“We will camp here for the night, then,” I say, attempting to sound cheerful. “I will lay out a picnic in the caravan. Like when we were younger and pretending to travel to forbidden kingdoms.”
“For all your talk of playing, Clara, I see the worry in your eyes.” He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “But you are right. Nothing can be done tonight. I will unhitch Job and January and find them a place to graze, and then I will join you.”
Of all the traditions of our shared childhood, the caravan picnic has always been a favorite. So, despite the bothersome delay the wheel causes, I prepare our meal with gratitude. I will take joy in keeping this custom with my sister—one last time before she leaves the land.
From Scarff and O’Neill’s many trunks and drawers, I choose a pink damask tablecloth and richly painted Turkish dishes, a wooden cutting board in the shape of an elephant, goblets of ruby glass, and a knife with the bust of a Roman god for a handle. I set three places, just like always. I arrange pillows and cushions for O’Neill and me to sit upon and clear a place for Maren’s tub.
It is not a royal banquet by any measure: hard cheese, two-day-old bread, lukewarm cider, and pickles. Lighting the caravan stove to cook bacon or boil water for tea would only raise the temperature inside from sultry to oppressive. We have none of Auntie’s jams or cakes, no sliced cold chicken or clove-scented ham. But in the golden lamplight, with the low rumble of thunder in the distance, it seems a fine feast.
All is ready. I wait for O’Neill, feeling the flutter of butterflies in my stomach, as if he has been gone all winter and is about to come home again—to me. I wish I had changed my dress and tidied my hair, but I hear his boots on the steps and it is too late for fussing.
Little raindrops glisten in his golden hair. His somber expression melts away as he beholds the arrangement of plain food and exotic tableware. “You are an artist,” he says. “I should paint it rather than eating it.”
“Nonsense,” I say. “Will you bring Maren’s tub to her place? Even though she cannot eat, she would hate to miss a caravan picnic.”
“Of course,” he says.
After O’Neill sets Maren’s washtub down, he settles among the cushions. For a moment, he is the picture of relaxation. But then our mermaid awakens and signs her demand: O’Neill must move closer to her so that she may hold his hand. He obeys.
I pour cider into the goblets and pass one to O’Neill.
“Let us pretend,” he says. “Let us make believe that the caravan is parked in front of Auntie’s cottage. We have spent the day exploring the mountainside, getting scratched by thornbushes and eating wild blackberries. We have held wriggling red salamanders in our hands and watched baby birds learn to fly. We have seen strange flowers growing along rushing streams, and we have walked barefoot over spongy moss. Now we are tired and happy and hungry, and this is the best of suppers in the best of places.”
“Yes,” I say. “And after our meal, you will tell us of your travels and show us some special treasure you found on a riverbank or in an abandoned tent.”
Lightning flashes. Thunder shakes the wagon. Osbert whimpers and begins to pace. Storms make him uneasy, and he has no cellar to retreat to here.
“Sit, Osbert,” O’Neill says gently. “It is just a little storm.”
“Perhaps he needs to go out,” I say. I do not intend to let a silly wyvern ruin my picnic.
Half flying and half running, Osbert dashes out the door as soon as O’Neill opens it. “I guess you were right,” he says, going to close the windows as the rain begins to lash at the wagon.
The wind makes the caravan creak and sway on its axles as the storm grows fiercer. But we are in our own little world. Maren naps again, and O’Neill and I eat all the pickles and drink all the cider. We are beyond full when O’Neill pulls a tin of shortbread biscuits out of a drawer—yet we devour them all. We take turns reminding each other of the events of our childhood, and we laugh until our bellies ache.
“It’s late,” O’Neill says. He begins to gather dishes and jars. “Let’s set these things aside to make room for your cot and deal with them in the morning.”
I yawn. “That is a fine idea,” I say. I reach for his goblet, and my hand brushes against his. Both of us freeze. For a moment, our eyes meet. I could die happy right now, I think. He opens his mouth to speak, and a strange sound somewhere between a cough and a hiss comes from behind him.
