What I Wore to Save the World

by Maryrose Wood

  “I’m fine.” The thrilling nearness of Colin was quickly being preempted by the sickening realization that he hadn’t actually asked me to come. Was I losing my mind? I shook off the feeling. “Confused, but fine. Are you all right?”

  “Sure, sure. Grandpap is too. Well, bollocks! I can’t believe ye’re standin’ in front of me. The plot bloody thickens, doesn’t it?” He lowered his voice. “Listen, Mor—this mysterious e-mail of yours was right about one thing: Somethin’ did happen; I guess ye could call it weird. But I hadn’t yet made up me mind what to do about it, and I surely didn’t ask ye to come to Wales.” Finally his face softened, and there was a hint of a smile. “I’m not sorry ye’re here, though.”

  I tried to reply, but the attempt forced me to inhale, and as soon as I did that my poor oxygen-starved brain demanded that I yawn, and then yawn again. My intention to form words got completely overruled.

  “Ah, ye poor jet-lagged thing!” He took my backpack from me. “Last time I saw ye I was the one who couldn’t stay awake. But ye’ve got a good excuse. Ye’ve been travelin’ all night, haven’t ye?”

  “I’m fine, really,” I protested, fighting another yawn. Being handed a whole new mystery to unravel must have pushed me over the edge, because the accumulated fatigue of my trans-Atlantic all-nighter suddenly crashed down on me. “But wait”—yawwwwwn—“what was this ‘weird thing’ that happened?”

  He glanced around the lobby. “There’s an awful lot to tell ye, Mor, but this isn’t the place to tell it. Let’s get ye settled and rested first. Grandpap and I are staying in one of the guest cottages on the beach side o’ the boardwalk. There’s plenty of room, if you don’t mind sharing the place with us.”

  A cottage by the beach? With Colin? Take away the bizarre circumstances and the grandfather-as-chaperone part and it was like a dream come true. “Of course I don’t mind.” I mustered a smile. “If your grandpap doesn’t, of course.”

  “Are ye kiddin’? He’ll be over the moon to meet ye.” Colin heaved my suitcase onto one of his strong shoulders and slung my backpack over the other. “We’re in ‘Villa C by the Sea,’ otherwise known as the Seahorse. All the guest cottages here have names: the Toadstool, the Merry Milk-maid, the Head o’ Lettuce. Daft, I know, but this whole place is daft, as ye’re about to discover. Are ye up for a walk? They have golf carts for the elderly and infirm, but I hardly think we’re in that category just yet. Unless ye’re too sleepy?”

  “I’d much rather walk. It feels like I’ve been sitting on buses and planes forever.” Colin’s use of the word “seahorse” gave me a strange feeling inside. I put a hand on his arm. “Colin—why were you asking the desk clerk about horses? Does that have anything to do with what happened?”

  “Like I said, there’s a lot to tell.” He looked at me like he wanted to say more—but not yet. “Let’s get ye settled in first.”

  i followed colin through the lobby doors and out into the sun. The late-morning light was bright and lovely but also totally disorienting, since my body was still convinced it was before dawn in Connecticut. The air had that fresh, salty ocean smell.

  Colin led me across the wide paved plaza in front of the hotel. “They call this the ‘piazza,’” he explained, “and where the Italian flavor comes from you needn’t bother askin’, because there’s no rhyme nor reason to anything about this place. But it’s a beautiful view, fer sure.”

  He was right. From the far end of the piazza you could look out over the water. It looked like somebody had sprinkled the surface with glitter, as the sunlight sparkled and danced across the swells. The water was the same vivid blue as Colin’s eyes.

  “That, darlin’, is the Irish Sea,” Colin said proudly. “Of course I’m partial, but in this Irishman’s opinion ye’ll find no wetter ocean anywhere on the globe.”

  Colin, Colin, Colin. It was so great to hear his voice again, and to see him looking so fit and rested. This was the old Colin—the one I’d met and fallen for in Ireland last summer, not the exhausted, enchanted wreck who’d spent two unhappy weeks with me in Connecticut only a few months earlier.

  And now here we were, together again, side by side in a foreign land. Foreign to me, anyway. Though, as I followed Colin across the piazza toward the boardwalk, it became increasingly obvious that Castell Cyfareddol would have felt like another planet to pretty much anyone who wasn’t raised inside a theme park.

