What I Wore to Save the World (11 page)

“Huh,” Colin said.

Major. Awkward. Silence.

“Well, well,” he said, after a moment. “Fancy that. I never knew ye were such a scholar, Mor. What else have ye been keepin' from me, I wonder?”

Should I say all that, and spoil the beachy, sunset mood? Nah. Save it for another time. Like never.

“I thought guys liked mysterious women,” I teased, avoiding the issue. “I bet I don't know everything about you, either.”

“Ye know all the important stuff. Me fav'rite lunch is shepherd's pie. Me fav'rite sport is rugby. And me fav'rite girl is you.” He stood and reached down to help me up. “Well, we've got a pile of mysteries to solve now, don't we? But I'm sure we'll find a perfectly rational explanation fer all of it.”

I got to my feet and surveyed the deserted beach. The moon hadn't risen yet, and the water, sand and sky were nearly indistinguishable in the dark. Above us, the lights of all the cottages and buildings of Castell Cyfareddol were twinkling cozily along the top of the cliff and on the hillsides.

Colin took my hand and warmed it between his own. “Look how dark it is! Grandpap'll be wonderin' if we washed out to sea. Here's what we should do: Tomorrow mornin', bright and early, we'll go back to the forest together. I'll take ye to the spot where I saw the message in the dirt. Maybe we'll find a clue of some kind to help us figure out what's goin' on. I bet we'll find silver paint rubbed off on the tree bark, or worn out glow sticks abandoned in the leaves, that sort of thing.”

“That's a good plan.” I put my arms around him.

“We'll have breakfast first, o' course. I'm a right whiz in the kitchen. Ye didn't know that about me, did ye?” He gave me a warm, tight hug. “See, I guess I do have a few secrets left.”

Me too,
I thought, squeezing my eyes shut against the truth.
Me too.

ten

it took all our concentration to find our way back to the Seahorse Cottage in the dark. The path was uphill and slippery with sand, so we had to pay attention to each step we took.

Maybe it was just the everything-looks-creepier-at-night factor, but it seemed to me as if the surrounding shrubs and tall grasses had doubled in size since we'd come down to the beach. I was getting breathless from the climb—
gym class, Morgan, get some
—so I was really glad when I saw the lights of the cottage up ahead. There was something odd, though . . .

“Didn't the Seahorse used to be on the other side of the path?” I asked, panting.

“No luv, we're farther up,” Colin replied. He was so fit from playing football (meaning soccer) and rugby that he could have climbed a sheer rock face without breaking a sweat. “That's the Tip of the Iceberg cottage, where Mr. McAlister lives. Ye hardly notice it in the day because of all the shrubbery, but when the lights are on it jumps out at ye.”

He was right about that. At the moment the Tip of the Iceberg was impossible to miss. Unlike the Seahorse, it was spare and clean in design, with circular porthole windows in every wall, like you'd see in the side of a ship. In the dark, with lights streaming through the portholes, the effect was like a car with its high beams on, except it was pointing in all four directions at once.

“Looks like someone's home,” I said, while thinking
I have to figure out why that McAlister guy looks so familiar. And obviously there's something he wants to tell me—or, correction, “Morganne.”

“Maybe I'll stop in,” I said, veering toward the front door. “I'd love to hear more about the history of Castell Cyfareddol, and all that architecture stuff he was talking about earlier.”

Colin looked perplexed. “Mor, are ye serious? Ye want to spend the evening discussing architecture? We've got kind of a big day ahead of us. And we still have plenty of catchin' up to do, don't we, darlin'?” he added, in a much warmer voice that almost made me change my plan.

But half-goddess duty called, even though I didn't know what that duty was yet. I stood in front of the door, my hand raised to knock. “Just for a little while. You don't see a bell anywhere, do you?”

The heavy wooden door, which also had a porthole in its center, swung open with a slow creak.

Mr. McAlister stood in the doorway. He wore an old-fashioned ankle-length nightgown and a nightcap. In fact, he looked exactly like Ebenezer Scrooge from
A Christmas Carol
. Not the made-for-TV version with the stupid Broadway show tunes, or the color version where Scrooge seemed more sad than mean. No, Mr. McAlister looked like the Scrooge from the old, spooky, black-and-white version my parents made us watch every holiday season. The one that used to scare the crap out of Tammy. Because it's good to give your kids nightmares about ghosts on Christmas, right?

“Miss Rawlinson. And Colin too, I see. How delightfully unexpected to find you here.” Despite his words, Mr. McAlister didn't sound at all surprised.

“Good evening, Mr. McAlister.” Colin was always polite, even when talking to a weirdo in a nightcap. “Hope we didn't wake ye. We're just on our way back from the beach.”

“Wake me?” His hands flew to his nightcap. “Ah, of course! I do like to dress comfortably at home, but I'm hard at work, believe me. I'm trying to figure out how to provide adequate cell phone coverage on the grounds of Castell Cyfareddol without marring the authenticity of the architecture with unsightly towers. You may have noticed that it's a problem? I rarely have trouble getting a signal here myself, but of course, my phone is rather unusual . . .”

He held out something that looked like no cell phone I'd ever seen. It was about the right size, but it had the rustic, handmade appearance of something that had been hammered out of copper in a medieval forge.

As always, Colin was fascinated by anything technological. “What's that, an antique? Or did you stick some modern phone innards into an old tin can, like them steampunkers do?”

