A/N: There will be one final story in this arc, since there's a last open thread yet to close; but I'll also weave in a fantasy as well—no hints yet though, since even I'm not sure what kind of fantasy it'll be! Meanwhile, enjoy this story, and as always, positive and constructive comments are welcome, while flames will be taken out and summarily shot. On with the story...
§ § § - November 15, 2008
It was going to be a busy weekend: the full group of participants in Rogan's new trial had arrived, and today was the day he was going to administer the doses. Plus, it being Saturday, Roarke and Leslie had a new pair of fantasies to grant. The first guest strolled down the dock looking hopeful and anticipatory; she was an almost homely woman, overweight and short enough that the extra pounds made her look fat. She wore glasses and had tried to put her hair up in a style that was all wrong for her face; her one redeeming feature seemed to be her smile, which was wide and heartfelt. "Miss Lindsey Randolph, from Strafford, New Hampshire," Roarke said. "She's a preschool teacher there, and in her own words, a great admirer of history. Which fits her fantasy, in fact, and I found it quite an interesting and unusual one, enough to grant it with little hesitation."
"So what does she want to do?" Leslie prodded him.
"While she enjoys all history to varying extents, she is most fascinated by Russia around the time of its revolution," Roarke said, "and most specifically in the doomed Romanov family: Czar Nicholas and his wife Alexandra, and their five children, who were all murdered by the Bolsheviks ninety years ago. She wants to know in particular their thoughts and feelings in their last days, what they did, what they felt when they knew they were going to die."
"Time travel," Leslie said.
"Exactly. It will be necessary to send her to 1918 Ekaterinburg, Russia," Roarke said. "But what she will see there may scar her for the rest of her days..."
Leslie wanted to protest, but she supposed there'd be that opportunity once they met up with Lindsey Randolph later at the main house. She contained herself and turned her attention to the three men now stepping out of the plane's hatch, laughing at one another with what she thought seemed to be stilted nervousness. "Okay, so who are these guys?"
"In the order you see them," Roarke told her, "Ivar Claesson from Birka, Lilla Jordsö; Ernst Wennergren, from Sundborg; and Pelle Fågelsang, from Klarhamn. They have not seen each other in more than twenty-five years; they were close friends throughout most of their school days, but once they completed their education they gradually drifted apart. A recent event brought them unexpectedly back together for an evening, and they found themselves reminiscing." He regarded the men as they stepped onto terra firma, each one adorned with a lei and holding a drink, looking around with interest and still chattering. Leslie could hear their nervous jordiska from where she stood and managed to catch a couple of phrases she understood, before Roarke caught her attention again. "They might have gone their separate ways again without a second thought, but for one common factor—and that's what has brought them here."
She tried to think what that common factor might be, but it was hard to imagine; they didn't get a lot of visitors from Lilla Jordsö, though the number of vacationers they'd had from there had been on a steady upswing for the past seven or eight years. "And?"
"They would like to remedy a wrong they feel they have done, one that haunts all three of them equally," Roarke said. "The trouble is that it may not be possible without a great deal of openness and trust, and I'm not convinced they can develop that, in only one short weekend." Before Leslie could pursue this train of thought, Roarke's drink arrived—undoubtedly by design, she thought with a small sigh—and he raised his glass and his voice simultaneously. "My dear guests! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"
As he spoke, the three men stopped talking abruptly, stared at him, then raised their own drinks with overdone enthusiasm, mixed with what appeared to be relief. Lindsey Randolph hoisted her hollowed-out coconut in the air and beamed at him, and he smiled back, taking a sip of his own drink, without revealing whatever he might be thinking.
§ § §
Roarke had put off their appointments with their guests by an extra hour because he, Leslie, and a very insistent Christian were due at the B&B at eight-thirty. They arrived last, as it happened; the entire test group was seated in the little café Julie had opened some years before, since it was the only place big enough to hold them all. They took a seat at the table where Christian and Margareta were holding chairs for them, and Christian took Leslie's hand and squeezed it, hope in his hazel eyes.
