§ § § - February 3, 1979

The jangling of a phone yanked her out of a sound sleep and she shook herself hard, shocked when she saw that the clock on the bedside table read almost ten. She'd had a few minutes to orient herself in the bungalow she'd been driven to, and had been given breakfast of a bowl of hot cereal and a glass of apple juice. The attendant who had brought her here had said Mr. Roarke expected to see her about nine-thirty, and she had agreed, then eaten the food, drunk the juice and fallen asleep despite her best intentions. Now she let out a groan of self-disgust. I'm late! What's Mr. Roarke gonna think of me now?

She grabbed the phone. "Hello?"

"Hello, Miss Hamilton, this is Mr. Roarke," said the voice she remembered from the plane dock. "I trust you feel better now after getting a little extra sleep?"

She was sure she detected a trace of sarcasm, or maybe annoyance, in his tone, and bit her lip. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Roarke. I'll be right over."

She heard a soft chuckle. "I'll be waiting."

But it was hard to hurry when there was so much beauty and life around her, though she tried. Mormor looked to have been right about this place. Leslie remembered the tales she had told, and found herself easily able to believe them now in the face of what she saw. She just couldn't get over her amazement at it all.

The main house was another surprise. It was built somewhat in the style of Dutch East Indies plantation houses of the nineteenth century, with a large airy porch running around three sides of the house, ornate woodwork decorating the ground-story eaves, a front-facing dormer with one window, and even a bell tower. A well-worn dirt lane curved around a lush green lawn shaded with huge old trees and backdropped by a little duck pond; there was a little fountain bisecting the dirt lane just infront of the house. The place seemed formal but welcoming; Leslie stood in the lane and stared at it, awestruck.

After several minutes a door at the far left end of the porch opened and a figure in white emerged. For the first time, the presence of the second man from the plane dock really registered; she'd been too sleepy and confused to have noticed anyone other than Roarke at the time. She watched, mouth hanging open, as the little man with the mop of thick black hair crossed to the steps and stopped at the top, staring right back at her for a moment.

Then he said, "You must be Miss Hamilton. Hurry, the boss is waiting for you."

Leslie jumped, reminded, and approached the porch steps on quick, nervous cat feet. "I'm sorry. Um...who are you? Is it okay if I ask?"

The little man's round face lit with a broad smile. "Sure you can ask. I'm Tattoo, Mr. Roarke's assistant. Come on in." He made a come-on gesture at her and she followed him up the steps, along the porch and into the house. There was what looked like a sort of waiting room inside the first door, and a second door at the back of this area to the right. Tattoo led her through this and into a raised foyer, from which they turned left and descended two steps into a beautifully appointed study. Again Leslie stopped and gawked. The room was the most elegant she had ever set foot in, with tall shuttered windows, shining blond-wood floors, expensive furniture, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases loaded with all manner of valuable antique hardcover books, along with several mysterious-looking sculptures and figurines. A stately grandfather clock held pride of place against the wall beside the steps, opposite the heavy dark-wood desk at which Roarke sat. Behind him, French shutter doors opened onto a sunny flagstone patio naturally screened by more tall, flower-laden bushes populated with half-tame doves. "Oh, wow," Leslie breathed.

Roarke looked up and arose from his chair. "Ah yes, Miss Hamilton," he said with a smile. "May I call you Leslie?"

Leslie nodded, in awe all over again. "Your house is absolutely beautiful," she said, like an overwhelmed little girl. "This whole island...it's like something out of a fairy tale."

Roarke's smile broadened. "Thank you, Leslie. Do sit down; is there anything Tattoo or I can get you?"

"N-no...I had breakfast, but thanks," she said shyly, perching on the edge of a club chair upholstered in red brocade, all too aware of her worn jeans and her favorite old mint-green shirt that she'd been wearing the night of the fire. She felt like a street urchin amid all this formal tuxedoed elegance.

"Very well, then," said Roarke and resumed his seat, his smile fading and his mien becoming businesslike and a bit intense. Tattoo went to stand, silent but watchful, beside the desk. "Now, tell me what you know about the reason you're here."

Leslie groped for something to say, wondering if Roarke knew anything about her mother's will. "Well...I, um...not much, I guess. Mom's will..."

Roarke's expression softened and he nodded. "We will get back to that. Are you aware of the fact that there seems to be a curse on your family?"

Leslie knew the story; Kelly used to beg for it every Halloween, and had even bragged about it to neighborhood kids in California. She nodded and told Roarke what her mother had told her and her sisters, while he listened in silence. "There's supposed to be some kind of curse on the Hamiltons. Ever since the Salem witch trials, everybody in the family except one person each generation dies in a fire. I think I'm the only one left now. My grandmother died in a fire in Connecticut where I was born, and then we moved to California, and that's where my parents and my twin sisters died in another fire." She swallowed down the lump that tried to rise in her throat. "I guess my mother tried to do some research on the curse, but she didn't find a whole lot...and my father just kept saying it was a joke, a stupid ghost story. I don't think my sister Kelly really believed it." She stopped and swallowed again, afraid she was babbling.

Roarke nodded and prompted gently, "Tell me about the latest fire." She flinched, and he saw it. "I don't mean to upset you, Leslie, but I must know what you remember."

"Okay," she whispered, and in a low, slow voice, began to recall that horrible night aloud. It wasn't long before she had to close her eyes to keep the tears from leaking out. It was hard to believe it had already been five months. Would she ever be able to not cry over it? Her voice wobbled out of control by the end of the story and she gulped back the ending, compressing her lips and breathing deeply to pull herself back together. No tears. Don't cry in front of them. You know what'll happen if you do.

