She might be imagining the eyes, Esti thought. Only idiots would brave this kind of weather, looking for a two-hundred-year-old jumbee.

“Inside.” The word came out barely louder than a whisper. Nothing happened. She tried again, louder, then finally gave up and knocked on the door. It swung open almost immediately.

“Come,” Lucia said.

Esti’s heart went into her throat. She took off her shoes and her dripping raincoat, then followed Lucia into the living room. The smell of fried johnnycakes and sugar filled the air. Ma Harris and her brother, Domino, sat on overstuffed chairs in front of the noisy television, Quintin sprawled on the couch beside them. Their eyes didn’t leave Esti as Lucia turned off the TV and dragged two hard-backed chairs in from the kitchen.

“Esti,” she said. “You sit here.”

Esti wondered if anyone could hear her heart pounding over the thundering rain on the roof. She sat on the edge of one chair, acutely aware of the jumbee masks and tribal statues glaring at her from all sides of the room. Gathering all her courage, she finally looked at Ma Harris.

“I want to talk about Alan.”

Ma Harris narrowed her eyes.

“Do you know who he really is?”

Ma Harris didn’t answer. Lucia perched rigidly on the edge of the other kitchen chair, glancing from her mother to Esti. Quintin alone seemed relaxed, staring at Esti with open curiosity.

Esti tried again. “I think you help him somehow. I hoped you might know his real name.”

As the silence got thicker, Esti finally gave Lucia a pleading look.

“Why you want to know?” Lucia asked, although her expression seemed sympathetic. “You cause many problem.”

“I know,” Esti whispered, defeated. “But—”

“Too many problem,” Ma Harris muttered.

Esti didn’t have the energy to defend herself. “Never mind. I’m sorry.”

No one stopped her as she walked back to the door and slipped her coat and shoes on. She was dragging herself up Bayrum Hill half an hour later when an unfamiliar voice behind her made her jump.

“Hey, Esti!”

She swung around to see Quintin vigorously splashing through puddles, his dreadlocks trailing behind him as he ran.

“Lucia she want me tell you someting,” he panted, coming to a stop. “Her ma she got de vex from being fired an’ ting. She upset what de jumbee did. She fear you, an’ you fear she, an’ Lucia fear she, an’ everyone fear de jumbee.” He gave her a quick grin. “I ain’t fear nobody.”

Esti stared at him. She had never heard Quintin speak a word before.

“I help Lucia curse Frederick,” he said, “but she say I first show you dis. Her ma keep it secret forever, but Lucia have find it. She say ’tis an omen.”

He opened an umbrella, then handed Esti a scrap of paper. Holding the umbrella closely over their heads, he waited for her to read. It was an old newspaper article, faded and yellow.

Hurricane Death Toll Rises.

Esti frowned and glanced through the article. Partway through the list of casualties, two sentences had been underlined. A baby, discovered by two local teenagers on a beach beside his parents’ grounded sailboat, suffered dehydration and severe manchineel burns over most of his body. Authorities say his parents were killed in the storm.

She read the words again. Alan had told her he was found as a baby in the wreckage of his parents’ sailboat. When he said he’d paid his dues long ago to his lady cay, did he mean manchineel burns? Ma Harris had kept the article for twenty-five years, according to the date at the top.

“Twenty-five years,” Esti whispered.

Quintin peeled the article from her numb fingers. “I gotta take it back to Lucia before her ma she miss it.”

“Quintin?”

He paused.

“Lucia must be furious,” Esti whispered. “Why do you guys keep helping me?”

“Lucia she got de gift. She maybe learn a lot from Esti Legard.” Quintin carefully tucked the article into his pocket, then grinned again. “For true.”

Snapping the umbrella shut, he jogged back down the hill, his dreadlocks flying as his feet sought out the biggest puddles. Esti watched him for a moment through the rain. She started walking again, then came to another abrupt stop.

The article hadn’t mentioned any names.

Esti rubbed her forehead, trying to push the headache away. She’d been making phone calls to England since she got home from Lucia’s house. Aurora wasn’t going to like the phone bill.

“I’m looking for information about one of your former teachers,” she said. “It would have been about ten years ago.”

“I’m terribly sorry, madam. Queen’s Manor didn’t exist ten years ago. We are a fairly new school, specializing in—”

“That’s okay. Thank you for your time.”

Esti glanced at the clock, hoping she would be done before Aurora got home. Queen’s Manor must have been one of the last schools her dad worked at. It frustrated her not to know more about her dad’s time at his boarding schools, but somehow that knowledge had been lost along with everything else Esti shoved away.

Resolutely moving to the next school she’d found in her mom’s address book, Esti dialed the number.

“Boothsby Hall.” A clipped voice came through the phone so strongly, she winced.