"Glad you made it, uncle and Leslie," Rogan said with a grin. "I knew you wouldn't want to miss this. Well, everyone, Julie and her staff will be serving breakfast as we speak, but I think it's best if we go over the risks and the requirements one more time. Uncle, if you would, please..."
Roarke arose and went to join Rogan up front, laying out the same warnings and explanations he had done for the first trial. Since Christian and Leslie had heard them before, they tuned out, turning to each other. "Well, and what's in store for you today, my Rose?" he asked softly, mindful of his niece paying careful attention to Roarke.
"A lady from New Hampshire who's going back to the days of the last czar," Leslie said, "and three guys from Lilla Jordsö." At his surprised look, she shrugged. "Father was pretty vague about what they wanted. Something about righting an old wrong, but that could mean just about anything. Should be interesting to find out."
"And Czar Nicholas? The doomed czar who was assassinated with his entire family in 1918?" Christian asked, astonished. "Have you ever had a fantasy before that revolved around that particular time?"
"I don't remember anything like it in the whole time I've lived on this island," Leslie admitted, shaking her head, "and we've had some pretty wild fantasies. Father told me one summer when I was in high school that he tends to see just about everything from one end of the spectrum to the other, and that one of the best things about restricting his fantasy-granting to two a weekend is that he can choose which ones he grants. He said this one intrigued him so much that he decided almost immediately to do it."
Christian grinned. "I think I'm going to have to come back to the main house with you once this is over, my Rose. This is too interesting to miss." She grinned back, and they settled back into their seats, both refusing plates when one of Julie's waitresses made an offer. Margareta, though, had chosen a breakfast as close to jordisk-style as she could get, and was pouring herself a cup of coffee from the carafe the waitress had left behind. Christian took the cup that sat at his place and filled it, watching Margareta take a sip of hers and seeing to his surprise that her hands were shaking slightly.
"Are you nervous, Margareta?" Leslie asked with sympathy.
"A natural thing, don't you think?" the princess retorted, and she smiled. "I don't mean to snap, but I didn't think I'd be like this. I thought I would be too eager to rid myself of that spice to be afraid."
Christian smiled knowingly. "It's because you've just heard the full litany of what you risk in the course of this trial," he said. "Have you spoken with the Dutchwoman from the first trial, as Leslie suggested you do?"
"Yesterday, yes. She had just left the hospital and admitted she was relieved that it was all over. I asked if she's had any effects from not taking amakarna, and she told me she hasn't. She said that after a lifetime of taking a daily quantity of the spice, it was odd not to do it anymore, but very freeing at the same time." Margareta met her uncle's gaze with an eager light in her eyes. "She felt the mental tribulations were worth it, and that was enough to convince me that I'm doing the right thing."
Christian nodded, pouring cream into his coffee. "Well, as long as you're certain it's right for you, then I'll sit back and keep quiet. I still have my misgivings, but it seems to work in spite of the drawbacks, so I'm a little less leery of it now."
"I just wonder what sort of hallucinations I'll have," Margareta admitted, taking a bite of sausage and egg on an English muffin. "I hope I don't get paranoid and terrified as you say Briella did. I think I'd rather see ridiculous things like pink elephants and mushroom-shaped trees than go through that."
"You may see things much less humorous," Christian remarked, settling back in his chair with his coffee cup. "Pink elephants and mushroom-shaped trees are innocuous."
"Of course, if you see pink trees and mushroom-shaped elephants..." Leslie began, and Margareta and Christian both laughed. Grinning, she patted Margareta's hand. "Whatever happens, don't worry. Number one, there's always a medical professional around if you need one—and number two, you're likely to have company. Just take a breath and go with it."
Rogan reached their table just then and regarded them, setting a vial of dark-green liquid beside Margareta's plate. "You three are having too good a time over here."
"Isn't humor supposed to ease everything?" Leslie bantered, and he grinned at that. "I guess you're nervous too—I wouldn't believe it if you said you weren't."
