A/N: Sorry it's been so long! I had to go back across the country for a few days to take care of some business matters, and there was a fair amount of stress involved in the execution, so my brain was pretty much drained for a while. Fortunately, I seem to be back to normal. (Harry, I apologize for not having gotten back to your PM. Hope the site is working for you again!) Thanks as always to my faithful readers and reviewers. This story may sound somewhat akin to a J.K. Rowling concept, but as a matter of fact the "magical" element to it has been banging around my brain for something like a quarter century, so there's no plagiarism going on here. I hope you'll enjoy this.

§ § § -- November 22, 2005

"Come on, guys, eat your breakfast," Leslie said, in her usual morning ritual of urging the triplets to make a little more haste in finishing their food. Actually, this usually went for the girls; Tobias was still an eating machine, and rarely refused anything edible he was given. "If you want to go to the beach…"

"All done, Mommy," Tobias announced with a big grin. Leslie looked around and saw that he was right, as usual. She grinned back at him.

"Good for you, son," she praised. "I wish your sisters would follow your example."

"Oh, there's no need for them to rush, my Rose," Christian said a bit absently, without looking up from the newspaper he was intently reading. "We have the entire day, you don't have to be at work, and there's no hurry."

"It's just that they were so enthusiastic to go when I mentioned it earlier," Leslie said and shrugged. "Well, I suppose there's no pushing toddlers. Hey, tell me, what's so absorbing about that paper that you can't take your eyes off it?"

Christian chuckled. "Keeps me occupied. Besides, it makes a handy shield when the triplets decide to start throwing their food around."

"Oh, you're impossible," Leslie said and broke into laughter. "I guess I'm just wondering if there's something unusually riveting in this particular edition."

"Oh, you know I like to try to keep up with whatever news may be coming out of Lilla Jordsö, whether it involves the family or not. Unfortunately, it looks as if the only bits I can find are in the entertainment section."

"Probably the usual 'updates' on the progress of Rudolf and Louisa's wedding plans," Leslie agreed. "No, Susanna, that's to eat. No throwing." Christian lifted the paper in self-defense, winking at Leslie from behind it, and she had a hard time keeping her stern face.

Ingrid came and took away the little bowl from which Tobias had been eating his oat cereal. "It is all right if I see Jonathan today, Your Highness?" she asked Leslie, with a strong jordisk accent but much-improved English.

"Of course, Ingrid," Leslie said with a smile. "Have a good time." She reached out and caught Susanna's arm, arresting the child in mid-throw. "Mommy said no."

"Susanna Shannon," Christian said in mild warning, accompanying this with a certain look over the top of the newspaper. Susanna looked back and forth between her parents, let her face crumple as if she were about to cry, and then reluctantly poked the little oat circle into her mouth. She had a dejected expression on her face that Christian and Leslie were hard-put not to laugh at.

Ingrid was loading the dishwasher, and Susanna and Karina had both finally settled down to cleaning out their bowls, when Christian made a noise of surprise in the middle of sipping from his coffee mug. "Myeko's been busy," he remarked, setting the mug down. "She reports two obituaries in her column. One of them is Agata Grimsby…the spinster sister of the jordisk jewelry-store-chain owner. She was eighty-five, it says here. I remember meeting her once when I was dating Karin, at Karin's birthday party. She was quite a spry old lady—not even remotely ready to stop living. I imagine she didn't go without a terrific fight."

Leslie grinned. "I hope at least it was a nice peaceful death. Who else?"

"Don't worry, my Rose, it's not Carson Howland Casey, I assure you." She rolled her eyes and he chuckled; he occasionally teased her about her interest in the surviving actors from her favorite TV series, whose third season was due out on DVD shortly. "Agata Grimsby died Saturday, and some actor named Kenneth Auclaire died yesterday. It says here he was 90. He was a fairly popular film actor in the 40s and 50s, according to this, but he retired during the late 70s and hasn't been heard from since, till now." Christian shrugged and began to fold the paper. "Other than that, Myeko's column just contains the usual bits she's gleaned from the jordisk press about plans for Rudolf and Louisa's wedding. Truly, I keep expecting her to call here at any time and try to coax something out of me so she won't have to just repeat whatever Katha Kymling's columns say in Sundborgs Nyheter."

"What'd you say? Katta Shewmling?" Leslie repeated, stumbling on the jordisk name.

"Yes…good attempt at pronouncing it. A well-known jordisk entertainment reporter," said Christian. "She once called me the Royal Family Heartthrob. Ridiculous, isn't it? I can't imagine royals in eras before the twentieth century ever had to put up with nonsense like that." Something caught his eye and he brightened. "Oh, good for you, Karina, you finished all your breakfast! Pretty soon, if your sister gets on the ball, we'll all get down to the beach and you can play in the sand to your hearts' content."

