The moment for my trips arrives, and Mom drives me to the airport. Ana insisted on coming with us. The entire ride I glance at the rearview mirror to see Ana's face. It's just for a week, I remind myself. When she notices me watching, she sticks out her tongue and crosses her eyes. That's my brave girl.

But after I check my bag, and we walk together to customs, she clings to my leg and won't let go. I drop to my knees and plant a soft kiss on her cheek. Holding her face between my hands, I say, "Remember," I hug her tight and whisper in her ear, "you're stuck with me, for good."

I pull away to memorize her features before I go. Her long chestnut hair cascades all the way to her rib cage. Her white T-shirt accentuates her golden tan. When I look into her brown eyes, I see a younger version of myself staring back. We are so much alike, apart from her round nose. She got it from Dad, while I inherited Mom's long one. Giving her a last hug, I rise and turn to my mom.

"Are you sure you'll be fine without me?" I ask.

She places her hands on her hips. "Positive. I'm an adult, remember?"

"I know. But—"

"But nothing." She catches me in a tight embrace and murmurs into my ear, "Go find yourself, then come back to us."

I wrap my arms around her, sucking in a long breath. When I let go, she nods at me to keep moving. I wave good-bye and don't look back.

The entire flight I think about what I've just left behind. Eventually, I drift off to sleep, only to surface when the captain announces we are descending on Wales. I stretch, untying the knot that formed on my neck. The cabin's lights turn on, and the flight attendant's voice bursts through the speakerphone ordering us to return our seats to position. My skin begins tingling, just like it did last night when the drawing moved. No matter what I do, it won't stop.

The cabin's lights flicker as the plane drops a few feet in the air. Everyone gasps, but above the general fear, I hear a voice calling me, "Olivia." Please, not again. I shut my eyes, but the airplane steadies and the captain apologizes, explaining we encountered a mild turbulence. The tingle ceases, and I release the breath I didn't notice I was holding.

As the flight descends, the first thing I observe about Wales is how green it is. The green here seems darker, richer, more ancient than the mountain forests around Rio. Cottages and castles dot the landscape.

Going through immigration and picking up my bag lasts about two hours. But when I step out, I search for the tour representative who was supposed to pick me up. Standing a few feet to the left, a handsome man, maybe in his early twenties, with sandy hair and freckled face, holds a sign with my name. Dragging my bag behind me, I approach him.

I clear my throat. "Hi, I'm Olivia Costa."

"I'm Peter and I will be accompanying you through your trip," he says.

Peter leads me outside in the direction of a parked white van, where a few people gather in front. Since almost everyone is accompanied by a spouse or family member, I'm left to sit at the back of the van, known as the worst seat. Once everyone is inside, we take off through the streets, my excitement rising again. Newport, even with the tourists, is downright peaceful compared to the crowded streets of my hometown. Time seems to be moving slowly as people greet each other when they pass by. Everything is so clean and tidy. Not even a cigarette but pollutes the sidewalk.

We head to Caerleon Castle where the exhibit is. Since my arrival was early in the morning, we will visit the exhibit first then check in at the hotel later. I prefer it this way. The longer it takes to arrive, the more anxious I get, and I'm quite sure the old lady sitting in front of me is annoyed by my tapping foot. Growing up, I devoured the legends of King Arthur and Camelot. I know all the different versions, and like my dad, I treasure them. This will be like having a piece of him back.

After we park the van, Peter waves a fluorescent green flag around, asking us to make a circle around him.

"Okay, so once we enter, we will meet with a tour guide, who is a specialist about King Arthur and the legend of Camelot. She will be moving us through the exhibit and drenching us with her knowledge." He raises the blinding flag and points at it. "You should pay attention to the flag and never drift too far away from it. It will help our group to stick together, okay?"

We follow him through the entrance, and as soon as my group crosses the wide courtyard and enters the main hall, two guys dressed in medieval clothes greet us. Their clothes are garishly colorful and made of synthetic fabric. It takes some restraint to not point out how inauthentic and exaggerated they look.

"Welcome, my ladies and my lords," they say in unison, bowing to the many tourists.

