“I was hoping you would say that.” Aurora put aside her book as she looked up from the couch. “My mouth is watering.”

“Blackfin tuna.” Esti took her plastic bag to the kitchen side of the little living room, barely keeping herself from slamming it into the sink. She didn’t want her mom to know how upset she was. “Lucia’s uncle cleaned it for me. He unloads cargo at the airport during the week, but on the weekends he catches fish and sells it to the restaurants.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Sure.” Esti forced herself to nod. “I’ll tell you about it while we eat, but I have to take a shower first. Have you seen the lightning? Apparently some hurricane east of here, which is unusual for November.” She hurried out of the room before Aurora could ask any more questions.

Her mom hummed happily in the kitchen as Esti tried to wash away the reek of fish and sweat and gasoline fumes. The pleasant sound was such a nice change from the usual silence that Esti managed to calm down by the time she came back out, combing tangles from her wet hair.

She grimaced at the smell of broiling tuna, however. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed and bury herself under the covers until morning, so she could race down to the theater. She wanted to throw herself at Alan, demanding to know more—she sighed—so that . . . so that he could tell her to go away. Maybe she needed a hot boyfriend like the Rafe that Carmen warned her about, if only to snap her out of this growing desire for cold rejection.

Sighing again, she stared at her mom’s glass of wine. The lightning had gotten closer now, accompanied by growing rumbles of thunder.

“Tell me what you did today,” Aurora said. “I can’t wait to hear about it.”

Esti stabbed a bite of the fish with her fork. “Well, I found out that Lucia is a good actress.”

Aurora raised her eyebrows.

“I mean, Carmen said she was, but I’ve never seen her act. Lucia planned to try out for Lady Capulet, then Mr. Niles gave that to me. She has a bit part in the chorus and mostly works on sets. She comes to every rehearsal, though, and she has big chunks of dialogue memorized with an accent she learned from a British radio station. She and I worked on the boat this afternoon with her doing Lady Capulet, and me doing Juliet. Apparently”—Esti kept her face expressionless—“she’s been listening to me practice all semester after rehearsals.”

“Very good,” Aurora said in approval.

“Yeah.”

“Did you go to Manchineel Cay?” Aurora asked as the lights flickered. “It looks so pretty from here.”

“We stopped to see it, but we didn’t get out of the boat. The cay is cursed. Drumbeats and eerie wails and everything.”

“Really!” Aurora leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of wine. “Tell me more.”

Carefully choosing her words, Esti began to explain about zumbi magic and the infamous massacre of Elon Somand. “Since Manchineel Cay is so close,” she ended, “that’s why the jumbees come to Cariba. We’re supposed to bar up our windows at night and keep a pan of water by the front door, and a hundred grains of rice by the back door. That distracts jumbees if they try to sneak inside. Potted herbs work as repellents too, like rosemary.”

“Jumbee repellent.” Aurora chuckled. “That’s good.”

“Of course,” Esti added dryly, “moko jumbees also live on Manchineel Cay. Those are the good spirits who fight evil and protect people.”

“Hmm.” Aurora looked intrigued. “Does Lucia believe all that too?”

Esti studied her tuna, wondering if she could change the subject now. “Lucia’s whole family is afraid of Manchineel Cay. They were nice to me, though. Lucia said none of her friends hold grudges against white people who were born on Cariba, even if their ancestors used to own slaves. They go to all the same big island parties as Lucia’s family, like Rodney’s upcoming Christmas feast.”

“Really? That surprises me.”

“It’s the Continentals they turn their noses up at. Manchicay School has brought in a lot of rich outsiders, and I think they resent us.”

“It seems quite a privilege that Lucia is friends with you, then.”

Esti nodded, although she still wasn’t exactly sure why. At least this was a safer topic of conversation than jumbees.

“And,” Aurora continued thoughtfully, “Mr. Niles probably teaches theater here because he’s a local. I know you don’t think he’s all that good, but it might be necessary to keep the peace.”

