the gentleman at the visitor’s desk said in a slow Irish drawl. He scowled at his computer screen then scribbled notes on a piece paper without looking at her. “I’m not a tourist, I’m Dana Brennan. I was hired as a musician for the show.” Glancing up from his work, he gave her a quick once-over and frowned. “What happened to you, miss? You’re soaking wet.” He stood and approached the counter from the other side, giving her a closer look. “Didn’t fall into the bog now, did you?” “Bog? No, I had a flat tire on my drive over. It was raining.” “Changed it yourself now?” She nodded. He smiled, clearly astonished. He was a man of indeterminate years with white hair, a weatherworn face and blue eyes that held humor one moment and were severe the next. “I’ll get you your key so you can get into dry clothes. I’m Will Donegal, the proprietor of Rathmore Castle.” He opened several drawers until he held up a key. “Here you go, Ms. Brennan. The cottages for the performers are to the right of the castle.”