I pull my hand away. Maren is glaring at me, her ocean-colored eyes dark with anger. “Forgive me,” I say to O’Neill. “How clumsy I am.”
“Do not mention it,” he says. His face is flushed with embarrassment—a rare thing for our worldly peddler boy. “I will venture out to see how Job and January are faring.”
He leaves me alone with Maren. “You do not need to be jealous,” I say. “I know how you feel about him, sister. And you would have to be blind not to see how he favors you.”
She slaps her tail against the water and pouts. I will say no more to her tonight. There will be no pleasing her.
Something is very wrong.
Coughing and choking, I force my eyelids to open.
The air swirls with thick smoke and orange and yellow flashes, like a lightning-filled thundercloud is somehow trapped within the caravan.
The caravan is on fire. Tongues of flame dance across the tapestried bed. Scarff’s treasures ignite one after the other, the fire roaring its delight as it consumes more and more of them.
Lungs burning, I crawl toward the place where Maren’s tub usually sits. I call her name, but my voice comes out in a weak croak.
“Is anyone in there?” a stranger’s voice calls as the door is flung open. The flames jump with joy at the influx of air.
“Yes,” I answer feebly. Seconds later, strong arms lift me and carry me through the smoke and flames to safety. “Two more,” I say to the man as he lowers me to the ground.
The man bounds back into the wagon and emerges with O’Neill slung over his shoulder. O’Neill’s clothes are singed and his head lolls against the rescuer’s shoulder blade.
I grab the man’s arm as he sets O’Neill beside me. “My sister. In a washtub,” I say between coughs.
“There is no one else,” he says.
Flames shoot into the sky above the wagon. Bottles tinkle and pop as they explode. The bright paint blackens and flakes off into the night.
I will find Maren, I tell myself. I try to stand, but the smoke has weakened me. I crumple to the dirt as the blazing caravan collapses into an unrecognizable heap.
“Poor dears! Such a tragedy!” a woman says. Her voice is lyrical and strangely accented. “Bring them to our camp, Jasper. I will see to their wounds.”
“Maren,” I whisper. My throat feels seared. “My sister.”
The woman bends over me. She is veiled in red-and-purple silk, and her skin is the color of caramel. “Do not speak. The smoke is in your throat. I will get it out, and then you may tell us your story.”
“My sister,” I whisper again. “In the washtub.”
The woman stands. “Jasper?”
“I checked, Mama. Three times. She’s gone.”
“That cannot be! You must find her. Look there—I see footprints in the dirt. The footprints of a big man. Follow them!”
The rescuer, Jasper, runs.
My chest tightens with fear.
Maren is gone. Taken.
By Simon? Did Simon set the caravan ablaze?
I try to sit up but fail.
The woman says, “Rest here. I will bring you water and blankets. When my son returns, he will take you to our tents and we will make you more comfortable, poor lamb.”
Only then do I remember Pilsner. I pray that he managed to escape.
What of Job and January, left to graze nearby?
And where is Osbert? He never returned after he ran off panicking in the storm.
Have I lost my most dear, nonhuman companions, and my sister, in one night?
&n
bsp; Beside me, O’Neill stirs. “Clara?”
“I am here,” I whisper. I find his hand and grasp it. He squeezes my fingers tightly, with the grip of someone in great pain.
I turn my head toward him. The moonlight shows me his soot-covered profile. A thin strip of whiteness runs from the corner of his eye to the lobe of his ear, marking the trail of his tears. I want to cry out for the woman to return, to beg her to bring something to ease his suffering, but I am overcome by another fit of coughing.
As my coughing lessens, O’Neill’s hand relaxes in mine. He is either asleep or unconscious, in a temporary escape from pain. Auntie would say that it is a good thing, that a mind at rest frees the body to work at healing itself.
