Before I can calculate an answer, O’Neill skips into view. When I see him, I can breathe again. Whenever I see him, I feel rescued somehow.
On his head is a turban of canary-colored silk. His vest, embroidered with strange animals, changes from red to gold and back again as it reflects the firelight. Voluminous sleeves of snow-white cotton are cinched and buttoned at his wrists. I bite my lower lip to keep from laughing at the odd trousers he is wearing: pink silk with green stripes, each absurdly wide leg trimmed with cuffs of silver bells.
“Lady Clara,” he says, hands on hips, “do you laugh at me?”
“I am thankful for your bare feet,” I manage to say. “For I cannot imagine any shoes that might have complemented such an outfit.” I give in to laughter, so overcome that tears spill down my cheeks.
“You dare to mock the coronation garb of Prince Gubabalek of Hubrustan?”
Maren slaps the water with her tail. She, too, is laughing at O’Neill’s fashion. Or perhaps the name “Gubabalek.”
“Well,” he says with a false frown, “since you find my appearance so unsettling, I shall retire for the night. It is plain to me that you do not wish to watch the wondrous feats I meant to show you.”
Osbert sneaks up behind him and bestows a sympathetic wet kiss on the back of his neck. And then O’Neill smiles his lopsided smile and begins to pull a handkerchief from a tiny pocket in his vest. He pulls and pulls and pulls, and the handkerchief looks as though it will never end. Finally, ten feet of fabric later, its end emerges. O’Neill uses it to wipe the wyvern spit away.
Maren and I applaud. Osbert, looking pleased that he has lifted O’Neill’s spirits, settles down beside Maren’s tub to watch the show.
It is an amazing thing to behold.
We have seen many of O’Neill’s tricks before: card tricks, flowers pulled from the air, vanishing pocket watches, a dozen eggs pulled from his mouth. We have heard him play the tin whistle and watched him dance the sailor’s hornpipe and Irish jig.
But tonight! Tonight he twirls and tosses flaming batons. He juggles four swords at once and then swallows one for good measure. He blindfolds himself and throws knives at a board, making the knives form the letters of Maren’s name.
For his final act, he plays the lap harp with his hands and a small drum with his feet while singing a plaintive melody in the gypsies’ Romany tongue.
The song ends. I do not clap, finding the sudden silence almost holy.
“Our mermaid is asleep,” O’Neill says as he sets his instruments aside.
“Thank you,” I say. “You were right that we will not soon forget this night. I am certain that I shall never forget. When I am old, I will think of it as I sit by the fire and knit lumpy stockings for my grandchildren.”
He smiles. “The gypsies were kind to me. They treated me as a son, and taught me their arts. You should meet them someday, Madame Vadoma and her family. Each one of them is quite remarkable.”
“I would like that very much.”
“Come,” he says. “Help me get Maren inside. I do not want to splash Prince Gubabalek’s finery.”
Quietly, we carry the tub to the caravan. Maren remains asleep, only her head and shoulders above the water.
“How happy she looks,” I say as I cover the tub with the oilcloth to trap the warmth. Even a mermaid needs a blanket on a cool spring night. “You make her happy, O’Neill.”
He turns away and works at unbuttoning his vest. “It is the least I can do,” he says.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Six days ago, we left Llanfair Mountain. Then, Maren only fit into the washtub while mostly sitting up. Soon, she will be able to fully recline in it. O’Neill says we are making good time, and that we should reach the Atlantic in another eight or nine days. Job and January are swift and nimble creatures, and the weather has been most agreeable.
We camp tonight beside a creek. Osbert patrols the area while O’Neill and I prepare a meal of fresh fish and corn bread. We have placed Maren’s tub at the doorway of the caravan so that she might watch the orange and red sunset across the rollicking creek. She sleeps instead.
“I have been thinking,” O’Neill says as he places a portion of fish on a stone for Pilsner. “I’ve been thinking of how we might save her.”
I hold out my plate for some fish. “We are saving her now. We are taking her home.”