“Quite a beauty, isn't it?” Mr. McAlister displayed it proudly. “It's called the oPhone. For Oxford graduates only. A perk we get for making a substantial contribution to the alumni association. And,” he added, looking at me, “the number is registered to Oxford University, so it makes quite a good impression when you call people.”

I knew my mouth was hanging open, but I couldn't help it. “You mean, when you call someone on that phone, it says the call is coming from Oxford?”

“Indeed it does,” he said with satisfaction. “Alumni relations have reached such heights of sophistication! Not like the old days, when they simply invited you to dinner once a year to get you drunk and ask for money.” He started patting the sides of his nightdress as if he'd forgotten he had no pockets. “Ah, it's not here, it's in my breeches—but if I had my wallet handy I could show you my Oxford MasterCard, which generates a small donation to my alma mater each time I use it—”

I had to work really hard not to scream
Shut up, already, no one cares about your MasterCard
. “Mr. McAlister,” I said through a forced smile, “do you think I could use your phone? I need to call my parents in the States. I will happily reimburse you for any additional charges incurred,” I added, in my best pretentious Oxford-speak.

“No need for that! International calls are always free on the oPhone,” Mr. McAlister said proudly. “It's the university's policy, promotes understanding between nations and so forth. If it helps build a bridge between parent and child along the way, so much the better! Of course you may use it, my dear. But you must come inside, it's getting chilly.”

He stepped aside to make way for us to enter, but then paused. “Oh, Colin—I believe your grandfather was looking for you with some urgency. Perhaps you ought to run home? I'll make sure Morgan gets back to the Seahorse Cottage safely.”

Colin jerked back in alarm. “Grandpap? Is he sick?”

“Hmm,” said Mr. McAlister, with maddening vagueness. “I'm not sure what the trouble is, to be frank. He complained of a headache, then cut our card game short and said he was going to bed.” Mr. McAlister let his voice drop in an ominous way. “He seemed rather eager for you to get back from the beach.”

“I'd best run then.” Colin leaned down to kiss me on the cheek, and whispered: “But make sure ye tell yer ma and pa what a moldy wreck the Oxford campus is. Tell 'em ye'd rather enroll at Dublin City University, where the good honest workin' folk go.”

“It's a deal. And I do want to stay and ask Mr. McAlister a few questions about architecture,” I answered lightly. “So I might be a while.”

after colin left, my host pulled the door closed. we looked at each other. I was full of questions. So was he, I could tell. But which one of us was going to go first?

“We do have much to discuss,” he murmured, as if he were thinking the same thing. “But first, welcome to the Tip of the Iceberg! Won't you have a look around?”

I did, and all at once I couldn't make sense of where I was. I'd already noticed how the Seahorse Cottage looked bigger on the inside than it did on the outside. This was the opposite: The interior of the Tip of the Iceberg looked surprisingly small. In fact, it was a dead ringer for a ship's cabin. There was a single, narrow cast-iron bed. The walls and ceiling were painted a creamy white. Tall mirrors flanked the door, and there were a few pieces of antique furniture, including a white enamel pedestal sink and a small mahogany dresser.

“Is this supposed to be a ship?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“In a manner of speaking, we
are
on a ship,” Mr. McAlister said proudly. “But not just any ship. Look!” He handed me an ashtray.

“I don't smoke. It's seriously bad for your health—”

“Read it,” he urged.

The ashtray was heavy glass. On the bottom, in an ornate gold leaf script, it read: RMS
TITANIC.

“What—what is
that
supposed to mean?” I stammered.

“Excellent question! People usually assume the RMS stands for Royal Majesty something or other, but RMS actually means Royal Mail Steamship. And
Titanic
simply means very, very large; I'm sure you knew that.” He looked around with pride. “Everything in this cottage is a perfect replica of a second-class passenger cabin on the RMS
Titanic
, exactly as it was built in 1911.”

Tip of the Iceberg,
I thought. Already I was starting to feel seasick.
Duh. Now I get it.

“Did you know the real
Titanic
was built at a shipyard in Ireland?” he went on cheerfully. “I'm sure your friend Colin is well aware of that fact.”

“Mr. McAlister, the real
Titanic
sank to the bottom of the sea and thousands of people died.” Part of me wanted to scrounge around for a life jacket. “I hope your cottage doesn't try to perfectly replicate
that.
”

“Well,” he said cautiously, “authenticity has always been my passion. But one has to draw the line somewhere.” He tucked his nightgown underneath him as he settled himself in a small wooden chair near the sink. “Heavens! We are forgetting your phone call. Please feel free to sit on my cot. There isn't much room in here for company, I'm afraid.”

I did as he suggested, and he handed me the oPhone. If you looked closely you could see the Oxford emblem stamped in the hammered copper, but I was relieved to see that underneath the geeky World of Warcraft exterior it was your basic state-of-the-art touch screen phone. It even had a headphone jack.

“Does this thing play MP3s?” I asked, as I dialed.

“Em-pee whats?”

“Never mind.” One ring. Two rings. It would be late afternoon in Connecticut. Dad was probably at work; Mom might be out if she had a client. And Tammy could be anywhere. Home with a sitter, at a play date, out at the pool—

Three rings. I hoped nobody was home. I just needed to leave one reassuring message, let them see “Oxford University” in the missed calls list, and I'd have bought myself some time. Would it be enough? Enough for me to save the world from whatever it needed saving from and maybe snag a little one-on-one with Colin?