Roarke was silent till she finally opened her eyes; then he said quietly, "I am sorry this comes as such a surprise to you, Leslie. But as a matter of fact, your mother came here to this very island, just weeks before you were born, and explained as much of the so-called 'Hamilton curse' to me as she knew about. She had a fantasy, you see, to find out what lay in store for her then-unborn child—you. I showed her scenes from your childhood, and she saw in the final vision the very fire that you have just described. It was then that she understood that she and your father and sisters would become victims of the curse, and, knowing that you would be orphaned, requested that I see to your welfare until you come of age." Roarke didn't seem to see her overwhelmed expression. "I have raised orphans on a number of other occasions," he told her, "but you are the first one whose parents I was not previously acquainted with. Frankly, I would have refused your mother's request had it not been for the fact that you have no other relatives who could take you in."

Leslie, badly cowed, shrank in her seat. "I'm sorry to be such a burden to you," she mumbled, her face heating with shame and a strong sense of rejection.

Roarke focused abruptly on her and smiled faintly in apology. "I didn't mean to frighten you, child," he said kindly. "I apologize if I did so. Right now, however, the most important thing is to find out how to break the curse."

"It's real?" Leslie asked, startled.

"I'm afraid so," Roarke said, voice gentle but firm. "Tattoo, would you kindly bring me that large gray book on the second shelf from the bottom over there? Thank you, my friend." Leslie watched Tattoo retrieve and deliver the book, still without speaking. Roarke opened the book, then looked up once more and suggested, "While I am researching the matter, suppose you take some time to enjoy yourself. We have a swimming pool for our guests, and you might also go horseback riding, or rent a bicycle and take a little tour around this part of the island. I will contact you when I need to see you again. But..." He pinned her with a look that froze her, wide-eyed, to the chair. "Don't return to the bungalow without escort."

"O...okay," Leslie murmured, too intimidated to ask why this cryptic warning, and watched him return to the book. Finally she realized she had been dismissed, and she got up from the chair and left the house as silently as she could.

With absolutely no idea where to go, she found herself gravitating to the fountain in the lane. She sat on the edge of the basin and stared into the water, where coins from all over the world lay, dropped in by visitors making wishes. Leslie's only wish was that her mother and sisters would come back to life. Never had she felt so lost and alone. If Roarke was really supposed to be her guardian for the next seven years, she feared it wouldn't be easy growing up under the watchful eye of a man who seemed to resent the fact that he had been burdened with her care. He had even stuck her in a bungalow, as if she were just another guest who'd be leaving after the weekend—yet he'd told her not to go back there alone? Why? There was too much she didn't know about that stupid curse, and all she could do was hope that if Mr. Roarke did manage to help her break it, he wouldn't change his mind afterward about keeping her. She had literally nowhere else to go.

She was so lost in her churning thoughts, her loneliness, fear, confusion and grief, that she was completely unaware she had company till the shadow fell across her lap and she jumped a little on her perch. It was Tattoo; his round face looked sympathetic and a bit surprised. "Are you okay? I thought you'd go to the pool or something."

Leslie shrugged and said dully, "I don't have a bathing suit." She had never met anyone quite like this man, clearly an adult but without the intimidating aura that made Roarke seem so forbidding, perhaps because of his short stature. His gravelly voice carried such a heavy French accent that she wondered how long he'd been speaking English.

Tattoo smiled and paused beside her, leaning a bit on the outside of the fountain's basin. "I know you must miss your family very badly," he said, so gently that her eyes began to sting and she had to look away to battle the tears. "I know the boss scares you, but he's not a bad man, really. He's very kind. Just ask any of the other kids he's raised. They'll tell you he's the best guardian they could have asked for."

"I don't know. My parents weren't his friends like all the other ones, the way he said. I don't think he really wants me here. He told me in so many words that if I had any living relatives, he wouldn't let me live here. I think I'm only gonna be a nuisance. I'll just get in his way all the time and he'll wish my mother had never left it up to him to take care of me till I turn 21."

"I don't think that's true, Leslie," Tattoo said, still gentle. "I know he came across as very stern, and maybe even reluctant. But you just got here, and you don't know each other. Things will get better. In the meantime, if you ever need someone to talk to, just come see me. I have a little cottage not far from here. You'll be living here in the main house with the boss, you know, but I'm never far away." He waited till she finally met his gaze, then winked and said, "Now I haven't seen you smile. I bet you're pretty when you smile. You won't be able to keep the boys away from you."

Leslie snorted. "Boys don't notice me," she scoffed, but she humored him anyway and managed to produce a smile. Wimpy though it was, it got a warm nod of approval from him. "I would like to make some friends here, though."

"Sure you will," Tattoo said, nodding with enthusiasm. "Just because you don't have a bathing suit, that doesn't mean you can't go to the pool. A lot of the kids hang out there on the weekends. You can just go as you are, and if you smile, you'll have friends in no time. I know you will. And don't you worry—the boss will break that curse for you. I won't say it's gonna be easy, but if anyone can do it, the boss can. So you go on now, huh? And come back for lunch. I have to do some things for the boss, but you go have some fun." Once more he winked, then gave her a little wave with his stubby fingers and strolled off down the lane.

She grinned in spite of herself; she liked this guy. She sometimes had to strain to understand him, for he had a tendency to pronounce some English words as if they were French; but he'd been gentle and kind to her, and he seemed approachable in a way that his boss didn't. Leslie drew in a deep draft of the tropical air and slowly released it. Until Roarke had some answers for her, there was no point in worrying. Maybe Tattoo was right and she could find some friends at the pool.