“That is not what I meant, Clara. There must be a way to restore her. To change her back. We should not give up so easily. If the Sea King comes to meet her, we could strike a deal. We could buy her freedom or trade something for the removal of whatever curse is on her. Surely he has the power.” His eyes are bright in the firelight, his face aglow with hope and passion. He glances toward Maren’s sleeping form. “We must try.”
He may be able to resist a mermaid, but he has loved Maren since she was a little girl who could, in the space of an hour, both steal his slingshot and share her cake with him. I reach for his hand. I must begin to speak the truth to him, carefully and slowly, because in little more than a week, he must be prepared to accept it. He must be prepared to give her up. “O’Neill,” I say gently. “She does not wish to be saved in such a way. She is happy as a mermaid. She is a mermaid.”
“That is absurd,” he says. He pulls his hand away. “Her happiness is part of the enchantment. Part of the curse that made her into a mermaid. She is blinded by strong magic. You, of all people, should be able to see that.”
“Think, O’Neill, of her life. How she has always adored the water.”
“I like to swim, and I am no merman.” He sets his tin plate on the ground and crosses his arms over his chest. His nose twitches. It is classic angry O’Neill.
“Perhaps you have forgotten this story. One of Auntie’s favorites. We were picnicking in the forest, on the big slab of stone we always called the Giants’ Dinner Table. Auntie was setting out the food, making everything pretty. Scarff was bouncing you on one knee and me on the other, singing ‘Ride a Cock Horse’ and carrying on, making us laugh. We children were not quite three years old that summer. After Auntie finished arranging the pickles and tarts and filled the tin cups with milk, she looked about and discovered that Maren was gone. Do you remember where they found her, O’Neill?”
He rubs his twitching nose. “At the Wishing Pool,” he says.
“Not just at the Wishing Pool. In it. Swimming underwater like a minnow. Swimming as if she’d been born a fish and not a girl.”
“A natural talent,” he says.
“Natural because she is a mermaid.”
“You don’t want to save her. You, who call yourself her sister. You would just toss her into the sea and be done with her?” His accusations are bitter, but they are entangled with heartache and desperation.
“It is what she wants! What she has always wanted! It is who she is. Who she was born to be, O’Neill. It is her choice, not mine. And not yours.”
“I would lay down my life for her! To save her for Auntie and Scarff. To save her for you, Clara. You speak bravely but I know that you could not live without your sister.”
I step toward him. I touch his sleeve and speak softly. Perhaps he will hear me yet. “We must let her go, no matter how it pains us. She is happy as a mermaid. It is her desire and her destiny.”
“If that is how you feel, then you are as spellbound as she, Clara. But I will find a way to break this magic. I will save her, and you will thank me afterward.” He walks away, and the tears I have been withholding spill down my face.
This is my wish: that Maren could speak again—long enough to tell O’Neill the truth that he refuses to hear from me.
I am more than sorry that the truth will break his heart. His brave heart that dares to believe there can yet be a future for him and Maren.
In the morning, O’Neill acts as though we never argued. He sings Maren’s favorite sea chanteys at the top of his lungs so she can hear them as the caravan rattles and bumps its way through the woods.
>
I, for one, am thankful to be under way again, and thankful that Osbert has brought us no more remnants of Simon Shumsky. My hope is that Simon has regained his sanity and gone home to his bride.
When we stop to rest the horses, Pilsner flies off. He does this often of late. No one could blame a strong, young bird for wanting to stretch his fine wings. Sometimes he brings back gifts: a tiny daisy, a plump blackberry, a coin. Once he even brought me an emerald ring, encrusted with dirt. I wear it on my pointer finger and make believe I am a princess on a grand tour of my dominion.
I know I am no princess. I do envy Maren a little, and O’Neill, as well. She is a mermaid; he is a performer. They have their places in the world. Me, I am just a girl who may or may not become a stork. I am not striking to behold and I do not cry pearl tears. I cannot dance or sing or juggle fire. I am a terrible cook and mediocre apothecary—I have seen Auntie dump many of the elixirs I mixed when she thought I was not looking.
