§ § § - November 22, 2008

By Saturday morning, Tobias, Karina and even Ingrid—whose illness had been especially malicious—had recovered completely; but Margareta's hallucinations had gotten worse, to the point that on Wednesday afternoon she had begged, in one of her decreasingly frequent lucid moments, to be checked into the island hospital for monitoring. She and the other two test subjects who were suffering from the malaise were being kept in separate rooms, and the doctor who was working on the project with Rogan and Roarke had discussed possible sleep aids for them after Margareta begged for relief. Rogan hadn't been sanguine about it, fearing interference with the serum, but Roarke had given the go-ahead for a knockout drug to be delivered by gas mask. They had had a good solid rest, and in their slow recovery from the gas, hadn't suffered any visions; Rogan had suggested they take the opportunity to give the patients a meal. In Margareta's case, she had no sooner finished eating than she had another hallucination. Christian, in a foul mood and wondering how they would ever get through the full fifteen-day waiting period, had been spending more time than usual at his office, trying to keep busy with the website projects he had taken on.

So Leslie was looking forward to the weekend as a distraction; when Roarke introduced their second fantasizer, she knew immediately she was going to be keeping close track of this one. "Mrs. Nina Dawson, a mother of three teenagers, from Mattoon, Illinois. Her fantasy is one I don't believe has ever been duplicated."

With an introduction like that, Leslie knew that this fantasy could be nothing less than fascinating. "What makes it unique?"

"As a high-school student, she discovered a certain book in the school library and read it avidly, checking it out several times a year until she graduated. A few years ago she was at last able to locate a copy of the book online and add it to her personal home library, and has read and reread it as well. The book was the original full story of the sinking of the Andrea Doria." He turned to her then. "I presume you've heard of it."

Leslie thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I remember now. The Italian luxury liner that got rammed by another ship in the summer of 1956 and sank south of Nantucket. They never really figured out which ship was to blame, and I think in the end the crews of both ships had to admit fault."

"Controversy over culpability has never been settled," Roarke noted. "In any case, Mrs. Dawson finds the story of the sinking, and the amazing rescue of nearly all the passengers aboard the stricken ship, mesmerizing. And now it's her wish to take a voyage on the Andrea Doria, to see for herself all the fabled trappings of the liner and to experience those last heady days when ship travel was the primary means of getting between Europe and North America." He watched the slender dark-haired woman step into the clearing and gaze around her with a look of wonder.

Leslie eyed Roarke for a moment, knowing perfectly well that there was more to this fantasy than met the eye. She was pretty sure she knew what it would be, too. Grinning to herself, she studied their guests as Roarke toasted them in welcome, thinking to herself that Nina Dawson's fantasy sounded about as spellbinding as it could get.

§ § §

By the time she and Roarke had dispatched their first fantasy—that of an amateur horticulturist whose fondest longtime hope had been to cultivate the very rare Queen Omega orchid, a flower that brought back certain memories for both host and assistant—Leslie was dying to hear all about not only Nina Dawson's motivation for her fantasy, but how Roarke intended to grant it. Her anticipation was so high in fact that the ringing phone served to annoy her; but at Roarke's gesture, she picked it up. "Main house."

It was Christian, which served to lessen her annoyance considerably. "Hello, my Rose. I know you and Mr. Roarke are busy right now, but I thought you'd like to know that I heard from the hospital. Magga's had one convulsive episode, and I'm going over there right now to see if there's anything I can do. When you're ready, you might want to join me there." His voice was tense, and Leslie bit her lip.

"I'd say, give me about half an hour," she said. "I'll meet you there."

"All right, I'll see you then. Don't worry too much; they say she's stabilized, but she doesn't seem to acknowledge anyone around her. I'll update you when you get here."

She agreed and slowly replaced the phone after he'd hung up, informing Roarke of what she'd learned. Roarke frowned, nodding slightly. "As soon as Mrs. Dawson begins her fantasy, you should go directly to the hospital. Let me know as soon as you can whether the other two patients there have experienced anything similar."