The two guys guide us to the first room, and my jaw drops when I see the tall ceilings and stone walls inside. The sun shines through the stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the floor. It amazes me how people without technology could build something so long-lasting. A woman dressed like a flight attendant approaches Peter and they greet each other.

"Everyone, this is Pamela, and she will tell us about the exhibit."

Pamela talks nonstop in a posh British accent, reading from a piece of paper she carries in her hands. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. It's not that difficult to memorize history.

"King Arthur is one of the most mysterious characters from legend. No one knows whether he really existed or not, but tales of his adventures have been passed down through many generations," she says.

A smear of blood-red lipstick on her tooth distracts me from all the beautiful paintings around us. She makes Arthurian tales sound about as exciting as a root canal. Totally different from Dad.

As she blabbers on, talking about the sewage system in the castle, he's all I think about. He would adore this place. As a historian, my dad was intensely curious. And as his daughter, I inherited the same curiosity.

Don't cry.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and examine the paintings in the room to distract myself. None of them are real, of course, just a collection of artists' interpretations of Camelot. I stop to admire King Arthur's portrait: a man with blue eyes and brushed-back blond hair. His determined eyes stare straight into mine, and my breath catches for a moment. I shake off the feeling and proceed to the next canvas, a painting of Lady Guinevere. She radiates peace and beauty, with perfect porcelain skin. I've always despised her.

One of the old ladies from my group notices me watching and says, "I can't believe she left Arthur, such a handsome man and a powerful king."

I open my mouth, but she saunters off to gossip with someone else.

We enter the next room, which contains the famous sword, Excalibur, lodged in an anvil on top of a stone. I tune out the monotonous tour guide's voice to admire the sword's beauty. Excalibur's hilt is pure gold and full of red gems. The way the gems reflect the light reminds me of flames. I get chills admiring the sword, even though it's not the real one.

The first time my father had told me about Excalibur, I couldn't look away from his gleaming eyes. He had just explained how Arthur was declared King after pulling the sword from the stone. I was seven and wondered if I could get a magical sword of my own someday. Dad, wearing a long cape, held a cheap replica of Excalibur as he recounted the story.

"The first sword Arthur possessed was Caliburn. It later became Excalibur, when the Lady of the Lake enhanced its power," he said, slicing the sword through the air.

I bounced on the balls of my feet. "How, Papai?"

"He broke Caliburn after dueling with another lord. He was proud, and the magical sword sensed it. It snapped in two. He threw the pieces to the Lady of the Lake, and she made the sword whole again, naming it Excalibur."

"Where's Excalibur now?" I asked.

"After Arthur died, a knight threw the sword into the lake, where the Lady of the Lake retrieved it, never to be seen again."

We had played all day, reenacting the scene. He had looked healthy and happy, with a head full of hair, his skin the color of honey.

When I step closer to get a better look of the sword, an inscription near the pommel catches my attention. My blood stops in my veins as I recognize the writing. Instinctively, my hand flies to my neck as the key grows hot on my skin. It's not possible.

Ignoring the Don't Touch sign, I reach for the familiar letters, burned on my brain. My skin tingles from the top of my shoulder all the way to my fingertips, hovering inches away from the sword.

"Olivia . . . ," a woman's voice whispers.

I jerk back, but when I look around, I see the green flag disappearing into another room. I'm left all alone.

I'm losing my mind.

I reach out again, brushing the blade with my fingers. An electric shock flows through my body. I shrink back. The sword shines in a radiant golden light. I blink a couple of times, but the light doesn't go away. It expands from the sword, engulfing the whole room, so thick it drowns me in it. My skin prickles as if a thousand needles are sinking into it. I yell, but no sound comes out of my mouth. My heart pounds in my rib cage, echoing all the way to my ears. I turn around to run, but the brightness blinds me, and I trip on my own feet, falling face first into the cold floor. Gold spots dance in my eyes before I faint.

***

My body throbs, as if I worked out more than I should the day before. A gust of wind sweeps past me, and my eyes snap open. But instead of the cold castle floor, I find grass. I stretch my body to untie the knots in my sore muscles and sit up. It's as if I just lifted a hundred pounds. I survey the area and realize I'm in a glade, with endless green surrounding me.

