“Could I see my sister before we go?” I ask.
“Ah, yes. The mermaid. Mama told me you might inquire of her. She also said you must wait until tomorrow to visit. The mermaid needs time to recover her strength.”
“Her name is Maren,” I say. “And we have never been apart for more than a few hours. Surely a visit from me would be beneficial.” If only I possessed Maren’s allure, he would not think of refusing me.
“Jasper!” Dr. Phipps bellows from behind the wagon. “Come here, son!”
Jasper rolls his eyes. “Duty calls. It has been a great pleasure, mademoiselle. We shall meet again.” He bows and takes a few steps before turning back to face me again. “A word to the wise, Clara dear: hurry along to Mama and don’t get into mischief.”
His condescension irks me. I wish my manners did not prevent me from telling him that he is not half as appealing as he seems to believe he is. Instead, I lift the too-long hem of the borrowed sari and walk like a well-mannered young lady in the direction he recommended.
As I pass Jasper’s tent, I am tempted to duck inside to visit O’Neill. Feeling disobedient and rather reckless, I give in to temptation and push my way through the tent flap.
“Clara!” O’Neill says, seeing me before I see him. He is cocooned inside a hammock-like bed with only his head and arms free.
“Hush,” I say, moving closer so that he might hear my whispers. “I am forbidden to see Maren, and I did not ask permission to see you, so it might be best to keep quiet.”
“Why? Have you been causing trouble?”
“You know I have not. But that Dr. Phipps is a fearsome man, and his son is quite . . . perplexing. They visited Llanfair Mountain last spring, selling their sham cures. I do not trust them.”
“You worry too much, Clara. They saved us, did they not? Jasper risked his life getting us out of the burning caravan.”
“Yes. Well. I would feel much better if I could see Maren, even for a few minutes.”
“You will see her soon. And we will return to the road in a day or two at most, whether this Dr. Phipps fellow approves or not. Although I am sorry to tell you we will have to continue without Job and January. Jasper says they fled the fire, but I think they were stolen. They would not have run from me after all our adventures together.” He offers me his hand and I notice that his arm is swathed in gauze. “We must not count our losses now, not while Maren still needs our help.”
“Are they bad, your injuries?” Against my better judgment, I place my hand in his. My heart beats faster than I wish it would.
“My right leg is the worst. But it should be as good as gold in no time, thanks to Soraya’s poultices.”
“I am glad you are improving,” I say. I try to take my hand back, but his grip is firm. “Please. I should go.” I do not add that by holding my hand so sweetly, he makes me betray myself and Maren.
He smiles his crooked smile, his eyes full of O’Neill mischief, and lets go. “As you wish,” he says.
I do not say good-bye before scurrying out of the tent, tripping over the sari’s hem as I exit.
Such a jumble of feelings crowds my heart again: uncertainty and impatience, love and disgust.
Surely it would be easier to be a stork than a seventeen-year-old girl.
Inside the speeding wagon, O’Neill and I sit on woven mats. Soraya reclines on an upholstered couch, snoring most daintily. Apparently she is unbothered by Dr. Phipps’s wild driving, how he relentlessly urges the four horses onward with the crack of his whip and the lash of his tongue.
Following in our dusty wake, Jasper drives the smaller wagon, the one loaded with the doctor’s collection of wonders and rarities. According to Dr. Phipps, the mermaid is lucky to be traveling amongst such priceless treasures. I should remind him that she is not an object to be collected, but a beloved sister and friend. Yet I keep silent—out of wisdom or cowardice, or perhaps a bit of both.
Soraya, O’Neill, and I ride in the company of less exalted items. Labeled cases of medicines are neatly stacked along the walls beside trunks of various sizes. Costumes and musical instruments hang from pegs. One shelf holds a row of men’s shoes and boots, and another displays a collection of ladies’ slippers (some leather, some satin, some spangled with crystals). Boxes and bottles of food crowd a few other shelves. Above my head, a huge burlap bag swings from a hook and rains down grains of rice, one at a time, from a tiny tear in its side.
