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corners of his chosen room. “And as you know yourself, I am a light sleeper.”
    In reluctant agreement, Jess moved on while Solomon pointed out a long office, two bathrooms, and a storage room. Dr. bin Yusuf ’s paintings hung on almost every wall, and his sinuous carvings of wood or stone guarded doorways and nestled in corners. Contemplating the responsibility of guardianship for the valuable art, Jess followed the African guide toward the front of the house. They passed through a large open hall that led to the curving staircase and then slipped through a curtained arch.
    “Your bedroom,” Miriamu said. “Ni maridadi kabisa.”
    It certainly was maridadi . One of those Swahili words that had no direct translation, maridadi was a perfect description of this room. The word meant beautiful, fancy, decorative, and exquisite all rolled into one. No higher compliment could be paid.
    Jess walked across the thick Persian rugs that carpeted the floor and stared in wonder at the room’s treasures—a huge Zanzibar chest carved in wood and studded with brass; a large fern filling a bright copper urn; chairs of ebony, mahogany, and teak; a table inlaid with silver and glass; an enormous canopied bed hung with mosquito netting; and paintings everywhere. Everywhere.
    “Why?” she whispered. “Why did he leave all this to me ?”
    She had asked the question of herself in London and had found no good answer. She had asked Mr. Patel in Zanzibar. The attorney had shrugged. He didn’t know. She looked at the two Africans standing before her. Miriamu’s dark eyelashes fluttered down. Solomon squared his shoulders.
    “Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf did not have friends,” the African man said. “He did not have family. Perhaps you were important to him.”
    “I was his student, that’s all. I loved his art, and I respected him as a teacher and as a man. But that was a long time ago. I took classes from him for only a couple of years.” She looked around the room. “He left all this to me? I just don’t get it.”
    “But you did get it, memsahib . And now you will live forever in Uchungu House.”
    He gave her a dark look before leaving the room with Miriamu at his heels. Jess pressed her hands against her stomach as she gazed through the archways onto the balcony that faced the sea. Like a Möbius strip that had no beginning and no end, Solomon’s words swirled around inside her head.
    “And now you will live forever in the House of Bitterness.”

    Unable to sleep in spite of her exhaustion, Jess lay in the big bed and stared up at the ceiling through the filmy mosquito net. In London, she had imagined Dr. bin Yusuf ’s house as a quaint stone cottage by the sea. A haven for Splinter. A cocoon for her. Hannah would come, and Africa would wrap its benevolent healing arms around them all. Everything would be perfect.
    Instead, she was burdened with a palatial stone mansion of great architectural significance, a household staff, and a gallery of valuable art. Would Splinter even be safe here? What if he tumbled off the cliff or fell down a well or got bitten by some strange tropical bug? Could she actually paint out here in the jungle? Could she afford to pay Solomon and Miriamu? How could she protect the paintings and sculptures?
    Jess flopped onto her stomach and buried her face in the feather pillow. No, it wasn’t any of that. She could handle Splint and the rest of the situation. Somehow or other, she would manage. She always had.
    It was him . She couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t get him out of her brain.
    In Zanzibar town, the men had walked around the corner, the whole group of them. An African or two. Someone in a turban. A heavy white man with a bald head the color of a baked crab. And then those blue eyes. Rick McTaggart’s blue eyes. No one else had eyes like that—deep-set, penetrating eyes that never wavered, eyes that always stared direct and straightforward, eyes that could pin a person to a