On the floor of the caravan, I spy a tiny white feather. Where did that come from? Is it mine?
I shiver—and then I pray: If I must change, let it not happen before we reach the ocean! For who knows if my transformation would be slow and painful like Maren’s, or if I might change from girl to bird in a matter of hours?
Perhaps it is not my feather at all, but an embellishment from a fan or costume. I choose to believe that. I take a deep breath and decide the feather came from O’Neill’s wares, not my body.
O’Neill climbs into the wagon and joins Osbert beside Maren’s tub. With eyes half-closed, she reaches up, silently asking him to hold her hand. Her hand is no bigger than a baby’s now; it does not begin to fill O’Neill’s palm. They regard each other tenderly, making secret vows with their eyes.
I turn my back to them and rearrange the jars of spices, trying to imagine the taste of each one to keep my mind from wandering where it should not: along paths of jealousy, sorrow, self-pity, and regret.
A jar of pure white peppercorns reminds me of Maren’s mermaid tears. It occurs to me that Maren has not shed a single pearl-tear since we left home. Indeed, why should she cry now? She is on the brink of wonders I will never know, a life beneath the waves with magical creatures. And meanwhile, she has O’Neill’s devotion.
“We must stop for supplies at the next town,” O’Neill says behind me.
“Yes,” I say. I place the jar of peppercorns into the rack. “There is not enough salt left to keep Maren supplied for another day, and we are almost out of cheese. Pilsner gobbles it down as if he is near starvation, despite his many foraging trips.”
“Onward we must go, then,” he says. I listen to the faint sloshing of water and imagine Maren embracing him by way of farewell. Only after I hear the sound of his footsteps behind me do I turn to face him.
“Pilsner has not come back,” I say.
“He will find us. He always does,” O’Neill says. He rubs my shoulder. “No need to worry, my dear.”
“My, you remind me of Scarff sometimes.” I smile, thinking fondly of the man who has always been like a father to me, in spite of his lengthy absences.
“That is a grand compliment,” O’Neill says. Quick as lightning, he kisses my cheek. “Settle in now. I’ll let Job and January know their rest is done.” He leaps out the back door, turning a somersault in the air and landing on his feet so nimbly that no dust is stirred.
Weak in the knees, I sit on the edge of the bed. My skin burns where his lips touched it. My heart turns over like a thirsty leaf in the presence of a cloud full of rain.
For the next half hour, I berate myself for the renewed unsisterly feelings I have for my almost-brother. They are his fault this time, not mine.
Leaning over to reach the dresser, I pick up a gilt-framed hand mirror and examine my face. It is still ordinary. His kiss left no mark on my skin. If only it had not left a mark on my heart.
I should be angry with him. To kiss me seconds after embracing my sister! It is obscene. It is cruel. But then again—had I not just compared him to Scarff? Has Scarff not given me many such fatherly kisses on that very cheek? Surely O’Neill meant his kiss to be like Scarff’s: sweet and chaste. Of course that is how he meant it.
How often must I remind myself that he has chosen Maren and not me? How often must I remind myself to rein in my ridiculous emotions?
I force myself to look long at Maren.
Although she is no longer than O’Neill’s arm, she is beautiful. Her skin has the sheen of a perfect pearl, pale and smooth and bright. It sparkles as if dusted with crushed diamonds, even in the dimness of the caravan, around her closed eyes and along her delicate cheekbones. The gold locket resting on her chest looks dull, she so outshines it. The iridescent scales, which begin just below her navel, glisten like thin slices of rare gems laid in row after row down the length of her. And where her dainty feet used to be, a glorious fan of silvery green tail. Every inch of her is stunningly beautiful. Indeed, it is the very beauty sailors would gladly die in pursuit of.
Somewhere inside this enchanting splendor, my sister still lives. The one who has heard my secrets and seen my midnight tears. The one who can name every scar on my body (and who caused a few of them herself). The one who has been with me since my first October, who has loved me as I have loved her. We meant to grow old together; we made promises for the future that will not be kept.