As rapidly as we cross the countryside, time seems to drag inside the wagon. In my mind, I relive Maren’s transformation, from her simple love of water to the first hint of scales upon her side; from discovering her fused-together legs to beholding her brilliant tail fin; from her fading whispers to the sea-on-sand sound of her most recent laughter; from the Wishing Pool to the washtub, and to whatever vessel she now inhabits.
I miss her. I miss her as I’d miss my sight if I were suddenly blind. I miss her as a tree must miss its wealth of leaves come midwinter. I miss her continually, painfully.
Through the open window, I see the shadow of a large bird hover and swoop. I know that bird—and it is no bird. It is Osbert! He is safe, and he is with us.
“Worrying again, worry-bird?” O’Neill asks, whispering so as not to disturb Soraya’s slumber.
“I’ve just seen Osbert,” I say. “He is following us.”
“You see? No real harm can befall us while the wyvern watches. All is well. Other than my leg, that is.”
I wonder if Soraya has dosed him with something. How could he believe all is well when Maren is hidden from us and possibly shrinking away?
“We cannot afford to be waylaid,” I say. “We do not have time to help put on shows, no matter how beholden we may be to the Phipps family. We must not continue with them unless they agree to take us to the ocean. Maren’s life is in the balance.”
“I will ask the doctor,” O’Neill says. “He does not frighten me with his shouting and lording.”
“Thank you.” A pillow tumbles off Soraya’s couch and rolls within my reach. I take it and stuff it behind my back. Its softness, combined with Osbert’s presence and O’Neill’s promise, gives me a measure of comfort.
“I will ask Dr. Phipps’s leave for you to see Maren, as well,” he says. “I know how much you miss her. All the sparkle has left your eyes.”
“Maren is the one who sparkles,” I say. I change the subject. “How does it feel to wear such fine clothes?”
O’Neill is dressed in a blue silk shirt and a black vest and trousers pinstriped with yellow. Jasper’s garments, obviously.
“As usual, my trousers are two inches too short,” he says. “And this shirt smells of Jasper and sandalwood.”
“What is it you children whisper of?” Soraya says. Her many bracelets jangle as she yawns and stretches her arms wide.
“We have been friends since we were infants,” O’Neill says. “We talk of everything, and sometimes nothing at all.”
“Dr. Phipps does not approve of idle talk,” Soraya says. “He says that it weakens the soul.”
“Then I beg to differ with the doctor,” O’Neill says. “I find good conversation very energizing.”
“You would do well not to speak to the doctor of your opinions, young man. He does not take kindly to those who oppose him. In Dr. Phipps’s show, he is king. He is never wrong.”
“Have you never disagreed with your husband?” O’Neill asks.
Soraya’s eyes widen in horror. “Never!”
“I see,” O’Neill says. He opens his mouth to continue, but I interrupt. I will not sit and watch him endanger himself by picking petty fights with Soraya. If the doctor is king, then she is queen, and O’Neill is dancing on dangerous ground.
“You should rest,” I say to him, rather loudly. “You are still recovering from your injuries, after all.”
“I am tired all of a sudden,” he says. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I believe he understands my unspoken plea for him to tread more carefully.
“Sleep,” Soraya says. “For how will you repay your debts to us if you do not regain your strength? How much is it worth, the saving of a life? A dozen performances? A whole season’s shows? We shall let Dr. Phipps decide, yes?”
I shudder, knowing such a debt can never be repaid. We are butterflies in a net, O’Neill, Maren, and I—and we must find a way to escape while Maren still lives.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The wagon rolls to a stop. Soraya’s breaths are deep and even as she indulges in her third nap of the day. Through the window, I see small-town buildings, their windowpanes reflecting the red and purple of the setting sun.
Jasper opens the door and summons O’Neill and me with a gesture. I help O’Neill to his feet and let him lean on me as we make our way through the wagon. With his limping, it is difficult to be quiet—yet we do not wake Soraya.