  For starters, the huge reflecting pool in the center of the piazza offered up a mirror image of the hotel’s Cinderella Castle exterior that was so convincing, it had actually caused me a moment of confusion when I’d gotten off the bus. At the time I figured it was because I was so groggy with jet lag, but a second look confirmed it: There was definitely something bizarre about how easy it was to mistake the reflection for the real thing.

  We reached the end of the piazza and continued along the main boardwalk, which led to the guest cottages and gardens. The boardwalk was flanked on both sides with tall palm trees, Hollywood Boulevard style. Between the palms were large evergreen shrubs pruned into the shapes of rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, and other miscellaneous animals of the cute woodland variety, except much bigger than life-sized. They were all about the same height as Colin.

  The sculpted shrubs made me think of Edward Scissorhands, a film Sarah and I admired hugely due to the sexy hawtness of Mr. Johnny Depp, who was second only to Orlando Bloom on Sarah’s list of celebrity crushes.

  Then the boardwalk took a turn, and all at once we were treated to another open view of the water. Leering stone gargoyles perched on a waist-high balustrade, with their winged backs facing the sea.

  Colin saw me gaping at the surroundings. “Quite a spread, innit? The whole shebang was dreamed up by this mad architect a hundred years ago. McAlister was his name. The bloke was never satisfied; he kept adding to it and moving things around until he died. Now his grandson’s in charge, still fussin’ and adding on to the place.”

  “Nothing matches,” I said, rubbing my eyes. On one side of the boardwalk were the gargoyles and shrubby dunes leading steeply down to the sea. On the other side the terrain was mountainous, with pastel-colored guest cottages scattered all over the hills. A distant, snow-capped peak served as the backdrop. Sea, mountains, palm trees, evergreens—what climate were we in?

  And I didn’t know much about architecture (other than the fact that oversized Connecticut open-plan houses were annoying to live in), but even I could see how a salmon-pink stucco chalet with a Spanish-tiled roof tucked behind a pale yellow, cottage-sized version of a columned Greek temple was definitely out of whack.

  The distant, soothing crash of the waves had turned into a strange roaring sound that seemed to be getting louder as we walked. Colin raised his voice to be heard. “Careful of the waterfall, now.”

  “Careful of the wha—?” I started to ask, but then we took another turn. Ten yards in front of us the boardwalk dead-ended into a waterfall. It was at least fifteen feet high and the width of the boardwalk across, and there seemed to be no way to get past it.

  I stared open-mouthed at the wall of turquoise water crashing down into a spray of white foam at our feet. Were we supposed to jump in?

  “Watch this,” Colin said. Adjacent to the nearest gargoyle was a Victorian-style streetlamp with an incongruously modern button on it labeled “Push to cross,” just like on the traffic lights at home. Colin pushed. After a minute, the waterfall trickled to a stop and quickly drained. The boardwalk continued right through the middle of where the water had just been.

  “Nice bit of theatricality, that.” Colin gestured at me to follow him through. “When Grandpap and I arrived, the gal at the desk handed me the keys and told me: ‘Ye’re in Seahorse Cottage, down the boardwalk, through the waterfall, fifty meters straight ahead and make a left at the dragon.’ I thought she was kidding.”

  The dragon? I thought, trying not to overreact. The waterfall had resumed its normal operations behind us. Ahead on our left, an enorm
ous dragon carved of weathered stone guarded the entrance to a sandy path that led from the boardwalk down toward the beach. The boardwalk continued on, twisting and turning along the shore and then into the hills until it seemed to disappear into a not-so-distant forest.

  Colin stopped to turn down the path, but I stared ahead, fascinated. “What’s up there?” I asked. “At the end of the boardwalk?”

  “The forest,” he said, after the briefest pause. “And some other things I’ll tell ye about in a bit. Come, the cottage is this way.”

  seahorse cottage was halfway down the path between the boardwalk and the beach. It was so tiny I thought Colin would have to duck his head getting through the front door.

  It looked sort of like a gingerbread house from a fairy tale, but instead of gumdrops and lollipops, the Seahorse was adorned with the kind of ocean-themed tchotchkes you’d expect to find in a tacky seafood restaurant. Giant crabs clung to the roof. Smiling starfish lined the window-sills. The shutters were latticed like coral, and the curtains had a loose, seaweedy weave. There was even a classic jockey-with-a-lantern statue lighting the path to the front door, but this jockey was mounted on a seahorse.