A few feet away, a strange man stands next to another rock with a sword in it. He stares at me wide-eyed. I stand up without taking my eyes off him. I've read the stories about teenage girls who were abducted while traveling abroad.

Breathing deeply, I ignore the cold feeling in my gut and stiffen my trembling legs. I'm from Rio for God's sake. Wherever I am can't be more dangerous than that. I try to remember what my boxing coach told me. Rather than waiting to be attacked, it's better to throw the first punch and run for help.

The man appears to be a few years older than me. He could pass for a college student were it not for his straight posture and intense eyes. His coal-colored hair falls straight to his shoulders. He's pale with a pinkish complexion.

I scan the area, but no one else is around, unless someone is hiding behind the oak trees that encircle the glade. The sound of my thundering heart matches my rapid breath.

His lips slightly part, but he doesn't say a word.

I assume he is one of the exhibit workers because of his medieval clothes, although his are simpler, with dull colors and heavier fabric. At least his clothes look real. "Who are you?" I ask.

He cocks his head. "You speak differently," he states with a calm, measured voice.

What a creep.

He takes a step toward me, and I back away. I ball my fists and flex my legs, prepared to fight. "Where am I?" I ask through clenched teeth.

He blinks rapidly, watching me as if I've just grown three heads. "At the evergreen glade, deep in the western forest."

"Is that in Newport?" I demand.

"What's a Newport?"

"I want to return to the exhibit. Now!" I snap.

"I don't know what that is. We are a half a day's journey from Camelot."

I snort. "Oh yeah, and I'm Santa Claus."

"Pleasure to meet you, Lady Santa Claus." He crosses his hand over his belly and bows. His midnight blue vests ruffle with the movement. "My name is Merlin."

Oh. My. God. He is crazy.

He reaches for a satchel hanging over his shoulder. I scramble toward the tree line before he can shoot me or pull out a knife. I try frantically to recognize anything that might lead me back to the castle. Cold blood pumps through my veins, the fear overtaking me.

My kidnapper yells from behind me, "Wait, Lady Santa Claus!"

I push my legs harder, my calves burning with the strain. The tree branches scratch my hands as I clear the way. I dare to look back—no sign of him—and trip on something, falling on my knees.

A sharp pain bolts up my leg. When I look down, I see a stone stained red. Blood spills from my left knee, where my ripped jeans reveal a deep cut. The throbbing pain roars, and when I try to stand up, I almost faint.

I will die if I can't walk.

The man appears from behind a tree. I snarl at him in a frustrated attempt to scare him away.

His eyebrows draw together as he leans toward me. "You are hurt." He closes the distance between us, and I try to drag myself away from him, my eyes wide and wet.

"Don't touch me!" I bark.

He flinches. "But I need to take you to Camelot's castle, so a healer may help you."

Irritated by his delusions, I run a hand through my hair. "Stop pretending this is Camelot."

"But this is Camelot."

"Why did you bring me here?" I bare my teeth, struggling to stand up.

"I didn't," he says. Biting his lip, he asks, "How can I prove that to you?"

I huff at his insistence. At least he isn't getting near me. "Fine, if you're Merlin, then why don't you do some magic and heal my leg?"

He steps back, apprehensive. "How do you know I have magic?"

"Since when has Merlin having magic been a secret?" I frown.

"Since I was born."

"God, you're pretending to be Merlin and don't even know a thing about him."

He drums his fingers on his thigh and shakes his head. Heaving a long sigh, he closes his eyes, extending his left arm and pointing at my knee. He whispers words in a strange language, and a blue light pours from his fingertip into my knee. I'm frozen, staring astonished at the light. It revolves around my knee, penetrating the skin, and a warm feeling spreads up my leg until it reaches my heart. When the light ceases, the pain is gone, and the wound has disappeared. Even an old scar from my childhood is gone.

I stare from my knee to Merlin and back.

"Oh my God. Either I'm crazy, or I'm really in Camelot!"