"A nice, anonymous activity," Leslie teased, and he grinned good-natured acknowledgment and set aside the paper to finish his coffee.

§ § § -- December 3, 2005

The day after the triplets' eighteen-month birthday, Roarke and Leslie were standing at the plane dock as always, awaiting the disembarkation of that weekend's guests, discussing the upcoming Christmas holiday. "So you've decided to leave for Lilla Jordsö the day after?" Roarke was asking.

Leslie nodded. "We promised the family we'd be there in plenty of time for Rudolf and Louisa's wedding on New Year's Day, and we also promised we'd bring the triplets this time. We don't make too many appearances on Christian's home turf, so I have a feeling we'll be the center of a minor media circus. What a coda to the holidays."

Roarke laughed. "That, I am afraid, is the life of a royal. Consider yourself fortunate that Christian's family doesn't insist you come to live with them. Ah, yes, here comes our first guest—do you recognize her, Leslie?"

Leslie squinted slightly in the bright sunshine and searched her brain for a name to pin on the vaguely familiar face of the middle-aged blonde woman just stepping out of the seaplane's hatch. "I could swear I've seen her somewhere…"

"Mrs. Cindy Grainger," Roarke provided. "The young lady I myself took in for a few years prior to your arrival on the island, who at one time helped us when we spent a few months in 1979 granting children's fantasies."

Leslie jutted her head forward, as if this had the effect of a telescope so she could more clearly see the lady's face. "Is that really Cindy? Wow, I just realized how many years it's been since we saw her! So she has a fantasy?"

"Indeed she does. I know you and she never knew each other especially well, but perhaps she might have told you at some time about her great love of old films from the 1940s and '50s. She was particularly interested in the life and career of a B-list actor named Kenneth Auclaire, who is very recently deceased."

"I think she probably talked about her favorite old movies, but I don't remember her ever mentioning Kenneth Auclaire. Funny, Christian noticed his obituary in the island newspaper a couple of weeks ago. Well, let's see, she can't be asking to meet him, now that he's dead. What does her fantasy have to do with him?"

Roarke paused for a few seconds before he spoke. "I'm not sure, my child. Long ago, when she was approximately sixteen, I recall her writing him a fan letter, and in response she received an autographed photo of Mr. Auclaire. When she contacted me, she told me her fantasy has something to do with this picture, but that was all she would say."

Leslie turned to look directly at him. "And you accepted her fantasy request based on that? That's not like you, Father."

"No, but not unprecedented, as you yourself should remember," Roarke reminded her with a small smile. His dark eyes clouded over once more and he studied Cindy, who by now had collected three or four leis and was holding a tropical drink in a hollowed-out pineapple shell. "I might not normally have granted such a vague request, but I've known Cindy for too many years. She's a sensible, grounded woman and would never ask this of me without good reason. So I agreed to wait to hear the full story—and I promise you, Leslie, we most certainly shall."

Leslie smiled tolerantly. "Well, as long as I've got your promise, I can wait. Anyway, it'll be fun to catch up with her."

‡ ‡ ‡

Cindy Grainger was now in her early fifties and had been teaching tenth-grade English at Fantasy Island High School for the last twenty years. "So you're still at the high school!" Roarke remarked, smiling broadly. "You must enjoy teaching these young people, to have been working at this same job for so long."

"I love it," Cindy said. "Sometimes it seems futile, I admit it. I mean…you'd be amazed how many kids I get at the beginning of every school year who have terrible spelling skills, or don't have a clue how to use punctuation properly, or have atrocious grammar. And I've noticed that the majority of them tend to come from the Air Force base—the product of too many American schools where every system has its own curriculum and things are taught at a myriad different paces." Roarke and Leslie nodded understanding. "So I devote the first semester of every new school year to remedial spelling, grammar and punctuation skills. I think I manage to reach enough of them to make the effort worth it. I always have one or two who just seem to be naturally gifted with the mechanics of the language, so I put them through their paces at the beginning of each year, find out what they already know, and then keep the proficient ones busy with essays and creative-writing assignments while I'm sharpening the other kids' skills. It must be working—I haven't been fired yet."

They all laughed. "I wish you'd been my tenth-grade English teacher," Leslie admitted cheerfully. "I'm afraid my teacher that year concentrated on the so-called classics of literature. She was especially partial to Shakespeare, and she was always springing little pop quizzes on us about the meanings of obscure phrases that people stopped using in the eighteenth century. Half the time she even talked like a Shakespearean character."

