I roll up my shirt sleeves, and oil my hands liberally. I rub my palms together, and begin to rub my thumbs against the pads of Miss Cia’s feet. �...What would you like to hear today, Miss Cia? Shakespere? Arabian Nights? Perhaps something more modern?’ She stares at the ceiling a moment, then smiles as she settles deeper into the cushions. She says, ‘Romeo and Juliet. Start at their first meeting. I do so love that scene.’ ‘Yes, Miss Cia.’ I recite the play from memory, and work my way down from. Down.Deep into the abyss.When I reached the library the water lapped at my hips. There was notmuch time. Thankfully I knew where I had to look. The old tragedy ofBeckstein Manor. Surely that had been the origin of whatever curse thattoyed with this island.What I found was not a lot. Speculations. Wild guesses. Was the familyBeckstein even dead? They found the father. Shot in the head. Pronouncedsuicide. The newspaper clips were vague.Then a clue. One so horrifying that it caught my breath. Or. More

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