“Yes,” she began. “Can you tell me when Boothsby Hall first opened?”

“Founded in fifteen hundred and fifty-one,” the voice said proudly, “by Sir Alexander Boothsby under Letters Patent of King Edward the Sixth.”

“I’m looking for information on one of your faculty members from about ten years ago.”

“Hmm. Hold one moment, if you might.”

After a long pause, an elderly man came on the line. “Edward Thornton here. How may I help you?”

“Please,” Esti said. “I need to find out about a man who may have taught about ten years ago. He was my father.”

“I’ve been here for over fifty years.” Mr. Thornton’s voice quavered with amusement. “What is your father’s name, my dear? I would have known him if he taught here.”

“Alan Legard. He was a theater teacher from the United States who—”

“Of course I remember Mr. Legard. He worked with the Royal Shakespeare Company now and again. He has always been quite famous in America, I understand. You’re his daughter?”

“Yes.” Esti took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned her elbows on the table. “He died last year, and I’ve been trying to find out—”

“I heard about that. I’m so sorry, my dear.”

“Thank you. I’ve been trying to find out—”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Serene Terra Legard.” She closed her eyes, concentrating on keeping her breathing under control. “I need to find out about one of his students while he was there.”

She hoped Aurora wouldn’t walk in and catch her in the middle of another lie. “Before he died,” she said, “my father told me about an unusual student of his who was very good at Shakespeare. The boy had a terrible skin problem.”

“Ah yes, the skin problem,” Mr. Thornton said. He no longer sounded amused. “I’ve never forgotten that one.”

“Could you tell me about him?” Esti said tightly, trying to keep her voice professional. “I’m researching my dad’s past for a—for a school project I’m working on. This boy had a pretty strong influence on my father.”

“Did he, indeed? A good influence, I hope.”

Esti swallowed. “Yes.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Mr. Thornton said. “Who would have ever thought? As I recall, the boy had a ghastly case of inherited ichthyosis. Mendicosta disease, or some such. He always denied it, declaring that a madwoman had burned him with acid. He was one of the most delusional children I ever encountered. He insisted he was the great-great-grandson of Shakespeare’s Hamlet.” Mr. Thornton sighed sadly. “I believe the other boys called him Caliban. Fishface, you know, from The Tempest.”

Esti felt like Mr. Thornton had punched her in the stomach.

“I did try to pity the child, since the others picked on him so. He spent most of his time acting out his Shakespearean fantasies, or else fighting. We eventually had to keep him in solitary confinement for his own protection. Since his uncle made large donations to the school during the years he was with us, the trustees wouldn’t let us expel him. Of course, I shouldn’t be telling you all this.” Mr. Thornton sounded chagrined. “Mr. Legard certainly had a way of calming him. He was fascinated by the boy in every regard: his origins on a tropical island, his intelligence, his obsession with Shakespeare. He tutored the boy privately.”

“Can you tell me his name?” Esti whispered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The boy’s name,” she said more loudly.

“Oh, dear.” Mr. Thornton hesitated. “If you don’t already know his name, I don’t think I should divulge that information.” The elderly voice quavered. “I’ve said far too much already, with all these new rules about privacy. It’s just that I made such an effort to put the boy out of my mind when he left. Are you telling me you don’t even know his name?”

“His first name was Alan.”

“Well . . .” Mr. Thornton hesitated again. “He insisted we call him Alan after he met your father. He told us his name meant Alan in Danish, but I doubt that was true. It wasn’t his real name, at any rate.”

Esti closed her eyes. “Not his real name.”

“Beg pardon?” A touch of impatience now colored Mr. Thornton’s voice.

“Elon,” Esti forced out. “His real name was Elon Somand.”

“Of course.” Mr. Thornton sounded relieved. “You do know, then. Thank the Lord his accursed disease was hereditary, and not contagious. Elon was a clever boy, beneath his unfortunate exterior. Your father certainly had more patience with him than the rest of us did, even helping the poor boy after he dropped out of school. From what I remember, I believe it was your father who took him back home.”

Staring at the theater building, she cringed at the sight of the policemen waiting for her in their cars. She slowly pulled the necklace from the pocket of her raincoat. As she fastened it around her neck, however, she saw Quintin running toward her in the rain, his eyes wide.

“Come,” he called.

“What’s the matter?”

“Gotta stop you jumbee, quick-quick.”

She looked at him in alarm. “What’s he doing?”

“Danielle she make fun of you.”

“Danielle always makes fun of me.”

“De curse have backfire. You jumbee he rage at she. You’s de only one can stop de jumbee. Come quick!”

Esti ran across the courtyard behind him. From the corner of her eye, she could see policemen jumping out of their cars in concern. In front of her, Quintin yanked at the doors, almost falling backward when they didn’t open.