At the door, Jasper takes over supporting O’Neill, helping him to the ground. “Papa doctor has gone to procure a performance space,” Jasper says. “He’ll have a drink or two before he comes back. Mama is obviously unconscious. So, now is your golden opportunity to see the mermaid.”
“Truly?” I say. “You will take us now?” I could sing for joy at the thought of seeing Maren again.
“This way, lady and gentleman,” Jasper says. He leads us to the other wagon. After removing a padlock and chain, he opens the door. “Go ahead, Clara. I will help our gimpy friend.”
The wagon is full of wooden boxes and strange shapes draped with lengths of gray cloth. Although the windows are open, the space is dark and dim. The air smells of dust, dried flowers, and old books. We barely have enough room to move among the objects.
Jasper brushes past me and stands beside what appears to be a pillar covered with midnight-blue velvet. He takes hold of one corner of the fabric and pulls it slowly, languidly, as though to build excitement in his little audience. Finally, the velvet slides down to form a dark pool around the base of the largest glass apothecary jar I have ever seen—five feet tall, pale green, and crowned with a fancifully wrought silver lid. “Behold the mermaid!” Jasper says theatrically.
As if on cue, Maren opens her eyes. When she sees me, she presses her doll-sized hand to the glass and smiles. Her color is less ashen—pearlier than when last I saw her. Her skin has regained some of its shimmer. Her copper-gold hair floats about her head like a nimbus.
I kneel beside the jar and place my hand against hers; the layer of glass between us warms slowly. “I have missed you, sister,” I say. Although I do not think she can hear me, she smiles wider and blows a kiss with her free hand.
O’Neill lowers himself to the floor beside me. Maren’s face lights up, and she flicks her tail prettily. I glance at his odd expression: part fascination, part shock. It is then that I notice she has lost her wrappings and is bare-breasted.
“Good heavens!” I say. “Avert your eyes, O’Neill!”
I do not think he hears me, for he continues staring at her fluttering lashes, flashing scales, and unclothed torso.
Jasper clutches his belly and doubles over with laughter.
“This is not at all amusing,” I say, standing in an attempt to block the men’s view of my sister.
“You haven’t seen much of the world, have you, my dear?” Jasper says.
“What does that matter?” I scramble to throw the velvet cover over the jar. “Morals and manners are not things to be left at home!”
Jasper laughs again, howling like a mad dog. “The mermaid’s sister is a holy sister!” he blurts once he catches his breath. “And what are you, O’Neill? A priest perhaps?”
The velvet falls over the glass with a whisper.
O’Neill says, “I am sorry, Clara.” His face is cherry red.
Jasper smacks his thigh. “What fun we shall have! A straight-laced maiden, an innocent boy in love with a mermaid, and me—bawdy heir apparent to the kingdom of Phipps!”
“This is not amusing,” I say again. “Please excuse me. I must find something for my sister to wear.” I glare at Jasper until he takes a step back. When he motions for me to pass, I spy the scarlet tattoo on his wrist. The same charm against mermaid enchantment O’Neill wears.
Jasper’s mother’s words echo in my mind: “I have dealt with her kind before, and I know what they must have, what elements will keep them alive outside the sea.” Now I am certain that Maren is not the first mermaid to be part of Phipps’s vile show. A shiver runs up my spine.
O’Neill follows me outside, limping and grimacing. I turn to chide him as we walk back to the other wagon. “I cannot believe how you stared at her! Scarff would be ashamed of you.”
He keeps his eyes trained on the ground. “I am truly sorry,” he says. “I behaved like a scoundrel. Will you forgive me?”
“I will try,” I say. But he has not just treaded upon my morals; he has also bruised my heart. And bruises do not disappear instantly.
From the other wagon’s doorway, Soraya watches us approach, hands on hips. “Where have you naughty children been?” she demands.
Jasper puts an arm around my shoulders, startling me. I had not heard him approach. “They were with me, Mama. No need to worry.”
I disagree. We have many reasons to worry, and Jasper and his mother are just two of them.
If I could, I would wish O’Neill’s leg healed so that we could take Maren and flee this very hour.