But is there anything in the world that will heal his heart once he hears that Maren is gone?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I am lying on a cot inside a large tent. I vaguely remember the man called Jasper carrying me to this place, his mother covering me with soft blankets and holding a cup of water to my parched lips before I fainted or fell asleep.
Now fully aware, I look about the tent. It is furnished as colorfully and splendidly as the caravan was, with copper lanterns, embroidered cushions, and trunks full of unknown treasures—like an illustration from the tale of Aladdin. But this place lacks Scarff’s warmth and O’Neill’s charm, the very things that made their wheeled home a place of delight rather than a mere collection of fripperies.
The image of the caravan reduced to smoldering ashes floats before me like some horrific ghost. I wish it were nothing but the memory of a nightmare, to be easily dismissed and forgotten.
A string of little bells tinkles as the door flap is pushed aside and Jasper’s mother enters.
She sits down on the edge of the cot and hands me a mug of fragrant tea. “Your sister is a mermaid,” she says without wonder, as if having a mermaid in one’s family is commonplace. “She is very beautiful.”
“You found her?” I almost drop the tea.
“My son Jasper found her, and the man who took her, a few miles from here. I am afraid that it did not end well for the thief.”
“Simon,” I say. “He followed us.”
“He will follow you no more. The path of his life ended in misfortune.” The woman pours red syrup from a bottle into a spoon. “For your throat and lungs,” she says.
I swallow the medicine. It tastes like spoiled potatoes and overripe cherries with a dash of coal dust. I rinse it down with half the tea. “Is my sister all right?”
“She is very weak, but I have seen to her. I have dealt with her kind before, and I know what they must have, what elements will keep them alive outside the sea.”
“Thank you,” I say, although I care for neither her choice of words nor the coolness of her tone.
“She is not your true sister, the mermaid,” she says, laying a palm against my forehead to check for fever.
“Not my sister by blood, but every bit the sister of my heart.”
“Ah,” she says, “a sister is more valuable than rubies.” A dozen gold bracelets clink together on her arm as she lifts her hand from my forehead. “No fever. Good.”
“How is my friend? The young man?” I am very anxious to hear of O’Neill and to change the subject.
“Neelo sends his greetings. He is much improved, but his legs were badly burned and will take time to grow strong again. He rests in Jasper’s tent.”
“O’Neill,” I say. I feel a weight lift from my heart; Maren and O’Neill are safe.
“He tells me you are called Clara. My name is Soraya. Soraya Phipps. My son Jasper rescued you and your friends, and later you will meet his father, the great Dr. Phipps.”
“How fortunate that you found us,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “It was most fortunate.”
“When can I see my sister?”
“Soon. It is best not to disturb her for a day or two as she acclimates to her new habitat.”
Something about the word habitat does not sit well with me. But perhaps Soraya chose the only English word she knew to describe Maren’s liquid-filled home. The strength of her accent makes it plain that English is not her native tongue.
“Maren needs to go to the ocean soon, or she will die,” I say.
“She is fine. We will speak of such things later.” Soraya stands. She adjusts her tunic-like dress and the silk whispers like sea on sand, like Maren’s voice not so long ago. “Rest now,” she says as she brushes the tent flap aside and exits.
My mind is awhirl with the events of the last day (or days—for how am I to know how long I slept?): the wonderful picnic, Scarff’s magnificent caravan engulfed in flames, Jasper carrying me to safety, my hand grasping O’Neill’s as we lay side by side, Soraya telling me that my sister is safe.
I wonder how Osbert fares, and if anyone will ever tell Simon’s widow that he died while attempting to kidnap a mermaid. I doubt she would believe the truth if she heard it.
In a way, Simon sacrificed his life for Maren. And what of O’Neill, who swears to restore her humanness? Will his dedication to his vow cost him his life as well?
I close my eyes and picture Auntie. “Hush, now,” I hear her saying. “Not to worry, my girl. One chicken cannot sit on the whole world’s eggs.” I imagine her soft-cotton, plump-armed embrace and her lavender-and-fresh-bread scent, and I am almost comforted.