“He lock de door dem,” he cried. “Dey all trap inside!”

Esti fumbled for the key that Alan had given her after Christmas. As she flung open the door, she heard a loud crash. Frederick and the others lunged back from the stage as a newly painted plywood set landed on the stage between Danielle and Greg. The theater was dark except for a brilliant spotlight aimed at Danielle.

“Stop!” Danielle pressed her fingers to her ears, wildly looking around. “Stop saying that.”

“Stop,” Esti echoed in disbelief.

Danielle began to move, but another set toppled in front of her. Greg flung himself forward to catch it, and Danielle sank to the floor. “Leave me alone,” she whimpered, curling up with her hands over her head.

The only reply was the sharp crack of splintering wood. The little wooden table flew across the stage, missing Greg and Danielle by inches before coming to a crash against the painted plywood orchard. As another set began to wobble, Esti stumbled through the door.

“Leave her alone,” she cried out, her voice thick with fear. “How dare you!”

Her cry echoed through the theater, followed by deathly silence. All eyes watched Esti lunge into the room, her wet raincoat plastered to her legs. The theater seats disappeared as she ran through her nightmare. Panic crawled throughout her body, her legs working harder and harder as they barely moved her toward the stage.

Instead of her pounding footsteps, she heard only breathing from the floors and walls of the silent room. No one moved, frozen in another twisted frame of the horror movie that had become Esti’s reality. When she finally reached the stage, after a lifetime of running through Alan’s tortured breathing, she almost threw up.

Gulping for air, she took the steps two at a time and flung herself at Danielle in center stage. “Are you okay?” She put a shaking hand on Danielle’s arm, desperately willing her churning stomach to calm down.

Danielle shivered, nodding as Greg pulled her close to him.

Esti rose to her feet again, her emotions twisting with terror and rage as she saw a furtive movement in the darkness of the wings. Alan was lurking back there, invisible in his black clothes as he vented his hopeless rage against Danielle.

She could hear Officer Wilmuth charging up the aisle, barking orders to the cops behind him. Despite her fury, Esti found herself flinging up her hand to stop them. To her surprise, they skidded to a halt, their eyes wide with suspicion and fear.

Caliban, Edward Thornton had called him. Fishface. Kept in solitary confinement so the other boys wouldn’t beat him up. Alone.

Esti studied the jandam for a moment, then shook her head. “Only a coward enjoys other people’s fear,” she forced into the silence, knowing that Alan listened, “and it isn’t hard to despise cowardice.” She wrapped shaking fingers over her necklace. From the edge of her eye she caught sight of the narrow catwalk above, and an unbidden image of Paul Wilmuth came into her mind.

Paul had been making fun of her before he died. She had whispered that she wanted him to fall. Oh, God.

Her throat tightened in a convulsive swallow. Alan hadn’t actually hurt Danielle. She couldn’t accuse him of murdering Paul in front of the entire cast. She might be wrong.

“This will not happen again,” she said, her voice sounding husky and strange. “No more temper tantrums. No guilt trips or manipulation. If you want me to finish the play, you must stop.”

She twined her fingers into his necklace. “Leave everyone alone. Please leave me . . . alone.”

“Yes.” The cracked whisper barely brushed her ears, then was gone.

She looked out at Officer Wilmuth. “The jumbee is gone,” she forced out. “He won’t bother us anymore.”

He stared speechlessly at her, his dark face as rigid as stone.

She gestured the jandam forward. “Do whatever you need to,” she muttered. You won’t find him. Please don’t find him.

As they fearfully made their way up to the stage, she turned to Frederick. His eyes were huge beneath a jaunty black beret.

“Can you get Ma Harris her job back?” she asked woodenly. “I need her help.”

The beret bobbed in a quick, jerky nod.

“She’s innocent,” Esti added.

“Of course, of course.” Despite the terror on his face, he nodded even more vigorously. Esti knew he would be able to talk Mr. Fleming into it.

“Quintin,” she said. “Do you think Lucia will come back?”

“I tell she,” Quintin said calmly. “She come back.”

“Danielle, I’m sorry.” Esti’s shaky legs finally gave out, and she sank down on the stage beside Danielle. “I’m so sorry.”

Two drama queens, she thought, both reduced to a quivering mess by the jumbee of Manchicay. For once, Danielle’s blue eyes held no hostility as she looked at Esti. Everyone else just stared in shock; even Carmen huddled fearfully into her seat.

“I’m finished with today’s drama queen scene.” Esti couldn’t meet Carmen’s eyes. “If we work all night, we should be able to fix the sets in time for tomorrow. I’m ready to get this showcase over with.”

“Of course, darling,” Frederick said weakly. He glanced nervously around the theater, then sighed and covered his eyes with pale, expressive hands. “I was about to say the same thing.”