"Will do," Leslie agreed. Just then, before she could settle into worrying too much, the door opened and Nina Dawson stepped inside; Leslie got to her feet, welcomed her in and showed her to the remaining empty chair in front of the desk.

Roarke regarded his latest guest with interest that showed nothing of his concern over Margareta. "Mrs. Dawson, I must say, I find your fantasy most intriguing. We've had many requests to experience passage on the Titanic, but to choose the Andrea Doria...I believe this is a first even for us. Please tell me how you arrived at it."

Nina Dawson shrugged. "I've had a serious interest in the Andrea Doria sinking since high school, like I mentioned in my letter. There's just something about it. I can't really say what it is, but I do know this much—it was no secret that the Doria was considered one of the most glamorous—if not the most glamorous—ships of her time. She was filled with artwork—murals painted on the walls of all the public rooms and a lot of the first-class staterooms—and she was as graceful on the outside as the inside. I've seen enough pictures that I keep thinking what a privilege and a treat it must've been to take a transatlantic voyage on that ship and just spend the whole crossing exploring it."

Roarke smiled. "I see," he said. "Its sinking, of course, was a great loss, particularly to the Italian nation."

"I'm sure they still commemorate the anniversary of the sinking every year," Nina agreed. "I have at least four books about the sinking itself and a couple or three others revolving around aspects of it—even a novel that mentions some of the legends about cash and jewels and other treasure that supposedly went down with it. It was a big thing, but it's funny how history works on some things, given enough of a distance. Everybody focuses on the Titanic, as if that were the only ship that ever went down. But for me at least, the Doria is just much more fascinating." She paused and leaned forward to direct an earnest gaze at Roarke. "I think another thing about the Doria sinking is that it was the last really big one, the last readily recognizable loss of a major passenger liner, before the era of sailing to Europe ended. Within just a couple of years, air travel was the most common way to hop the Atlantic, and passenger liners were only a romantic memory. I'm not part of the generation that has any memory of going to Europe by ship. My grandmother made a crossing on the Doria. Not on her last voyage, though—she went over the year before the sinking—but the stories she told and the pictures she had just spoke to me. So I wanted that experience for myself."

Roarke nodded. "We have been able to provide this for you, Mrs. Dawson. You'll spend two days—the length of the usual weekend here—aboard the Andrea Doria in all its glory, in the glamor and sophistication of a decade poised on the edge between two eras: the post-World-War-II days of widespread prosperity and nostalgia, with an even more exciting and advanced future lying just ahead. All you need do is accompany us to the resort marina, and there your fantasy will begin."

Nina brightened with surprise. "You mean I'll have the experience of boarding the ship and claiming my stateroom and everything? Wow, Mr. Roarke, this is amazing!"

With a broad smile of appreciation, Roarke arose. "Shall we leave now?"

The resort marina was the same one out of which Brian and Lauren operated their passenger hydrofoil; it was located in a recessed inlet where the neighborhood that Brian and Lauren lived in, along with several others, faced the water across from the marina itself. The Knights' hydrofoil wasn't there; but then again, there were no passenger liners either, as Nina commented in dismay. "I don't see anything here."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Dawson, we are in the correct place," Roarke assured her, ushering her out of the rover and accompanying her along the concrete docking toward the boat slips. Leslie followed a couple of paces behind; Nina's head swiveled from one side to the other, checking out every slip whether occupied or not, till they had reached the end of the floating dock and come upon a huge private yacht moored there.

"This is it," said Leslie, coming to a stop on Nina's other side.

Nina stared at her, then at the boat, bobbing gently in the waves. "This may be big, but it sure isn't a transatlantic passenger ship."

"Ah, but Mrs. Dawson," Roarke reminded her with a wide smile and an expansive gesture toward the yacht, "this is Fantasy Island!" He nodded to his daughter. "Leslie?"

She stepped onto a small gangplank that led to a door on a level with the dock, and pulled it aside so that it slid into a recess in the hull. The interior was dark, but not because of lack of lighting. She smiled at Nina. "Right this way."

