by an enormous Christmas tree bedecked with twinkling lights, tartan ribbon, and color-coordinated ornaments. I spotted none of the Popsicle-stick-and-pom-pom creations that usually adorned the Leigh family tree. This year, of course, we didn’t have a tree, thanks to Dusty and the Wedding that Stole Christmas. Somehow, I was having a hard time imagining unwrapping presents underneath this professionally decorated balsam behemoth. Jamie and I quietly sidled into the back of the group as Ronan waxed rhapsodic about William Wallace.

“Hello, lovelies!” A very handsome hobbit strode into the room wearing a rumpled tux and a mischievous expression. He was unbelievably short, and a bit wide, but bore a striking resemblance to a goateed Prince Charming. “Hello, hello, hello!”

“Late for the tour, Kirby!” Ronan bellowed from the front of the line. “Ye wouldna think it was so hard to show up on time.”

“Ooo, listen to himself. The laird is back in the castle!” The hobbit did a funny little jig with one arm thrown up in the air. “I dinna remember these dulcet Highland tones from our Cambridge days.”

“Listen to yerself, Rob Roy, before you take the piss out of me.” Ronan punched him on the shoulder, and the man staggered under the force of the blow. Sometimes I think Ronan forgot how big he was. “You’re the one who always got more and more Scottish each train stop away from Eton.”

“I couldna relax at school, with all those bloody toffs about, now could I?” He frowned with distaste. “Perfect Queen’s English and all that load of cack.”

“We invented the bloody language. Clearly, we know how one is supposed to speak it,” Jamie piped in.

“Och, it’s my favorite bloody toff!” The short man flew toward us and flung his arms around Jamie’s middle. I made a mental note to figure out what the heck a “toff” was later. And a “laird.” And a “cack.” Actually, none of that conversation had made any sense.

“Have ye quite finished interruptin’ the tour, then?” Ronan asked.

“Proceed!” The small man waved a hand grandly. “I willna hold you back from recountin’ the glorious history of Clan Murray. I only wish to borrow wee Jamie for a minute. Och, stop growin’, will ye?” he addressed Jamie. “Yer makin’ the rest of us look bad.”

“I canna control ye, Kirby. I never could.” Ronan sighed. “Those of ye who’d like to see a pitchfork wielded in the rising of ’forty-five, follow me.”

“Kirby? Kit Kirby?” I asked, finally putting two and two together as Ronan, Dusty, and Mom moved away toward the far corner of the room. Of all the ways I expected to finally meet the elusive Kit Kirby, I did not expect him to come waltzing by in a tux. Or to be the approximate height of my navel. “This is the man who left me to freeze at the Dunkeld and Birnam train station?”

“Not again!” Kit Kirby groaned, smacking his palm to his forehead.

“I was stuck there for—Wait, what? Again?” I asked.

“This happens all the time, unfortunately.” Jamie shook his head sadly.

“Hardly!” Kit Kirby protested. “Last time it was an airplane hangar. Completely different.”

“He has a propensity to abandon women at various modes of transport,” Jamie explained.

“Never on purpose, mind you! Entirely and completely accidental. Punctuality is simply not my strong suit. We all have our own gifts, wee Jamie.” Kind of ironic that Kit called him “wee Jamie,” considering that Jamie was nearly twice his height.

“Gifts? You have gifts?” Jamie raised an eyebrow sardonically. Man, I wished I could do that. I experimented. Nope. Where one eyebrow went, the other would follow. “I was entirely unaware. Please, enlighten us.”

“My charm, for one!” Kit stroked his neat goatee, eyes twinkling. “’S what makes me so popular with the ladies. Of all nations.”

“Ah, yes, the ladies of all nations.” Jamie sighed heavily. “It could have been far worse, Dylan. At least you weren’t stranded in Azerbaijan without a passport. Or a wallet. Or a phone.”

“That happened?” Nothing on his face betrayed that he was joking. “You’re being serious right now?”

“Och, Sabina.” Kit clasped his hands to his heart. “She was lovely. Eyes a man could drown in. If only I’d read the timetable correctly. Or owned a watch.”

“What might have been…” Jamie agreed. “Anyway, Kit, meet your latest victim.” Jamie indicated me. I waved. “You nearly killed her, you feckless bastard.”

“I havena killed her! She’s standin’ here large as life!” Kit Kirby crowed triumphantly. “Snug and warm inside ol’ drafty Dunyvaig. No harm, no foul, then?”

“Dylan,” I supplied. “I’m Dusty’s sister.”

“You’re Dusty’s sister?!”

“Yup.” Ugh.

“Kit Kirby, at your service, Dusty’s sister.” He bowed with the kind of flourish that made me think he was probably involved in community theater. “Terribly sorry about the business with the station. It willna happen again, I swear it. Well, probably shouldna swear it,” he amended. “But. You know. I’ll do my very best.”

“I wouldn’t count on that, Dylan.”

“Why are you wearing a tux?” I asked curiously. He was wrinkled, sure, but awfully formal for the morning. It looked like he had slept in it. Or maybe not slept, if the blue circles beneath his eyes were any indication.

“Och, well, that’s a long story.” Kit Kirby’s eyes twinkled. “But what could be better than a long story, a cold morning, and a roaring fire? It involves three Vegas showgirls, a deposed Saudi prince, and a horribly expensive bottle of champagne.…”

“Not one word more, Kirby,” Ronan shouted. How on earth did he hear that? He was all the way across the room, waving the aforementioned pitchfork about. “Innocent ears,” he continued. “Let’s keep it clean in front of the wee sister.”