“Probably,” Esti said. “Carmen thinks the theater department is all about politics. Mr. Niles has been putting a lot of pressure on Danielle, with the show coming up so soon. I guess he plans to spotlight Danielle to a few select scouts from Hollywood and New York.”

“Your dad was a master at avoiding theater politics.” Aurora’s expression grew distant. “Especially after your television performance, he . . .” She stopped, her eyes snapping back into focus.

“He what?”

Aurora gave her a sympathetic look. “He just didn’t want to hurt you, sweetie.”

“But what did he do? You started to say something.”

Taking a sip of wine, Aurora slowly shook her head. “I don’t remember what I was going to say.”

“You don’t remember?” Esti’s unsettled mood coalesced into a sudden stab of fury. “How can you forget what you were saying three seconds ago? Too much wine?”

Lightning flashed very close, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. Esti’s heart pounded in shame as the lights and music went out completely. She gave her mom a mortified look in the candlelight. “I’m so sorry, Aurora. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, you’re right.” Aurora closed her eyes, pushing her empty wineglass away. “Maybe we need a few moko jumbees around here, to get our lives under control.”

“Control.” Esti closed her own eyes. Her dad’s favorite word suddenly felt awkward on her tongue, like an ungainly attempt at a foreign language. “What a strange concept.”

Ma Harris’s warnings pounded through Esti’s brain like the uneven drumbeats from Manchineel Cay, but all she could think about was Alan’s voice. Sexy, yes; scary, no. Brilliant, yes; dangerous, no. Actor, absolutely; zombie, not a chance. Boyfriend, yes, oh yes, oh please!

Unzipping her jacket as she walked into the theater, she shook her damp hair out of her face, listening to make sure the building was empty. Not that she would have any clue, apparently, if Ma Harris or Lucia were here.

The unmoving ceiling fans seemed unnaturally silent in the humid air, and Esti still heard the frog chorus from outside, singing endless praises to Carmen’s favorite hobby. CooKIE, cooKIE, cooKIE. Esti wanted to tell Carmen about Alan, especially since Lucia already seemed to know, but she wasn’t sure Carmen would be able to keep such an irresistible piece of gossip to herself.

Esti quickly made her way to Alan’s secret door, the cookie refrain tinkling through her mind as she navigated the tiny passage. To her astonishment, she saw a flicker of light as she approached the little room downstairs. As the air began dancing with soft lute music, she stopped in the doorway. A small wooden table took up most of the tiny room, lit by a single candle. Creamy white blossoms were scattered across the table, filling the air with wonderful sweetness.

“Alan?” She felt her own heartbeat vibrating through his name, hope making her dizzy. “Pardon me, I pray you,” she added breathlessly, “I thought that all things had been savage here.”

“I couldn’t find Shakespearean rose or lily for you,” he replied, “so the frangipani is tropical. No doubt by any other name it would smell as sweet.”

She smiled, trying not to be too obvious as she searched the dim room for some physical sign of him. Neat rows of red brick and white mortar rose from the floor to above her head, the arched ceiling barely high enough for her to stand. The doorway was arched as well, and she strained to see some movement in the pitch-black hallway she’d just left. She would give almost anything for Alan to walk through that opening. Sweep me into your arms, she thought. Please please please, no matter how lame that sounds.

She sat down, raising one of the blossoms to her nose. “What’s the occasion?”

“This morning I will answer your questions.” She heard a deep sigh. “It was the only time I could be sure we are alone.”

“Without Ma Harris and Lucia, you mean?” Esti wondered if he’d always known about the eavesdropping.

“On Sunday mornings”—his voice held a hint of amusement—“they are at church.”

“They don’t seem like the church type.” Esti leaned back in the hard wooden chair, pretending to be calm.

