§ § § -- May 21, 1984

Leslie awoke in the middle of that night for some reason and lay in bed for a moment staring at the canopy over her bed, trying to remember if she had been dreaming before she woke. Unable to recall any dreams, she gave up, only then becoming aware that she was very thirsty. There was only one cure for that. Heaving a sigh, she got out of bed and stole downstairs as quietly as she could in order to keep from waking Roarke. It was late enough that even he had retired for the night, and the entire house was dark and quiet.

She picked her way across Roarke's elegantly appointed office, took the steps up into the entry foyer and made a left turn, which took her into the hallway that led to the kitchen. This was Mariki's domain and Leslie didn't often have a reason to go in there. The big industrial-style stainless-steel refrigerator hummed quietly in one corner, and Leslie pulled open the door and stood for a while perusing the contents. Finally, behind all manner of fruits, containers of preserves and jams, and a crock of butter, she saw a clear acrylic pitcher containing what was left of the bright-red sangria punch Mariki had concocted for her birthday two weeks before. She snaked her arm in around the various other items and managed to extract the pitcher, found a glass, poured out a quantity and drained half in one shot.

With the worst of her thirst slaked, she idly swirled the contents of the glass and wandered over to the room's one window, across the room from the doorway she had come through, and gazed at the night sky while she took her time sipping the rest of the punch. After awhile she refilled the glass, which emptied the pitcher. This time the punch seemed oddly sweeter than before, and she wondered absently if some ingredient had settled over time. It still tasted all right, at any rate, and she eventually downed the last drops, put the glass and pitcher into the sink and padded back down the hall and through the office.

Halfway up the stairs she began to feel abruptly woozy; her head started to spin a little, and she had to take the rest of the steps on all fours. She barely made it to the bed before collapsing across it in a deep, almost coma-like sleep.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Roarke, Lawrence and Adam met for breakfast and waited about ten minutes for Leslie, but she didn't appear. "Has she taken sick, perhaps?" Lawrence asked.

Roarke shook his head slowly. "She was fine last night," he said. "She did go to bed rather late, however. We may as well eat without her; she will probably be up in another hour or so."

But when ten o'clock came and went and there was still no sign of Leslie, Roarke decided it was time to roust her out of bed. Lawrence and Adam were both out on errands, and it was time Leslie got up and did her share.

When he topped the steps and turned to Leslie's door, though, he was surprised to find it standing open; usually Leslie left her door just ajar enough to allow the night breeze to drift through. He stepped inside and stared at her: she was lying atop the bedcovers, sprawled out as if she had taken a fall, and she was wearing her slippers. Her breathing was unusually slow and deep. Roarke frowned, now concerned, and gently shook her. "Leslie, wake up," he said.

But she didn't respond at all, either to his voice or the shaking; when he stopped, she just lay inert. A frisson of alarm snaked up Roarke's spine and he shook her a little harder this time. "Leslie," he said sharply. Still no response. Roarke paused for a moment, gathered his concentration, then placed his hand over Leslie's head so that his fingertips touched her forehead through her bangs. He drew in a breath, closed his eyes, and fractionally tightened his hold on his daughter's head.

This time he was rewarded with a weak moan. Roarke opened his eyes and gazed intently at her, still concentrating; at last Leslie's eyelids fluttered and she peered blearily at him. "Mr. Roarke," she murmured in drowsy surprise.

Roarke released her head and gently urged her into a sitting position. "Why did you sleep so late this morning?" he wanted to know.

Leslie shook her head violently several times, trying to clear her foggy brain. "I…I don't know," she mumbled. "What time is it?"

"Past ten," he said, a note of gentle rebuke in his voice. "You should have been up two hours ago. Do you feel all right?"

He watched her as she ran a hand through her hair, squinted and blinked, and looked thoroughly confused. "I'm not sure," she finally said, half whispering, as if it were an effort to speak at all. "I feel okay, but my brain…I feel as if I'm just coming out of anesthesia or something." It took her a full sixty seconds to get this sentence out of her mouth; Roarke could see that she was actively fighting off drowsiness.

He stared at her, perplexed and worried all at once. "Did something happen last night?"

Memory returned to her then. "I got…thirsty last night," she began, and told him about going to the kitchen for something to drink. Throughout her narrative, she dropped off to sleep six times, and each time Roarke had to shake her awake again and remind her to finish her story.

When she finally did, Roarke thought carefully over everything she had told him, paying particular attention to her description of the leftover punch. "You say that the sangria tasted sweeter the second time?" he asked, speaking a little sharply to keep her awake.

Leslie nodded. "It seemed…kind of…thicker too," she managed, rubbing her eyes like a small child in need of a nap. "Oh Mr. Roarke…I'm so sleepy…"

And that was when Roarke realized what must have happened. "I know, child, I know," he said softly. "I don't know how it happened, Leslie, but I believe you somehow managed to ingest a potion with that punch."

It was the word potion that did it. Shocked fully awake, Leslie stared at him. "Adam," she burst out. "God only knows why he did it, but I just know this is his fault."

Roarke eyed her, half skeptical, half convinced she was right. "You have no proof, Leslie," he told her. "You can't simply accuse --"

"Mr. Roarke, sir! Is anyone here?" sang out an Irish accent from downstairs at just that moment. Both Roarke and Leslie looked instinctively at the doorway, as though Adam had just appeared there; then Roarke stood up.