Among the boxes and crates of medicines and soaps, I find a pile of cheaply made scarves. I choose one made of snow-white cambric and bordered with celery-colored lace. I detest stealing even such a little thing, but Maren must be clothed without delay.
The men are busy pitching the tents. Soraya has gone to buy thread. The door to the wagon where Maren is kept stands wide open.
I slip inside unnoticed. A single sunbeam touches the blue velvet covering the glass jar. Is she still alive, I wonder? What if she could wait no longer to go home? My blood runs cold. I force myself to pull the velvet away.
There she is, my sister. She faces away from me, combing her fingers through her bright locks, oblivious to my presence but alive.
I try to lift the ornate lid straight up, but it does not budge. I crack my fingernails and bruise my palms working to unscrew it. And as I am about to give up, the lid turns with a squeak. Three rotations later, I remove it and set it on the floor.
“Maren, come here,” I say, peering down into the oily-looking liquid. It smells of cloves and sulfur and honeysuckle, plus a few things I cannot name.
My sister ignores my request. She swims in lazy circles, her silvery green tail undulating and her glossy hair fluttering like a flag in a steady wind. Her bare torso reminds me of a painting of a Greek goddess from one of Auntie’s art books. The goddess had the same alabaster skin and round breasts—and seemed just as unbothered by her nakedness as Maren is. But although the goddess was beautiful, she could not compare to Maren. Somehow, despite the incongruity of her womanly mermaid shape and her child-sized body, she is beautiful beyond words.
“Please come here, sister,” I say, raising my voice. “Hurry.”
She swims to the top of the jar and pokes her head out of the water. When she sees the scarf, she must guess my intent. She pouts and shakes her head.
“Please do this for me,” I say. “Even though you are not embarrassed, I am embarrassed for you. Imagine what Auntie would say! After everything she taught us about modesty and virtue.”
Maren raises her arms in surrender. I wrap the scarf about her chest and tie it in a double knot at the center of her back. “There,” I say. “It is rather fetching, with the lace at the top like that.”
She sticks out her tongue like a spoiled child and dives to the bottom of the jar. Her crossed arms and turned back are familiar to me. I have seen both a hundred times during our lifetime of sibling squabbles.
Her sulkiness does not bother me. In fact, it makes me glad. My sister may have a fish’s tail, but her independent spirit is the same as it has
always been.
“Good-bye, dearest,” I say. “I will be back as soon as I can. Osbert is nearby, and so is O’Neill, and we will find a way to take you home soon.”
She turns to face me. Bubbles float up from her lips as she mouths, “O’Neill,” and presses both hands over her heart. Then she motions again, and I know what she intends to say: Tell him that I love him.
“Good-bye,” I say again. I crown the jar with its lid and drape the velvet over it.
I will deliver her message to O’Neill. But I wish I did not have to.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The camp stands like a foreign guest in a dandelion-studded field. The fabric of the two green tents moves in and out with the breeze as if they are breathing. The large wagon is parked in front of them and has been transformed, by the attachment of a raised wooden platform, into a stage complete with red velvet curtains and copper, shell-shaped footlights. Queued in front of the stage, plank benches await the audience.
A big red-and-yellow-striped tent is situated to the right of the stage, a golden pennant snapping on its pole at the peak. The cloth sign above the door proclaims it the “Gallery of Wonders.” I have not seen this tent before; Phipps and company must not have pitched it when they visited Llanfair Village.
“Grand, is it not?” Jasper says from behind me, startling me. “It is time for supper, Clara. The townspeople will begin to arrive soon.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders and steers me along. “Mama has prepared my favorite dish, in honor of your joining the show.”
I try to shrug off his arm, but he fights my efforts. “We do appreciate your kindness, but it is not possible for us to join your show. O’Neill and I must take Maren to the ocean. She will not survive much longer otherwise.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I ought to have kept silent rather than revealing our plans to leave. I should have waited for O’Neill to speak to Dr. Phipps in his charming, persuasive O’Neill way—although I suspect Phipps will deny his pleas. Why would he give up a prize such as Maren?
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