“Oh, they are; very much so. Most West Indians have a complex belief system comprised of ancient Obeah traditions, centuries of slavery survival, and a powerful dose of Christianity. It’s fascinating, and they are generally quite devout.”

“You’re trying to distract me with all of this.”

“No,” he said softly. “I’m ready. On your mark, get set, go.”

Esti smiled again, her mind racing with the questions he’d already rebuffed, as well as a million others she hadn’t had a chance to ask yet. “Where do you live? Why do you hide? You’re not really a ghost! Who taught you Shakespeare? What do you look like? Who are you? How do I hear your voice? Are you ever afraid of the dark?”

He burst into laughter. “One at a time, please.”

She gripped the chair. “Okay, where were you born?”

“On a sailboat.”

“Here?”

“Essentially, yes.”

She could barely sit still. “Did you grow up here?”

“No.”

“Please,” she said when he didn’t continue. “Are we going to be so literal?”

“Yes.” She heard his smile. “We are.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“I lived on my parents’ sailboat until a hurricane killed them.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, startled that she had no better response than a platitude she’d always resented from others. “How old were you?”

“A baby.”

“You weren’t on the boat, then?”

“I washed up on a nearby island.”

She traced the edge of the table with her thumb. “Alan, come on.”

“I’m utterly serious.”

“Discovered in the wreckage?”

“Of course.”

“How suspiciously Shakespeare.” She shook her head. “Were you rescued by a passing king?”

“Possibly,” Alan said, amused. “I don’t remember.”

“Hmm.” Esti forced a smile, backtracking to an earlier question. “Where did you say you grew up?”

“I didn’t say.”

She gave her chair a not-quite-playful kick. “Alan, where did you grow up?”

“Around. A Danish uncle took me in for several years when I was little.”

“And when you got big?”

“As soon as I was old enough, he sent me to boarding school.”

“In Denmark?”

“London.”

“Ah,” she said in satisfaction. “Is that where you learned Shakespeare?”

“Yes.”

“You must have loved it there.”

“I despised the place,” he said flatly.

“Why?” She kept her voice neutral.

“That would be far too complicated to explain.” Esti heard a familiar tightness in his voice. “Let’s stick with single-word answers.”

“You’re too complicated to be explained away in single words,” she said.

“To be sure.” He was silent for a long moment. “I’ve answered enough for today.”

Her heart began pounding again as she realized her tiny window of opportunity had slammed shut. “Alan, I haven’t even begun to ask!”

“I can’t do it, Esti,” he forced out. “I thought I could, but I was wrong. Perhaps I should answer a question you haven’t precisely asked. The answer is no, I can’t give you what you’re looking for.”

“You don’t know what I’m looking for.” She barely kept herself from slamming her hand on the table. “Alan, I can’t see you. I can’t touch you. You’re a voice telling me things you think I want to hear. I mean, no one washes up on an island in real life. So here’s a question that only needs one word. Are you a jumbee?”

He didn’t answer.

“Here’s one I’ll answer for you. Do you have power over me?” She took a deep breath. “Yes, you do.”

Silence.

“Will I ever see you?”

Nothing.

“Why are you doing this?” Her heart pounded so loud in the silence now, she could almost feel it rattling the door. Clutching the edge of the table, she resorted to a quote from Hamlet. “Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned? Be thy intents wicked or charitable?”

“Oh, Esti.” She heard a soft, reluctant chuckle. “You are the one with power. I can’t run away from you, no matter how hard I try.” He sighed. “My intents are charitable, but I am not a spirit of health.”

“You’re a goblin damned?”

“I like you, Esti. I like you far too much.” His voice grew so soft she could barely hear him. “And you terrify me.” The whisper brushed her ears, floating like a wisp of cloud in the flickering darkness of their practice room.

Esti knew she hadn’t heard him right. “What did you say?”

“Act One, Scene Two.” This time he spoke clearly, even if he sounded a bit strangled. “Rosalind, be merry.”