Wishing I were home is as useless as worrying, I suppose. Yet that is my wish.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dressed in a borrowed sari and shawl, I step out of the tent into a bright spring morning.
Jasper stands beside the campfire, drinking from a huge mug. He notices me right away and lifts the mug in salutation. “Coffee,” he says. “It runs through my veins.” He has his mother’s lithe figure and dark amber eyes, and his hair is a mop of unruly, brassy curls. He could be twenty or even thirty years old; his boyish face makes guessing difficult. He sets his mug on a chair. “You are Clara,” he says. He steps closer and takes my hand, lifting it to his lips. “Your servant, Jasper Armand Phipps.”
He presses his mouth against my skin, gazing into my eyes like a dime-novel knave attempting to seduce an innocent maiden. Finally, he releases my hand and says, “Mama has not worn that costume in ages. I must say, it suits you far more than it ever suited her.”
The word “costume” unlocks a flood of memories. Where has my mind been? How could I not have recognized these people? How could I have forgotten the medicine show Maren and I attended last spring, and the unsettlingly curious woman who offered to help cure Maren’s “condition”? How could I have forgotten Jasper’s music and his father’s charismatic sales pitch?
“You are quite pale, Clara. Come, sit down.” He guides me by the hand to a chair near the fire and takes a seat on a stool beside me. “We must become acquainted.”
“Thank you,” I say, unable to think of another reply. His suave manner makes me quite uncomfortable. I survey the camp instead of looking him in the eye. I see two tents—one large and one small, both dark-green canvas with red-and-gold pennants flying from their central poles. Between the tents is a mustard-colored wagon (similar in shape to our now-ruined caravan but twice as large). Crimson letters on the side spell out “Dr. Phipps and Company, Medicine Show and Astounding Wonders.” A second wagon, its smaller twin, is parked behind the tents.
“Welcome to our nomadic home,” Jasper says. “I hope that you have been quite comfortable.”
“Yes,” I say. “Your mother has been very attentive. But as soon as O’Neill regains his strength, we will leave you. We do not wish to interfere with your routine.”
“You are no trouble at all, my dear. I for one find your presence inspiring, the adventure that brought you to us both providential and thrilling. Indeed, I hope you will stay with us long beyond O’Neill’s recovery.” He lifts my hand from my lap and folds his hands around it. His palms are warm but dry. “I deduce that you carry too many troubles on those pretty
shoulders of yours. A bit of fun on the road would put the roses back in your cheeks and boost your sore spirits.”
I pull my hand away. Jasper is too charming for anyone’s good. “We have travel plans of our own that we must not delay,” I say. “But thank you for your kind offer.”
“You may yet change your mind.” He stands and brushes imaginary dust from his sleeves. “We move on this morning. Tomorrow night, we will perform in the next town. Marsburg, I believe it is called. You will surely be with us that long, at least.”
A man steps out of the smaller tent. He is short and stout and dressed in a perfectly tailored gray suit. His shoes are polished so that they reflect the sun. He shakes his silver-tipped walking stick at Jasper. “Son,” he says, “quit dallying and begin packing up the tents.”
“May I introduce my father, the great Dr. Phipps?” Jasper says. “Papa, this is Clara of the Conflagration.”
“Clara,” Phipps says. “Pretty enough. I am sure my wife can find a place for you in the show. Do you sing or dance?”
“No, sir,” I say. “But we—”
“No matter. Soraya will sort it out.” He speaks with authority, as a king who will not be questioned or opposed. “You may go find her now and ask her how you may assist in getting the show on the road, as it were.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. The doctor’s posture tells me it would be futile to disagree.
“Don’t just stand there, Jasper. Get to work, lad!” Dr. Phipps saunters toward the wagon, swinging his walking stick as if strolling a city street.
Jasper retrieves his mug and finishes his coffee. “Don’t mind the old bear too much. He is always grumpy in the morning.” He points toward the farthest tent. “You’ll find my mother in that direction, I believe.”
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