"Wait here, Leslie," he said, squeezing her shoulder in reassurance, "and try to stay awake. I'll speak to Adam and see what he knows."

In his office he found Adam inspecting the bookshelves with curiosity, and cleared his throat to get the Irishman's attention. Adam turned and beamed at him. "Ah, Mr. Roarke! Everythin's under control. Thought I'd come back for a spell an' see if there's anythin' else needs doin'."

Roarke shook his head absently. "At the moment, no." He watched Adam cross the room towards his desk before the idea occurred to him. "However, perhaps you can help me do a little detective work. Someone on this island appears to have invented a new type of anesthetic for children. I'm told it tastes sweet, perhaps like juice, and that it does the job very nicely. What the hospital would like to know is the inventor's identity, so that he or she can be properly credited with the invention."

Adam looked quite surprised. "Och, sir, how interestin'! Aye, that I can help ye wi'. How did ye find out about it?"

"Leslie was chosen as a volunteer to test it," Roarke said, a trace of irony in his tone that Adam seemed to miss. "The initial trial run works…extremely well, shall we say."

Adam's expression of interested curiosity gave way to puzzlement. "I knew nothin' about that. When did she test it?"

"Last night. It's my understanding that she drank it with the leftover punch from her birthday party. It clearly works; that was the reason she wasn't with us at breakfast this morning. Even now she…"

"But that wasn't what it was supposed to do! It was meant to be a love potion! How th' divil could it've done that noo?" Roarke stared at Adam while the latter paced the floor in agitation, ranting thoughtlessly in disbelief. "I studied every ingredient as carefully as possible, an' that ol' bag down the other end of the island tol' me that Shakespeare's flower really works."

"I knew it!!" shouted Leslie's voice from the top of the steps, and both Roarke and Adam whipped around to stare at her as she began to stumble down, in a peculiar combination of rage and uncontrollable drowsiness. For the moment her anger was keeping her awake enough to vent itself on Adam. "You absolute sneak! I knew there was something about you I shouldn't trust! You and your potions! I ought to strangle you!" Stunned, Adam actually stood there and let her advance on him with hands outstretched and curled as if to wrap around his neck; Roarke had to hasten out from behind the desk and restrain his daughter before she could do any actual damage. But it was plain that Adam had fully expected Leslie's reaction to him to be something other than unbridled fury, and he seemed to be frozen with incredulity.

"Lass, how on earth…" he finally began.

She was struggling to free herself from Roarke's grip; Roarke had to use more and more strength to keep her from breaking loose; and Adam was gawking at her like an idiot when Lawrence and Julie happened to walk in, the latter carrying a covered casserole dish. "Anyone for bubble and squeak?" Julie asked brightly.

"Great heavens above, what on earth has happened here?" Lawrence burst out.

"Your friend," Leslie snarled the italicized word, "tried to seduce me with a potion!"

Lawrence looked poleaxed. "What?"

"It appears that Adam was trying to recreate Love Potion Number 9," Roarke explained sardonically, "and instead created a sleeping draught that turns out to have been the reason Leslie didn't come to breakfast this morning. She apparently ingested it last night with what was left of her birthday punch. Perhaps, Lawrence, in your attempts to fit Adam in, you somehow failed to explain the provenance of potions, or the importance of my rule about no one except myself having anything to do with their creation or administration." He tightened his grip on Leslie still more. "I suggest you remove Adam from the premises now, before I find myself unable to retain control over my daughter and she does him bodily harm."

Lawrence sighed deeply, looking extremely mournful, and took Adam by the arm. "Come along, then. I'm afraid you have a lot of explaining to do, old chap."

Adam was still overwhelmed with the fact that his concoction had failed to serve its intended purpose. "But Lawrence, she was supposed to fall in love with me! I even went out and got some love-in-idleness to make it work. That ol' hag I went to said this is the only place on earth it grows anymore. I was plannin' to ship some seeds home an' try growin' it in my clover patch…" The door closed on these words, and Roarke finally released Leslie. Julie had been standing in the same spot the entire time, gaping at the scene.

"I wish you'd let me throttle him like I wanted to," Leslie complained, her rage slowly fading to annoyance. "It would've saved Lawrence the trouble of sending him all the way back to Ireland."

"Perhaps," Roarke replied, dusting off his hands, "but then you would have had to serve time for murder. Surely that would have ruined your summer." He smiled teasingly.

"Uncle, did he say 'love-in-idleness'?" Julie demanded finally. "Was he right? Does it really grow here on Fantasy Island like he claimed? Or do you think the old woman he was talking about just tricked him and we don't really have it?"

"Of course it grows here," Roarke said matter-of-factly. "But only one person on the island knows precisely where, and it certainly isn't Adam's…uh, elderly lady." At which point he caught Leslie as she collapsed. Adam's potion had regained strength and knocked her out cold again; she lay in Roarke's arms like a rag doll with the stuffing removed.

"Poor kid," Julie said sympathetically. "Isn't there any cure, uncle?"

Roarke sighed and lifted Leslie up, starting for the stairs. "Time, Julie, that's all. She'll simply have to sleep it off." He hesitated, peered at the casserole dish in Julie's hands, and added, "Why don't you take that down to the kitchen? Have Mariki keep it warm and she can serve it with lunch. You may as well join us, since I seriously doubt Leslie will be able to." Julie watched Roarke carry Leslie back upstairs, shaking her head slowly.

"Adam O'Cearlach, I think your days are numbered," she murmured to herself at last, turning towards the kitchen.