Cindy laughed aloud. "She's the one I replaced," she said. "She was a good teacher, she just had her idiosyncrasies. I wanted to make things a little more interesting. I know you'd been out of school for a few years when I started teaching—I was hired beginning the 1985-86 school year."

Leslie nodded. "I graduated two years before that."

"That's right," Cindy said. "I remember now—I started my first year of teaching right after you married that guy from Finland. I'm starting to see your friends' kids coming through—right now I've got Haruko Miyamoto and David Omamara in my class, along with my own son, Taylor. My daughter Madison's ten and a fifth-grader this year."

Just then the foyer door opened, and Haruko herself came in with the stroller bearing the triplets. "Hi, Mr. Roarke and Miss Leslie…the triplets've had enough sun, I think." She concentrated on getting the stroller down the steps into the study as she spoke, so that at first she didn't see their guest. "I didn't think it was a good idea to—oh wow, hi, Mrs. Grainger, what're you doing here?"

Cindy grinned at her. "Hi, Haruko. I've got business with Mr. Roarke and Leslie this weekend. How's that short story coming along?"

"Slowly," Haruko said with a sheepish little smile. "I hope I can work on it some more when the triplets are napping this afternoon."

Cindy grinned. "Just don't forget that 'all right' is two words, not one."

Haruko sighed gently and protested, "But everybody uses A-L-R-I-G-H-T."

"That doesn't make it correct," Cindy countered with mild reproval, "not even when The Who uses it." At the girl's blank look, she grinned ruefully. "The Who is a rock group, very popular when I was your age. But they were rock musicians, not grammatical experts. So I'd advise against citing them as an example."

"No, I guess you're right," Haruko agreed. "I'm really trying, Mrs. Grainger. Anyway, I didn't mean to barge in on you, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke said warmly, "That's quite all right, Haruko. Leslie, why don't you go ahead and help her get the children upstairs, and then we'll discuss Cindy's fantasy."

Leslie agreed, and Haruko put Karina and Tobias into her arms before gathering up Susanna. Following Leslie up the stairs, she whispered, "Mrs. Grainger's got a fantasy?"

Leslie topped the steps and cast Haruko a glance over her shoulder. "You sound surprised," she teased. "Teachers have fantasies too, you know."

"It just seems, I don't know, weird," Haruko said and shrugged. Susanna giggled at the movement and she tickled the little girl's tummy, to answering squeals of delight. "Well, I hope whatever fantasy she's got turns out good for her."

"We're going to do our best," Leslie said. "Okay, you guys, be good for Haruko now, okay? Mommy has to go back down and help Grandfather." She gave each child a kiss atop the head and left them in Haruko's care.

A moment later she was back in her chair opposite Cindy, who smiled at her. "I was just telling Mr. Roarke that you and your husband did a great job of picking out a babysitter. Haruko's a good student and she works hard, she just has a hangup about that stupid non-word we talked about a minute ago."

Leslie grinned. "You must be singlehandedly trying to stamp out the use of the telescoping of 'all right'."

"That's one of my eternal fantasies, I admit it," Cindy said, theatrically laying the back of her hand against her forehead and pretending to swoon. Roarke and Leslie laughed, and Cindy chuckled with them and resettled herself in her chair. "But I figured I'd better pick a more possible dream. Mr. Roarke, I'd like you to take a look at this." She picked up her purse and reached inside, withdrawing a framed 4"x6" color head shot of a handsome man who smiled in friendly fashion at the camera. Scrawled across the bottom of the photo was the message, To my friend and fan, Cindy. Yours, Kenneth Auclaire.

Roarke smiled when he got a good look at it. "I remember when you first received this—you were extremely excited."

Cindy nodded, her face turning a delicate shade of pink. "You probably also remember that I always had this displayed in a prominent place in my room, before I moved out to go to college. I took this with me everywhere. When I married Bruce and we got our first apartment, I made sure to put up a special little knickknack shelf just for this frame. Bruce thought it was hilarious, but he's always been tolerant enough. My kids call me a geek." She shrugged self-consciously. "But they never really meant anything by it. The day after Kenneth Auclaire died, when I saw the obituary in the island newspaper, I actually cried. I've always admired his work, and I've always heard he was easy to work with and that everybody liked him because he was friendly and personable and never had a bad word to say about anyone."

"So I understand," Roarke said, handing the frame back across the desk to her.

"Bruce wasn't home yet and the kids were with friends," Cindy said, studying the picture within the frame. "I got up to cut the obit out of the paper, and I walked past the shelf this frame was sitting on and glanced up at the picture. And Mr. Roarke, Kenneth winked at me and said, 'Don't cry, Cindy, it was my time'."