  “Let me go in first, in case Grandpap’s taking a nap in his Skivvies.” Colin rapped softly on the door, then pushed it open. “Grandpap? Put yer trousers on,” he called. “We have company, of the female persuasion.”

  I followed him through the door, feeling shy and strange. The cottage seemed much bigger on the inside than it looked from the front. From an unseen back room there came an answer.

  “ ‘ Trousers on,’ he says! D’ye think I’ve become a nudist in me dotage, lad?” Grandpap strode into the living room, yawning and still buckling his belt.

  “Look at ye, ye codger! Ye were nappin’ like a baby, weren’t ye? Ye couldn’t even stay upright till lunchtime.” Colin beamed and gave his grandfather a bear hug, which the old man returned with vigor.

  “Don’t listen to a word he says, young lady,” Grandpap said as Colin released him. “He’ll have ye convinced I’m one of the forgetful elderly, instead of the distinguished gentleman in his prime ye see before ye. I’m only eighty-two, after all.” He peered at me. “And who are ye, dear?”

  “Paps, this is Morgan. My friend in the States that I’ve told ye so much about,” Colin said. “I didn’t know she was comin’, but I’m glad she’s here.”

  “You must be Colin’s grandpap.” I couldn’t help grinning. As grandfathers go he was just about the cutest thing I’d ever seen—not quite as tall as Colin, or as buff, but very fit-looking for his age, with a head of thick silvery hair. And he had the same twinkly blue eyes as Colin. In Grandpap’s case his eyes were half-hidden behind a pair of dorky black-rimmed glasses, but they were still full of that familiar brand of mischief I loved so well.

  “Colin’s grandpap is what I am, and I’m a better man for it too. Well, this is a surprise! So ye’re the famous Morgan.” He held out his arms to me. “Colin talks about ye so much I feel like I know ye.”

  I wasn’t usually a fan of hugging old men whom I’d just met, but on this occasion it seemed perfectly appropriate. Grandpap smelled like licorice and pipe tobacco, a pleasant combination.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “More company? It’s like Heuston Station in here today.” Grandpap let me go and padded to the front door. “I bet it’s old Devyn, come to beat me at another hand of Forty-fives.”

  “I hope ye’re not playin’ cards for money,” Colin scolded. “Ye’re not a man of boundless wealth, ye know.”

  Grandpap chuckled as he reached for the seashell-shaped knob. “Shut yer gob, lad, if I want to squander me pension I will—good mornin’, Devyn! We’ll have to have our card game later. Colin’s lady friend from the States has arrived, and she’ll be needin’ lunch and some decent conversation.”

  “No need to babysit, Pap,” Colin said, giving me a roll of the eyes.

  “Says you!” Grandpap scoffed. “If I let you children out of me sight, ye’ll be gettin’ into all kinds of scrapes and shenanigans.”

  “And what’s the harm in that, William?” The visitor’s voice was a deep baritone, with a cultured British accent. “You were young once too, you know. Or have you forgotten?”

  Grandpap took a step back from the door, and I was finally able to get an eyeful of his friend.

  Distinguished, silver-haired, in a funny old-fashioned hat. To my horror he was wearing breeches, just like Mr. Phineas. Was this some kind of retro fashion trend only senior citizens knew about?

  It wasn’t just the knee pants, though. Boy, did this guy look familiar. I tried not to stare.

  “Allow me to present me good pal, the ruthless card-sharp, Devyn McAlister,” Grandap said proudly.

  “The third,” Mr. McAlister added quickly. “And you are Morganne, of course! How thrilling that you’re here. I’ve been wondering when you would arrive.”

  eight

  every trace of fog in my sleep-deprived brain evaporated in an instant.

  “My name’s Morgan,” I said slowly. “And nobody knew I was coming, so why were you expecting me?”

  I saw him do a slow take around the cottage—Colin’s puzzled expression, my suspicious one, Grandpap’s oblivious good cheer.

  “Upon second thought, I am mistaken, of course. My sincere apologies,” Mr. McAlister said with a strange smile. “But I couldn’t be more delighted to meet you, Miss—Did I catch your name?”

