Writ on Water by Melanie Jackson

remembervolunteering for what would most likely be an arduous task.
    Recalling that bottle of scotch, she walked into the parlor on light feet and looked her host over with a concerned eye. The unfiltered sunlight in the breakfast room showed the deep and numerous crow’s feet around MacGregor’s eyes. Chloe strongly suspected that they came from an over-abundance of laughter rather than long days toiling in the sun. Her host’s hands were as smooth and beautiful as the Limoges china from which he was eating. Surprisingly, he looked none the worse for the previous evening’s debauch.
    However, the morning light showed two other things that, in their own way, were disturbing. One was that the young prince of the kingdom—as MacGregor no doubt saw his son—scrubbed up nicely. She hadn’t had a chance to see Rory spruced up the evening before, as he had been away on business. This morning’s apparel made it obvious that he was not intending to spend the day on the tractor, or hiking about Riverview’s cemeteries. The fine imported linen suit clinging to his impressive form was of a sartorial grandeur appropriate for a visit to a capital city—or a date with a fashion editor at
Vogue.
His tidiness, far exceeding her own, was rather annoying. No man should be prettier or more put together than she was first thing in the morning. It was all she coulddo to resist checking her hair, which had a tendency to curl wildly in humid weather.
    The other odd sight at the table was also an expensive import, but this one was from Germany. MacGregor was having beer for breakfast, and, probably to irritate his son, he was drinking it out of the bottle. It wasn’t a sight that gladdened Chloe’s heart. MacGregor wasn’t an ugly drunk, but he was certainly an expansive one. It could make her working day an unnaturally long—and long-winded—one.
    As much as she liked MacGregor, she was glad she wasn’t his child and saddled with the job of looking after such a willful parent. The thought made her feel a little better about not being so close to her own father.
    She was allowed to make her visual observations in silence; the Patricks were seemingly too busy glaring at one another to notice her arrival. Feeling both mildly put out by this slight and also apprehensive of what might happen to her if the lions started to roar, Chloe stepped over to the laden sideboard and poured herself some orange juice. This didn’t look to be the kind of day that one rushed into without some liquid sunshine.
    â€œGood morning, Miss Chloe. A great day for a shutterbug,” Rory finally said. His voice was exceedingly pleasant, with only the slightest shading of a drawl. He didn’t rise, in spite of putting “miss” in front of her name. He also stared at her, a tidy Virtue reproving wild-haired Wantonness.
    Chloe’s ear was growing attuned to Patrick voices and she noticed right away more drawl than he’d had yesterday. It actually sounded mocking, and she felt certain that Rory was annoyed with MacGregor for hiring her. For that reason—and the suit at the breakfast table—she decided to be only marginally pleasant to him. She was sure his father wouldn’t mind.
    â€œGood morning, Rory. Off to see the grand panjandrums?” she asked while eyeing the various dishes. Morag—or someone—had been busy. The selection would rival a buffet at a good hotel.
    â€œNo, just some dirt diggers.”
    MacGregor snorted and half rose from his chair in a belated display of manners.
    â€œMighty high-class dirt diggers. I don’t see why you couldn’t put them off—”
    â€œWhen people fly halfway around the world to see you, you don’t put them off. You’ll simply have to make do with peasant labor today. Your serfs will be here by nine. They can fetch and carry for you as well as I can.” The drawl disappeared again and the two lions