Leslie's gaze flitted from Cindy to Roarke, without moving her head; her expression was one of pure confusion. Roarke leaned forward slightly and said, "I beg your pardon?"

Cindy cleared her throat and finally met Roarke's stare, the color in her face deepening even as they watched. "Well, maybe not Kenneth…uh, Mr. Auclaire himself. Or maybe it was—I mean, it is his picture…"

"Are you saying that his image in that photograph spoke to you?" Roarke asked, very slowly and carefully.

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Mr. Roarke," Cindy replied solemnly, staring directly at him. "I don't know why, but I tell you, ever since I saw the death notice, when I'm alone in the house and I happen to be near that picture, and look at it, he…well, his image…smiles at me, says hello, stuff like that."

"Wow," Leslie finally uttered.

Roarke slowly sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful, yet ever so slightly skeptical, all at once. "I must say, this is unique in my experience. In all my days, the possibility of such a phenomenon has never once occurred to me."

"Well, lucky me to be breaking new ground," Cindy said dryly.

Leslie laughed, and Roarke smiled. "That aside…how do you react when the image speaks to you?"

Cindy opened her mouth and then caught herself, frowning a little, then somehow managed to turn more ruddy than ever. "At first it just scared me…made me wonder what in the world was happening to me. I thought, you need a vacation, Cindy, you've been lecturing too many kids about the evils of 'alright' and apostrophe misuse. I thought I was going insane for a while. But the picture just kept smiling and saying hi to me. Then I spent a few minutes thinking, a couple days after this started happening, and I realized, hey, wait a minute, you're on Fantasy Island. Maybe there was a reason for all this, you know? So the next time the picture…Mr. Auclaire…said hi to me, I took a breath and said hi back. And…good grief, Mr. Roarke, the next thing I knew we were having an honest-to-goodness conversation."

"Getting to know you?" Leslie suggested, unable to keep from grinning.

"Something like that. I told him who I am and all about me, and sooner or later it got around to where I lived, and suddenly—well, that's when it got really strange. Not that it wasn't, but it got more so. He said to me, 'You have to take me to Mr. Roarke.' I knew you were busy, but I thought I'd take a chance. I remember you tend to slow down when Christmas is coming. So, well, here we are…uh, here I am."

Roarke eyed the frame Cindy still held in her hands. "Has the photo ever spoken to you when anyone else is in the room?"

"No, only when I'm alone. It's probably just as well. Bruce and the kids already think I'm a little obsessed with Kenneth Auclaire and his life and times. Madison keeps teasing me about writing his biography. If Kenneth…Mr. Auclaire…his picture started talking to me when they were around, well…"

Roarke nodded. "I understand. And you were told to come and see me."

"That's what he wanted," Cindy said. "Of course, since I left home, there hasn't been a peep out of him, but…" She slanted a sidelong look at Leslie. "I don't know if he'll come out when there's anyone else in the room but Mr. Roarke and me."

Leslie smiled resignedly. "That figures. One of the most exciting fantasies we've had in years, and I probably don't even get to witness the best part of it. Well, I'll be upstairs with the triplets in case your picture changes its mind." Screwing up her face at the oddity of her own comment, she got up and departed the room.

Left alone, Roarke and Cindy waited for a moment, both intently watching the photo of Kenneth Auclaire. When nothing happened, Cindy cleared her throat, cast a nervous, embarrassed glance in Roarke's direction, and leaned forward slightly, hunching over the frame in her hands. "Uh…Mr. Auclaire," she began hesitantly, "it's just me and Mr. Roarke now. Just like you asked."

Still nothing happened, and Roarke sat back in his chair, as if making himself comfortable. "Tell me, Cindy, have you noticed any sort of pattern to these…animated episodes?" he asked. "For example, does he seem to, uh, appear at a certain time of day?"

Cindy frowned. "Not that I've seen. All I know is that he comes out only when I'm alone. Maybe that's what it takes." She reached out and gently tapped the top of the frame. "Mr. Auclaire?"

The photo remained still, and Cindy fell back in her chair with some frustration. "That really takes the cake. I put you to all the trouble of agreeing to grant this fantasy of mine, and now he can't even be bothered to show up."

"Patience, Cindy," Roarke said, just noticeably amused. "Perhaps what is needed is my own departure from the room. Does he…'appear' every time you are alone, or only some of those times?"

"Not really every time," Cindy said, thinking back and slowly shaking her head. "But he's there more often than not."

"What do you do when he begins to speak to you?" Roarke asked.

