“Nonsense,” Jasper says. “Maren is fine. The solution Mama concocted for her can keep her healthy for years. I have seen it done.”
“It is not what Maren wants, to live in a jar. It is not what is best for her.”
“And fretting like a wet hen is not what’s best for you, Clara dear. It ruins a girl’s looks. Now, relax and breathe in that heavenly aroma,” Jasper says, inhaling deeply. “The finest of spices combined to perfection.”
We round a corner. Dr. Phipps beckons us to the campfire, where four mismatched wooden chairs and a stool with a tufted cushion have been arranged in a semicircle. O’Neill gives a little wave; I duck out from under Jasper’s arm and hurry to sit beside him.
Soraya dips her ladle into the depths of a cast-iron pot. She fills blue china bowls and Jasper hands them around, serving his father first. Steam rises from each dish in deliciously fragranced curlicues. A brass teakettle sits at the edge of the embers, hissing and spitting.
“Eat, children,” Soraya says as she takes her seat.
We eat with silver spoons, scooping up yellow rice, tender bits of meat (rabbit or maybe chicken, but not squirrel, surely!), sliced almonds, and plump golden raisins, seasoned with an array of mysterious spices and herbs.
With each bite, I miss Auntie more. She would be able to name every ingredient in the dish. During such a dinner, she would recount a story about the dish’s origin, perhaps something about a camel herder’s ugly daughter winning a nomadic prince’s affections by way of her wonderful cooking. Maren has always loved such romantic tales.
After we enjoy second helpings of rice, Soraya presses an earthenware mug into my hand and gives O’Neill its twin. “Drink,” she says. And so we do, moving in dance-like unison as we lift the mugs to our lips and sip the hot liquid. I taste honey, cinnamon, and black tea, and behind those pleasant flavors, a tang that hints of forbidden pleasures. My whole body warms and tingles as I drain the cup.
Jasper rises with a strange, derisive snort and stalks away.
Across from O’Neill and me, Soraya sits at her husband’s feet and rests her head against his impeccably dressed knee. Dr. Phipps smiles, but not at her. He is smiling at O’Neill and me, and his smile is a wicked, wicked thing.
O’Neill wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “What was in that?” he asks. He is trembling, his shoulder shuddering against mine.
“Ah, dear boy. The devil does not share his receipts and neither do I,” Dr. Phipps says. “I call it Beloved Bondage, for you shall crave it daily for the rest of your lives, needing it more than the air you breathe, and you shall be enslaved to the one who holds its secrets. That would be me.”
The world seems to tip on its axis at this revelation, and I grab for O’Neill’s arm as if he might prevent me from falling off.
O’Neill lunges toward the doctor with raised fists. “You son of a—”
“If you choose to hit me, I promise that you will be dead within the week,” Dr. Phipps says calmly.
I look to Soraya for sympathy or outrage, hoping that she will object or demand that her husband grant us an antidote. Or that she will laugh and spoil his dark joke. Instead, she runs her red tongue over her lips and nestles closer to him.
Dr. Phipps takes a pocket watch from his vest and checks the hour. “It is time for you to change into your costume, Soraya my love.” He leans over and kisses her noisily. And then, like a minotaur lifting a nymph, Dr. Phipps hoists his wife and clutches her to his chest. Humming, he waddles toward the tents.
“Wash those dishes quickly, Clara,” Soraya calls over his shoulder. “You must not miss the show!”
O’Neill and I run to the bushes, coughing and gagging, trying to purge ourselves of the foul liquid, but it refuses to leave us.
Jasper emerges from the shadows like a ghost. “It’s no use,” he says. He curses and tosses a stone into the fire. “I have asked him not to use that stuff anymore, but he never listens. Why can we not be a regular traveling show with willing performers? Why must he poison each friend I make?” He kicks the dirt with his fine leather shoe and curses again.
“Help us,” O’Neill begs. “Get us the antidote and we can all escape together. You could get a job in the best circus in Europe if you wanted to. I have friends who could help you.”
Jasper sighs. “Alas, I am as bound to them as you are,” he says. “And there is no antidote. If you do not drink daily, you die.” Jasper lifts his trouser leg to his knee. His calf is tattooed with blue scrawls. “These are the names of those who have gone before you. Those who have dared to try to escape my father and his tea. Those whose bodies I have been forced to bury or burn or send down rivers.”
I cover my mouth. Even in moonlight, I can count twenty names.
“Here,” he says, pointing at the largest name. It is near his knee, its letters formed from flowering vines. “Zara was my wife. Papa found her performing in Canada and paid a handsome sum for her. Her own father sold her to him. She could charm the birds from the trees with her violin. She could make fireflies swarm like gnats around her body as she played and danced. Zara was the most beautiful and clever girl I’d ever met. We fell in love, but not before Papa poisoned her with his terrible tea. I didn’t know what it was then, and neither did she, for he had just invented it. She drank it happily each night after dinner, and we would whisper of our plans till dawn. One afternoon while Papa and Mama were bartering with a farrier, Zara and I snuck off and found a judge to marry us. We did not tell my parents, fearing Papa’s disapproval but also relishing the grand romance of a secret marriage. Eventually, we were discovered. She died soon after, and whether it was due to our son’s stillbirth or Papa’s wicked works, I do not know for certain.”
“You are as evil as he is. You did nothing to stop us from drinking the poison,” O’Neill says.
The venom in O’Neill’s voice chills me. I open my mouth to speak but find I cannot. I am too disturbed for words. I am thinking of my sister, our bondage, and how badly things have turned so quickly. That what seemed like rescue led to entrapment.
“Ah,” Jasper says, “what you do not know is that Papa gave me the tea on the same night he gave it to Zara. He has held my life hostage since. I do not dare oppose him. And even if I were to threaten his life, he would not tell me his secrets.”
