§ § § - February 3, 1979

She didn't meet anyone at the pool, except—as luck would have it—for the same two girls who'd been on the charter plane with her when she arrived. She kept carefully out of their sight till she could leave the pool area without their seeing her, and instead aimlessly wandered the trails that seemed to crisscross every square foot of this part of the island. She got so lost that she never did make it back to the main house for lunch, and ended up wasting the entire afternoon trying to find her way out. By the time she finally did emerge into what looked like a small but very busy town square, her stomach had been complaining at her for the better part of two hours, and she could tell by the slanting rays of sunlight that it had to be late in the day. She asked directions to the main house and rushed back.

"Ah, welcome to the evening meal, Leslie," Roarke said with raised brows. She felt her face get hot and murmured an abashed apology, sliding into the nearest chair. Tattoo caught her eye as she sat down, and he winked at her again, making her feel marginally better. Roarke also sat down and gestured at Tattoo and Leslie to help themselves; she waited, however, till the men had filled their plates before she followed suit.

No one said anything for a few minutes; Roarke seemed to be waiting for something, and Leslie dared not open her mouth except to put food in it. At last Tattoo spoke up, as if taking pity on both of them. "So boss, what'd you find out about the curse?"

"Well," Roarke said, addressing both him and Leslie, "I have done some meticulous research, and it so happens that the 'family lore' you referred to this morning was correct, Leslie. The curse did indeed originate from colonial days: specifically, Salem, Massachusetts, at the time of the infamous witch trials. It appears that a certain goodwife accused a neighbor's household slave of being a witch, and this slave was eventually sentenced to burn at the stake. However, as the flames were lit around her, the slave placed a curse on the goodwife and all her descendants for thirteen generations hence." He paused for a second, then continued gravely, "The goodwife in question was named Mary Jane Hamilton; and the household slave was a Jamaican named Tituba."

Leslie lost her appetite again. "What...what did she say in the curse?"

"As I said," Roarke explained carefully, "Tituba was burned at the stake. With her dying breath, she cursed Mary Jane Hamilton and her descendants to perish by fire, precisely as Tituba herself perished. Within the year, Mary Jane Hamilton and all but one of her sons were killed in a massive house fire. The remaining son grew up and had a family, only to perish with all but one child in a fire. And so on, down through the generations."

Leslie absorbed this in silence, thinking of all those people down through almost three centuries who had died so horribly. Then she looked at Roarke and asked, "Is...is there any way to break the curse?"

Roarke's smile, his first that evening, was small, but it gave her an absurdly huge surge of hope. "There is," he said, "but we must await the proper moment. Before I tell you how, I must ask you to trust me implicitly. If you can do that, you will have every chance of success in breaking the curse. Can you?"

She flicked a glance at Tattoo, who smiled encouragingly but didn't speak. Returning her gaze to Roarke, she reflected that if she really was going to be this man's ward for the next several years, she would have to put her trust in him sooner or later. There was no time like the present to start; so she nodded solemnly. "Yes, I think I can, Mr. Roarke."

"Good," he said. "The book, you see, explained that for the curse to be broken, you must survive three fires You have already been through two: the fire in Connecticut when you were eight, and the one in California a few months ago. There must be a third, and it will have to be here on the island, since you will be remaining here after the weekend." He frowned, as if considering something. "Whatever happens, you must not be alone until the time is right. Tattoo, would you mind staying with Leslie in her bungalow tonight? There is a sofa bed in the main room that you can use, and I'll alert one of the maids to have it prepared for you."

"No problem, boss," Tattoo said. "Leslie and I can get a little better acquainted."

"An excellent idea, my friend," said Roarke, and Leslie saw the warmth and close friendship these two must share. It was as if they were close brothers. Could she ever really be a part of that? She wasn't sure, but she found herself looking forward to making friends with her new guardian's assistant, and had a sense of relief at not being alone, for the first time since her world had imploded.