"It's as bad as the first time around. It really doesn't help that you Enstad princesses insist on offering yourselves up for the sacrifice," Rogan said with a mock glare at Margareta, "for that only makes me even more nervous. I've lost one as it is; I don't need to lose another one, so ye'd best make certain ye're within easy reach of a doctor all the time."
His brogue was emerging again, and Christian and Leslie looked at each other while Margareta snorted. "The risk is no greater or less than it was with my sister," she said to Rogan in a stern tone. "Nothing would have happened to her if it hadn't been for that damned drug dealer trying to put a halt to it all. It's his fault, not yours, Mr. Callaghan—so I hope I don't have to spend the entire fifteen days of the waiting period convincing you as we had to convince Aunt Leslie."
Rogan rolled his eyes. "I don't take blame for what I didn't do. I just don't like it that the queen of an entire country lost her life in the course o' the whole botched operation." He sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I can only hope there won't be any other fatheaded ùmaidh droppin' out of a clear sky to ruin this one."
"Fatheaded what?" said Leslie.
Rogan grinned. "One o' me late mum's favorite disparagin' words—means dolt, or idiot, or dunce, or any o' several other similar things."
"Let's hope Hotaia Sese was the only one fatheaded enough to make such an attempt," Christian said with a half-grin. "I did suggest to Mr. Roarke that he double the constabulary force on this island, though."
"Undoubtedly a very wise move," agreed Rogan, joining in their quiet laughter. "Well, I'd best get up front again so I can let ye all know when to take yer dose."
When he did so, and Margareta threw it back with one noisy gulp, the expression on her face made Christian and Leslie break into laughter, which blended in with everyone else's as other similar expressions bloomed across the room. "He told you it would taste bad, you know," Leslie said, giggling.
"I still say it's worth it," Margareta insisted, grimacing, "but I think Mr. Callaghan lied when he said he tried to improve the taste." She grabbed her coffee and drained the cup as her aunt and uncle laughed harder.
She did, however, ask Rogan a last question. "For those who did have hallucinations, how long did it take before they began?"
"Our Dutch friend from the first trial reported that it was about two days for her," Rogan said. "Never did hear anything from the Swiss man." He focused on Christian and Leslie. "And what about Queen Gabriella?"
"She didn't mention hallucinating per se," Christian said slowly. "I'm not sure she was aware of what it was doing to her. I do know that the first sign I noticed of the paranoiac effect on her was the following morning at breakfast." He looked at Margareta. "So keep in mind that it seems to be variable, but do try to stay close by—not through danger from any-one but more because you may need medical help."
"I'd suggest staying with the triplets, but if something happens to me it could scare them, and I don't want that," Margareta said. She let out a sigh and shrugged. "Maybe I should just get out and enjoy the day today while I can, before the side effects set in."
"Just don't rent a moped," Christian said, only half kidding, and got a glare from Margareta and a snicker from Leslie for his effort. "You'll find something, Magga. If necessary, you can just stay upstairs in Mr. Roarke's TV room and read or watch videos; there are plenty of both."
"All right, then. Meantime I'll take the chance while I still can, and do a little sightseeing with some of the others," Margareta decided.
With that, Christian and Leslie returned to the main house with Roarke, and arrived a little more than five minutes before their first appointment was due. As they came in, Brianna Harding picked her way down the steps, her hands around her stomach, her face a study in misery. "Oh, boy, am I ever glad you're all back," she groaned. "I'm so sick to my stomach I feel like I'm gonna spend the rest of my life barfing."
"Oh, great," Leslie groaned. "You mean you finally caught that stomach bug that Noelle and Mrs. Knight and I had?"
"I guess so," Brianna said. "I'm really sorry, Miss Leslie. I felt it this morning, but it wasn't that bad and I was hoping I wouldn't have to miss out on a weekend of babysitting pay. I guess my gut had a different idea."