Nina held her ground for a moment, squinting doubtfully at the opening as if trying to see what lay beyond; then she pulled herself straight, glanced at Roarke who gave her an encouraging nod, and cleared her throat. "Okay, then, anchors aweigh and all that." She started up the gangplank, giving Leslie one last dubious look before stepping through the door.

She had been watching her steps on the way in, and when she looked up she was stunned to see long rows of stateroom doors to both sides. It was quiet, but far down the hall to her left, she saw a couple step out of a door and pull it shut, then rush off toward the stern, laughing. Something hit the carpeted floor with a soft thump, and she looked down again to see a key; she picked it up and gasped softly. It was an old-fashioned-looking brass one attached to a ring; also hanging from the ring was a brass tag. The key was engraved with a room number, and the tag said simply, ANDREA DORIA. Nina gawked at it, her face breaking out into a slow, wondering beam. "I'm really here!" she breathed. "Gosh, Mr. Roarke, I take back my skepticism...this is just cool beyond belief!" Suddenly excited, she set off on this long-anticipated first hike through a ship that had gone to its watery grave more than half a century before.

§ § §

Roarke dropped Leslie off at the hospital on the way back from the marina, and she found Christian waiting for her in the lobby waiting area. "Anything?" she asked.

"She seems to be fine. I just came out here to wait for you, only a few minutes ago. For the moment she's lucid."

"She's awake?" Leslie asked in surprise. "I thought you said she convulsed."

"She did," Christian confirmed, "but apparently that was the apex of her side effects from the serum. I was told it actually happened very early this morning, around five o'clock or so. I realize that's only a few hours, but the longer she stays free of any effects, the better it looks. The doctor who's working with Rogan on this thinks it may be a peak of sorts, and that she's past the worst, like the breaking of a fever."

Leslie nodded and slid her arms around him as he gathered her into his embrace. "So does that make you feel a little better?"

"Somewhat." Christian chuckled suddenly. "Perhaps now I can invite Ernst and Pelle to see the house after all. Ernst called my mobile last evening while you were doing laundry and reminded me that he and Pelle have to return home Sunday morning."

"Better hurry up then," she teased, and they grinned before Christian guided her back through the corridors to Margareta's room. The princess looked up when they came in and brightened at sight of them.

"Aunt Leslie, it's good to see you. You and Mr. Roarke must be busy." She set aside a magazine someone had given her. "Do you have time to talk?"

"For now, yes. We just got both fantasies started." Leslie took the nearby chair while Christian settled down on the side of his niece's bed. "Anything you want to talk about?"

"These side effects," Margareta grumbled, looking weary. "Everyone here has been telling me I had a convulsion of some kind, this morning before sunrise. Rogan's doctor consultant was in here just a minute or two before you two arrived, taking another blood sample. Uncle Christian, how long has it been now?"

"Only a week, believe it or not." Christian blew out a breath and shook his head slowly to himself. "Tomorrow marks the midway point. Tell me how you feel right now, both mentally and physically."

"Exhausted, in both cases. But my mind seems clear. I realize I can't infer anything from that—it's not as if I had any warning when I began to hallucinate. But somehow I feel calmer...less afraid of what lies ahead."

Christian seemed to perk up at that. "Well, that's good news. Perhaps your hallucinatory episodes won't last as long as those of the Dutch woman in the first trial." He might have said more, but just then the doctor Rogan was working with returned, followed by Rogan himself, who looked a bit surprised at seeing Christian and Leslie there. Christian nodded a greeting at him but addressed the doctor. "What's the news?"

"Still no loss of essential blood nutrients," the doctor said with a smile. "That's one thing that's been consistent with everybody in both trials. That's probably the best sign of all of them, in fact; it means that the lack of amakarna isn't affecting your health, and the longer you go without taking it and show no signs of deterioration, the likelier it is that Rogan's cure can be deemed a success. So I think you can take all these hallucinations and that convulsion in stride, Your Highness—you aren't suffering in vain."