This girl, my sister, Maren, loves O’Neill, I remind myself solemnly. And once more I put away my feelings for him. I beg the stars above (though they cower behind daytime clouds) that he will not kiss me again. Ever.
“Are you asleep, Clara?” O’Neill calls from outside. “The store will close soon.”
I am surprised to find the wagon still. “I’m coming,” I say. I pull the oilcloth up to cover Maren, leaving only her small, doll-like head visible. “Osbert, you have guard duty,” I tell him firmly. “Be good and I’ll bring you some licorice.”
He wraps his barbed tail snugly around the tub, and without a sound swears to protect his mistress.
With furrowed brow, O’Neill glares at the map. “Did we turn right at Fulton Mills, or did we turn left?”
“I do not recall,” I say, offering January a carrot. We have stopped to rest the horses in a grove of blossoming fruit trees, hiding our wagon in the midst of row after row of gloriously scented branches. A fine place to be if one must lose one’s way—but I will not say so to O’Neill and risk offending him.
He shakes the map and groans. He rakes a hand through his blond hair several times. “This could cost us another day. How could I have taken a wrong turn when every minute counts?”
“You are tired,” I say soothingly. “We are all tired. Everyone makes mistakes when they are tired.”
“If we don’t make it in time . . . If she shrinks away to nothing before we reach the ocean, I will never forgive myself.”
Job takes a carrot from my hand and whinnies his thanks. I face O’Neill and say with conviction, “We will make it.”
“So now you believe in me?” A pitiful half smile accompanies his question.
“I have always believed in you, O’Neill. I have known you were the heroic type since you rescued me from the top of Auntie’s tallest oak tree, when we were both five years old.”
“Ah, yes. Maren dared you to climb higher than the barn roof, and you scrambled up the tree like a squirrel.”
“I wanted to prove that I was as brave as both of you were. I didn’t let myself think before I climbed up—and then I looked down,” I say.
“You froze. Even from the ground, I could see that you’d gone as pale as a ghost. I scampered up after you and spent the next two hours talking you down, branch by branch.”
“I was not brave at all. I am still not brave. Thank goodness you are here to help us, now that we are two damsels in distress.”
He reaches out and runs his fingers lightly across my cheek. “You are no damsel in distress, Clara. You are far braver than you think. You left
your comfortable home behind to venture through thick forests and over terrible roads so that your sister might have a chance to live. And Maren and I could not have made this journey without you. I would not have taken care of her half as well as you have. I would have oversalted her water and never remembered to wash her face at night. I would have overslept every day, forgotten to eat, and made a hundred more wrong turns. So you see? You are utterly indispensable.”
I step backward, my face aflame. “Yes. Well. We ought to resume the journey before night falls.” I refuse to meet his gaze. Must he touch me? My chest aches inside with confusion and longing and hopelessness.
“There—I even need you to remind me to focus on the task at hand,” he says. “I’d be hopeless without you.”
“I will check on Maren while you ready the horses.” I rush into the caravan, heart pounding rebelliously. I am not so brave, I think. And I am far from indispensable. Foolish, yes. A traitor to my beloved sister and her true love, yes. But not brave.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I hear a mighty crack—the sound of a cut tree splintering just before it falls—and the wagon lurches and leans. “Whoa,” O’Neill shouts, “whoa, there!”
Trinkets and boxed goods tumble from the shelves as the caravan comes to a quick stop. Water splashes out of Maren’s washtub and drenches Osbert. The mermaid’s eyes widen with fear and she desperately grips the tub’s sides. “Are you hurt?” I ask.
She shakes her head. Her coral-pink lips form the question, “What happened?”
“I will find out,” I say. I hurry to put on my shoes and meet O’Neill outside.
“A broken wheel,” he grumbles. He stares at the fractured yellow spokes and torn metal. He utters a few words I do not recognize. From his mood and tone, I guess that they are the expletives of a foreign tongue. “I have never seen one quite so destroyed. We are miles from the next town, and from the look of those clouds, I’d say we are in for quite a storm within the hour.”
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