“I’m not a baby,” I muttered mulishly. I could handle it. I mean, I’d lived through Homecoming and the Tate Moseley Incident. Well, Heaven had lived through the Tate Moseley Incident, but I’d witnessed the whole thing. Nothing could shock me anymore.

“He’s a bloody bat,” Kit Kirby complained, once Ronan turned back to the tour and stopped waving his historical pitchfork menacingly. “Damned supersonic hearing. Worst prefect in the history of Eton.”

“A prefect?! Those are real? Like Percy Weasley?!” I asked.

“Yes, Ronan distinguished himself admirably in his O.W.L.s,” Jamie said seriously, only his eyes betraying that he was teasing. Stupid American me. Jamie must have felt like I did when Ronan came over for dinner and asked my mom if he should get a suit like Colonel Sanders’s for formal American occasions.

“It’s the N.E.W.T.s that really separate the men from the boys, Jamie.” I sniffed in a dignified manner. The corners of his mouth twitched with a funny little mmphmm of laughter.

“Me and Ronan, we’ve been best mates since we were lads at Eton together. I can hardly believe it,” Kit said mistily. “Ronan about to be married, wee Jamie following in my glorious footsteps at Eton, and I’m just…old. Where does the time go, Dylan?” He clapped me on the shoulder, gazing unsteadily into my eyes. “Where. Does. The. Time. Go.”

“So, uh, you guys went to Eton together? That’s, what, like, a high school?” I gently removed Kit’s hand from my shoulder, changing the subject.

“Yes, yes, like, totally, like, a high school,” he Valley-girled at me. “I know your American lingo. I watch the films. That was way harsh, Tai,” he added. “Clueless.”

Abandonment and near frostbite aside, someone who quoted Clueless couldn’t be all bad.

“How they ever let you into Cambridge is simply beyond me.” Jamie shook his head.

“It’s my charm, is it no?” Kit Kirby’s eyes twinkled. “Dinna worry, wee Jamie. I’m sure you can grace those hallowed halls, too, when you’re old and distinguished like your uncle Kit.”

“Not my uncle,” Jamie mouthed.

“Ooo! Spirits!” Kit made a beeline for a cut-crystal decanter on a sideboard. He poured a healthy splash of something into a matching tumbler. Across the room, I could hear Mom asking something about window treatments. “Fancy a spot, Dylan?” Kit held his glass out to me, swirling the amber-colored liquid in the dim light.

“It’s, like, nine thirty in the morning.”

“Och, I’m in a different time zone.” He shrugged. “Besides, the best man deserves a bit of tipple. It’s the stress, is it no?” He downed the rest of his alcohol in one neat swallow. “All the responsibility. My poor nerves.”

“You are shouldering the responsibility admirably.” Jamie clapped him on the shoulder. “Brilliant job fetching Dylan from the train station.”

“Ah, sod off, wee Jamie.” Kit poured himself a second glass. “We canna all be as prim and proper as His Royal Shyness, now can we?”

“Is that what you guys call Ronan?”

“Yes,” Jamie said firmly. “Because he was a prefect.”

“Right. A prefect,” Kit said distractedly before taking another sip. “A bloody perfect prefect, more like.”

“Precisely,” Jamie confirmed.

“I, um, think the tour is moving on without us.” I watched Dusty and Mom follow Ronan out of the room and disappear down the hallway. I definitely didn’t want to get lost in a castle, particularly in the company of two insane people. Well, Kit Kirby was definitely insane. Jamie was just…quirky.

“Right you are, Dylan! Better to just take this lot along with us, eh?” Kit Kirby grabbed the decanter off the sideboard, tucked it under his arm, and started waddling toward the rest of the tour group.

“Unless I’m very much mistaken, that is Waterford crystal,” Jamie said. “And the pattern appears to date from the mid-nineteenth century. Eighteen forty, if I had to hazard a guess.”

“‘If I had to hazard a guess,’” Kit mumbled. “What, you’re a bloody antiquarian now? Violin wasna enough of a hobby for you, eh, Sherlock? Eeek, screeeek, screeeeeech.”

I clapped my hands over my ears. If Jamie actually sounded anything like that on the violin, I prayed he wouldn’t be playing at the wedding. Or anywhere in my vicinity.

“I’m simply reminding you that that thing is probably worth more than you are.”

“Not bloody likely,” Kit snorted. “I’m priceless, more like.”

I easily matched Jamie’s long-legged stride as we made our way into the hallway back toward the group, Kit scuttling along behind us. Up ahead, I saw Dusty turn and impatiently wave at us. I quickened my pace. “And I willna drop it. I’ve a very delicate touch. Hands of a baby angel. ’S what all the girls say.”

“No offense, but I can’t imagine anything I’d like to touch me less than the hands of a baby angel.” I shuddered.

“Not even a giant squid?” Jamie asked.

“Hands of a baby angel is creepier. Why is the angel a baby? Why is it touching me? Am I dead? If the giant squid is touching me, I’d assume it was by accident. Like, I swam into its space.”

“You’d have to be swimming awfully far out to swim into its space,” Jamie said.

“You don’t know how far I can swim.”

“You’re almost as strange as Jamie.” Kit gawked at us.

“And once we’re down this hallway we’ll pass into the older part of the house.” We were close enough to hear Ronan again. “Ye’ll see much of the medieval architecture has been preserved, and we’ve a grand room for a snooker table.”

“Come along, chickens.” Kit had somehow moved ahead of us, almost caught up with everyone else. “There’s snookeries to see.”

“Christopher Clarence Kirby!”

He stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of a commanding female voice. “Unhand the Scotch this instant, or I will personally escort you to the dungeons.”

And that was how I met Ronan’s mom.