Cindy gave him a blank look. "I talk back."

Chuckling, Roarke sat up again and folded his arms in front of him on the desktop. "You tell me that you have a special shelf just for that frame. Do you remove it from the shelf when the photo…uh, comes to life, or do you leave it in place?"

"Oh, I see," she mused. "No, I just take a chair nearby, and leave the frame on the shelf. I've never tried taking it down and placing it closer." She suddenly brightened and stared at Roarke. "Do you think that's the problem? That I'm holding it in my hands, when I should have set it on top of your desk?"

"It's a possibility," said Roarke. "Try it now."

Cindy pushed aside a crystal cup containing several pens and carefully placed the photo frame beside it, positioning it so that both she and Roarke could see the photo. Once more Cindy said, "Okay, Mr. Auclaire, we're waiting."

And this time, something happened. Roarke and Cindy saw a sudden curious depth to the photo, and they got the sense of a three-dimensional image. Kenneth Auclaire's head bobbed, his smile changed character and almost faded, and he focused on Cindy. "Hi there, Cindy," he said in a friendly, familiar tone that suggested they knew each other well.

"Hi, Mr. Auclaire," Cindy said. "I've brought you to Mr. Roarke."

Roarke nodded to the photograph. "Good morning, Mr. Auclaire."

Auclaire's eyes shifted to Roarke and he lit up with relief. "Mr. Roarke, you can't imagine how glad I am that Cindy's done as I asked. I really need to ask you a favor."

Roarke looked at him askance. "Before you do, may I ask a few questions of my own?"

"Certainly," said Auclaire.

Roarke paused a moment, frowning slightly, as if searching for the words he needed. After a moment he asked, "If I may…how did you come to find yourself using this method of communication? This is a very rare, if not unique, phenomenon. I'm afraid I am having considerable trouble sorting out the reasons this is happening."

Auclaire shrugged. "I'm not exactly well-informed myself, I'm sorry to say. I don't know what happened. My last clear memory, from when I was alive anyway, is of hearing a nurse telling me that if I felt I needed to go, it was all right. She may have been beside me when I died. It was like falling asleep—next thing I knew, I heard someone crying, and I wanted to give some comfort. I didn't even think about what I was doing—it was like my memory was erased. I just opened my eyes, saw the young lady, and told her not to grieve, since it had been my time. Later on I started wondering why this was happening."

"No one spoke to you?" Roarke asked. "You received no explanation?"

"Nothing," said Auclaire apologetically. "I was hoping you could tell me, frankly."

Roarke shook his head. "I can only suggest, and my theory is that someone gave you some manner of…second chance. Perhaps you had unfinished business."

Auclaire's expression became pensive. "As a matter of fact, I do, Mr. Roarke. That brings me to the favor I want to ask you. You may be aware of my life story."

"Somewhat," said Roarke. "I know primarily whatever the studio publicity machine chose to make public, and perhaps some things that Cindy told me. She is a most ardent fan of yours." He smiled, casting Cindy a gently teasing glance.

Auclaire grinned. "I know, and I'm flattered." His expression sobered again. "But there was one thing that never came out—I don't think even Cindy would have known about this. I…I'm the father of a son I never knew. He was the product of my second marriage."

Cindy broke in then, "But you were widowed, weren't you?"

"I was," said Auclaire with a nod, his voice heavy with remembered grief. "We had tried three times to have a baby, and each time she miscarried. But she became more and more determined to give me a child. The fourth attempt succeeded."

"It never came out," Cindy protested. "I mean…well, I knew about the three miscarriages, but I had no idea…"

"We kept the pregnancy a secret, because we were afraid the same tragedy would happen all over again. Well, it did, but in reverse this time. My wife died giving birth to our son. I was beside myself—I really didn't think I could live without Lydia, and I found myself resenting the baby for killing her. I know now it wasn't his fault." He looked pleadingly at Roarke. "It took me years to reach that understanding. But at the time I was young and stupid and arrogant. So I insisted that everything be kept under wraps, that nothing of this should ever get out. I paid some people to keep quiet, threatened others.

"The baby, I gave up for adoption. I didn't want to see his face and be reminded of Lydia for the rest of my life. Now, as you know, I married again, and we remained married till she died six years ago. We never had children, and after she was gone I started thinking about my missing boy. He's my only child, Mr. Roarke. I acted rashly and foolishly the day I let him go, and I came to regret it deeply. I made up my mind to rewrite my will so that everything I own goes to my son—if he's ever found." Auclaire cleared his throat and focused on Roarke. "That's the favor I'm asking you. Please, find my boy."