Free What I Wore to Save the World by Maryrose Wood Page B

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.
    â€œAllow me to present me good pal, the ruthless card-sharp, Devyn McAlister,” Grandap said proudly.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œUpon 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?”
    â€œThis 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?”
    â€œIs this your first visit to Castell Cyfareddol?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen 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.”
    â€œMr. 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.”
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œYe should see the quarter-scale version of the Parthe non he’s planning,” Grandpap offered. “Better than the real thing, if ye ask me.”
    â€œAs 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.
    â€œThat would be excellent,” I said quickly. “I would love to hear about the fluted thingies, and anything else you’d care to