  “This is Miss Morgan Rawlinson, sir,” Colin said.

  The old man tipped his hat. “Devyn McAlister the Third. What a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  I looked at him carefully. “You seem very familiar. Are you sure we haven’t met before?”

  “Is this your first visit to Castell Cyfareddol?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you must have me mistaken for someone else.” Mr. McAlister grandly waved a hand around. “This is my home. I haven’t left the grounds of Castell Cyfareddol in many years, in fact. But perhaps it’s my name that seems familiar.”

  “Mr. McAlister is the grandson of the famous Devyn McAlister, the fellow who designed and built this place,” Colin explained. “If ye ever want a guided tour of the premises, he’s yer man. He knows every nook and cranny.”

  “You are too kind.” Mr. McAlister nodded his thanks to Colin. “I oversee the foundation my grandfather created to maintain his life’s work. It was his express wish that Castell Cyfareddol never be ‘finished,’ so, in addition to supervising the preservation of the existing structures, I oversee the design and the construction of all new additions.”

  “Ye should see the quarter-scale version of the Parthe non he’s planning,” Grandpap offered. “Better than the real thing, if ye ask me.”

  “As if ye’ve ever been to Greece.” Colin patted his grandfather on the back. “I took ye to a Greek restaurant once and ye moaned and groaned because they didn’t have corned beef and potatoes.”

  Grandpap waved off Colin’s teasing. “Dev, ye should tell Morgan about the book ye’re writing,” he urged. “About yer architectural theories. I’ve heard ye talk about it while we’re at cards, and though I confess I only understand every tenth word ye say, it still feels bloody educational.”

  Mr. McAlister lifted a silvery eyebrow in amusement. “I would enjoy that immensely. But I’m afraid your guest may have other things to do with her holiday than listen to an old man prattle on about mansard roofs and fluted pilasters. What do you say, Morganne?”

  Again with the Morganne. He smiled at me, a sly, yes-I’m-yanking-your-chain smile. Or maybe it was a secret, I’ve-got-something-to-tell-you-privately smile.

  “That would be excellent,” I said quickly. “I would love to hear about the fluted thingies, and anything else you’d care to tell me.”

  “And it’s Morgan, Mr. McAlister,” Colin corrected. “Not Morganne.”

  “I am sorry; perhaps I will just refer to you as Miss Rawlins
on, to avoid confusion! But I do appreciate your keen interest in my favorite subject. Come visit me any time to discuss. My cottage is called Tip of the Iceberg. It’s just down the path toward the beach.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Devyn’s quite an intellectual,” Grandpap added. “Why he squanders his time hanging around with us ordinary blokes I’ll never understand. The man studied at Oxford! Didn’t ye, Dev?”

  “I did indeed, William. Dear old Oxford! A school, by the way,” said Mr. McAlister, tipping his hat in my direction, “that I would highly recommend.”

  oxford, cute. the guy had something to tell me all right. Getting some private face time with Mr. McAlister definitely belonged on my to-do list—somewhere between food and sleep.

  After Mr. McAlister left, Colin fixed lunch in the cottage’s tiny kitchen—grilled cheese and delicious sliced apples from the Castell Cyfareddol orchards—accompanied by endless cups of tea and a nonstop monologue from Grandpap. This was despite Colin’s protests that the old man “stop bendin’ the poor lass’s ear with yer creaky old tales.”

  I didn’t mind the old stories, but maybe that’s because I hadn’t already heard them hundreds of times, the way Colin had. Grandpap told me the whole saga of how he and his wife, Nancy, had grown up together in a rural town in Ireland, fallen in love as teens, married young and honeymooned right here at Castell Cyfareddol.

  “Now it’s almost three months already, since me ol’ girl’s passed on,” Grandpap said sadly. “I miss me Nan every second of the day, but what a grand life we had! When Colin was a wee boy-o, we used to keep him summers on our farm. Ye should’ve seen him back then! All day playin’ and runnin’ around the woods like a wild thing.”

  “I’m sure it was wonderful,” I said warmly. I was sure. I’d once gotten a glimpse of this very same farm in the days when Colin was a “wee boy-o,” thanks to a little faery time-travel with Finnbar. The farm was gone now, though—sold to a real estate developer years before.