Christian smiled. "I'll take you home, Brianna," he said. "Leslie and Mr. Roarke are here, so don't worry. There'll be plenty of other weekends." He leaned over and kissed Leslie. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
His departure preceded their first appointment by no more than two minutes; the three men from Lilla Jordsö came in, all looking a little apprehensive. They immediately bowed to Leslie, murmuring, "Ers Höghet," in unison; she nodded a greeting at them and asked them in jordiska if they needed anything.
"Nej, men våra tackar," said Ernst Wennergren, a bit shorter than his companions and noticeably heavier, with longish ash-blond hair whose topmost hanks were trying to stand straight up from his head. He cleared his throat and glanced at Roarke, then asked, "Forstår han jordiska? Blir helt okej om den är inte tagen..."
Leslie cleared her throat. "No," she said, deliberately using English, "jordiska isn't one of Father's languages, I'm afraid. Why don't you sit down over here?" She gestured at the loveseats and chair around the tea table, and Roarke joined her on one of them as Wennergren took the chair and Claesson and Fågelsang occupied the second loveseat.
"So you have said," Roarke began, "that you wish to right a wrong." The men nodded, with uneasy glances at one another and particularly at Leslie. "May I ask what wrong you refer to, precisely? I am afraid you've given me far too little to go on before I can grant your collective fantasy."
More glances went around, and Leslie began to wonder if the threesome had commit-ted a murder or some such thing in their childhood; they seemed that guilty. "I suppose it's up to me," said Ivar Claesson finally, looking a little resigned. He was a handsome man just beginning to show the effects of middle age, with chin less firm and abdomen not as flat; his pale hair had clearly been receding for some time, but this didn't detract from his looks. "We knew each other from the time we began school together. There were four of us, you see. For a few years we were too young to notice superficialities. We got along well, made fun of the same things, did what young boys do..." He shrugged, glancing fleetingly at Leslie, whose bewilderment was beginning to show on her face. "But our friend was set apart from us in ways we didn't know how to overcome, and we simply grew apart."
"I think we tried to coax him into doing things he really didn't want to do," admitted Pelle Fågelsang, a friendly-faced man whose emotions seemed to reflect all too readily out of his blue eyes. He, too, had lost the better part of his sandy-blond hair. "It was probably especially true after we entered our teen years and grew aware of...of certain differences. We also became friends with someone that he didn't get along with, and I believe that may have caused him to...to separate himself from us further still."
"We began to wonder about it when we had to go to different schools," Ernst Wennergren said; his accent was a little thicker than those of his friends, but his English was good. "We never really spoke of it much, though. I think we knew we had alienated him, but we were too immature to understand or care much, until it was far too late. I can only imagine the effect on him. And in any case, the other friend we kept company with has long since disappeared. We don't know what became of him."
"So you're just looking to reconnect with an old friend, is that it?" Leslie asked.
The men looked at one another yet again, and she frowned, wondering. Fågelsang executed a self-conscious shrug. "Not only that, but to apologize." He let that hang there for a minute, peered at his companions as if waiting for something, and then exhaled when neither of them spoke. "And perhaps to see if he'll accept our friendship again."
"I see," said Roarke quietly, surveying the threesome as if he already knew what they weren't saying—which, Leslie figured, he probably did. "At the moment, I am afraid your...former friend is unavailable, but I will be in touch with him later today, and I can assure you that you will have your chance to make your apologies."
The threesome clearly had to be content with that, and thanked Roarke in subdued tones as they arose and left the study. Fågelsang and Wennergren mumbled to each other in uneasy jordiska too low for Leslie to hear; Claesson just looked distant. She watched them depart before turning to Roarke. "That felt like a complete waste of time. What in the world were they talking about? I thought maybe they had done something so unspeakably bad to this friend of theirs that they were too ashamed to admit what it was."
Roarke regarded her for a moment before saying, "There is shame there, make no mistake, my dear Leslie. But it comes from nothing so dramatic as to have created headlines or been the subject of a fictionalized suspense film." He drew in a breath. "No, it's because of the identity of the friend in question."
Leslie eyed him, not very sure she was going to like the answer. "And who is he?"
"One of the royal family," Roarke replied gently. "Namely, Christian."