The Stone of Destiny rested on a little stand next to the crown. The metal rings were smooth with use rather than rough with age. The stone itself, a stone on which Columba himself had sat more than once and an untold line of Druid priestesses before and kings afterward, was rough in shape but smooth in texture. It had been hacked into a rectangular shape. The upper sides were straight, but the lower parts had been left natural. It was so smooth as she traced her fingertip over the indentations someone had chiseled into the top, that it was almost as soft as the fur of the crown. So many years. So much usage.
She traced the rectangle and a tingle passed up the length of her fingers and along her arm like a lover’s kiss inside the skin. She checked, but Landau was deep in conversation with