Margareta's face broke into a wide smile, as much of relief as delight. "Doctor, I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that," she said softly. "Thank you. Oh...I should ask you something else. I feel less worried and afraid for the first time since the day after I took my three doses. Could that be a sign also that I've passed through these side effects?"

"It's possible," said the doctor, who had been apprised by Christian several days earlier of Margareta's unusual whining and fear. "We'll keep you here at least another 12 hours for observation, but if you don't have any more side effects of any kind, we'll discharge you and your aunt and uncle can take you home."

"Here's hoping," Leslie said, and Margareta grinned.

"Agreed! So now you and Uncle Christian have to get me caught up on what's been happening at your house since I was evacuated." That made everyone laugh, and the doctor left the room while Rogan leaned against the wall and Christian and Leslie told Margareta what had been happening all week.

"You really should invite those friends of yours to the house, Uncle Christian," said Margareta with mock reproach. "Which reminds me of something else: why in the world did you keep them such a secret? None of us ever knew you even had friends in your childhood. You never talk about your school years, and all we ever heard was how you always felt so isolated from everyone else."

Christian stared at her in surprise. "I didn't realize my school years were of such interest to you...whoever, precisely, 'you' includes. When you say 'we', I presume you mean your sisters and cousins." He hesitated, realized what he'd said, and bowed his head for a second or two. "Well, I'm sure Briella must have been included."

"Ceci too," Margareta said gently. "You know neither of them would want you spending too much time mourning them."

"It's human nature to mourn, Magga," Christian reminded her. "Don't look at it as a weakness. It takes time to accustom oneself to the loss of a family member, but there'll be a day when we can remember Briella with more smiles than tears. Just now it's too fresh; you'll have to allow for that."

She nodded. "I know, and I understand. Now—stop your stalling and tell me about these friends of yours."

"Chances are that you'll be able to find one of them online," Christian mused. "Ernst's father owned a horse ranch which Ernst is currently operating along with his daughter. I'll have to look it up myself...Wennergren Thoroughbreds, I think the name is, if I recall Ernst's information correctly. In jordiska, of course." He grinned. "Pelle's a pilot. I still remember he wanted to be one from an early age."

Margareta rolled her eyes. "That's all very nice, Uncle Christian, but I want to hear what you were like when you were little boys. And you forgot one. Aunt Leslie mentioned someone called Ivar."

Christian regarded her with mock sternness and observed, "It looks as if you want to keep me here talking till suppertime. Unfortunately, you don't have that option, because I promised to have Pelle and Ernst over to our house for a visit and it has to be done today, as they return home tomorrow." His expression grew sly and a slow smirk began to bloom, and he continued with calculated thoughtfulness. "Seems to me you ought to have something to look forward to when they let you out of here...so I'll save the stories of our shenanigans till then." The smirk widened exponentially at Margareta's outraged look.

"You are the worst tease on the face of the earth, Uncle Christian," she complained, which only made Christian grin and wink at Leslie. "What am I going to do to keep from being bored till I learn whether I can leave here?"

"Read," Christian and Leslie said together, and Rogan let out a laugh. "And before you object," Leslie added, "I'm not doing anything special till at least this afternoon, so I can bring you some books and magazines, and today's Fantasy Island Chronicle too."

"You're both sadists," Margareta accused.

"I taught her well," Christian said with a grin at Leslie. "In the meantime, it just so happens that we have jobs to do, and we'd better get back to them. I suspect Rogan is here to find out the particulars of your convulsion, so we'll leave you with him to tell him what you know. We'll visit again this evening."

They walked out hand in hand; once they were outside, Leslie turned to Christian and asked, "Are you really going back to work? I thought you had an obligation to Pelle and Ernst. Why don't we both take them on the fifty-cent tour?"

Christian shrugged. "That's fine by me. I just hope the house is presentable." Leslie laughed, and he grinned back and wrapped an arm around her waist as they headed back for the main house.