“Did you try? When you found that he had poisoned your wife, did you even try to force him to tell you?” O’Neill asks. “Or were you too cowardly to stand up to him?”
“I did try,” Jasper says. “The night I lit the funeral pyre for Zara and our son. I held a knife to his throat. My hand shook so badly that I nicked him. He hides the scar beneath his cravat. He only laughed at my threats. He dared me to kill him. Said I’d join him in death within two days without his secret potion. So you see, there is nothing you can do but obey him, as I do.”
“You have no hope of escape,” I whisper. “We have no hope of escape.”
His mouth curves in an unconvincing smile. “Well, it is not such a bad life. We travel, we sow moments of rapture, and we reap applause and money. We are adored like gods by the bored housewives and frustrated farmers we entertain.” He recites these words as if reading lines from a play. “It is not such a bad life at all.”
O’Neill sneers. “Except you cannot leave it for another life of your choosing.”
Jasper shrugs. His face is like a mask, emotionless. Has he been enslaved so long that it seems normal to him, unremarkable? “I wish for nothing but the life I have with the show,” he says.
“Wishing gets you nothing,” I say.
“That is the truth,” Jasper says. “Why despair over things we cannot change? And I predict that we shall have some grand adventures together on the road.”
“But what of Maren?” O’Neill asks. “She will perish if she is not taken to the ocean soon.”
“She may well outlive us all,” Jasper says. “And she looks quite happy in that jar of hers. I half envy her simple, easy life.” He wanders
back to the fire and pokes it with a long stick. Sparks fly heavenward and he watches them rise and then flicker out. “Well, what is done is done, and what shall be is yet to be, and I must change into my costume. Clean up here and then go backstage. You can watch the show from there.” He saunters off.
I cannot decide whether I pity Jasper or hate him.
Could he have saved O’Neill and me from bondage, or would it have cost him his life? And what would I have done in his place? His story is not my own. I do not know its complexities and what lurks in its corners, and so I cannot say. Perhaps if he had spoken out against his father tonight, Soraya would be laying the three of us out upon a funeral pyre now, right here beneath the rising crescent moon.
O’Neill limps back to a chair by the fire. He sits, head in hands, his suffering obvious. But how can I help him? I have neither balms nor elixirs to heal his body; nor do I have any words of cheer to displace his despair.
Soraya has left me a kettle of hot water, a rag, and a basin for washing the dishes. I scrub them hard, taking out my frustrations upon every bowl and spoon. Not sure what to do with them next, I pile the clean dishes on the chairs near the fire.
When I go to empty the basin in the bushes, a beady eye glints up at me.
The eye is set in a plumed black head that rests, disembodied, atop a pile of dark feathers. The sheen of these plucked feathers is familiar to me.
That poor bird was not just any bird.
I am sick to my very soul. We have eaten our dear friend Pilsner for supper.
I do not want to watch the show.
I want to take Maren’s jar and steal a horse and ride to the Atlantic as fast as I can. I want O’Neill to go with me. I want Maren to be safe and well in her ocean home, and I want to go home to Llanfair Mountain and Auntie.
Wanting is as bad as wishing, I suppose, if the one who wants does nothing. Or can do nothing.
I find O’Neill backstage. He is staring into the distance. His face is pale, his forehead creased with concern.
“They served us Pilsner for supper,” I blurt. I could not keep myself from telling him. I shiver as I remember finding the raven’s pretty head. I sit on an overturned wooden box and try not to give way to tears. Could I ever stop weeping if I allowed myself to begin now? Could the ocean contain such a flood?
Beside me, O’Neill is perched on a wooden stool, his right leg propped on a box. When I sniffle, he hands me a handkerchief. He rests his cool hand on the back of my neck. “Pilsner was a good friend. I am sorry for your loss. For our loss,” he says.
“It is no use being sorry,” I say. “Will we do nothing about it? Will you accept his death as easily as you have accepted our Maren being put on display and ogled?” The words spill out, laced with poison like Phipps’s tea. “Have you forgotten your promise to protect my sister and me? After all your time with magical gypsies, have you no idea how to escape the curse of the doctor’s tea? Perhaps if you kill the owner of the curse, the curse will be broken.” My whole body pulses with the pounding of my heart. Did I truly just ask O’Neill to commit murder?
He removes his hand from my neck. “How can you hold me accountable for the Phippses’ treachery? It is unfair, Clara. And do you think that I have not considered every possible solution to our problems? Not for one minute have I forgotten my promises to you. But Scarff spent years teaching me to overcome my natural impulse to act rashly, and I will not risk our lives by rushing to revenge.”
“Forgive me. I feel as if I am coming apart at the seams. Perhaps it is the tea’s fault. Or perhaps I am changing into my true self as Maren did, only my true self is neither girl nor stork, but an ugly, mean thing. A troll or a harpy.”
“You do not believe that,” he says gently. “You are hurt and afraid and losing hope. Be hurt and afraid if you must, and grieve for poor Pilsner, but do not lose hope. Wouldn’t Auntie give you this same advice, my dear?”
I stare at the floor. “Yes,” I say, ashamed. I use O’Neill’s handkerchief to dab the tears that have somehow seeped from my eyes. “But you know what they are up to, do you not? Maren is to be the main attraction in the Gallery of Wonders. They will drag her about the country and show her off until their pockets are overflowing and she dies from being kept in a jar. She is not the first mermaid they have used in such a way. Jasper wears the same tattoo as you. And you and I will be their slaves until they tire of us—and in the end Jasper will add our names to his list.”
On the other side of the red velvet curtain, the audience talks and laughs, growing louder as more voices join in. They are excited, glad for the free entertainment. Would they be so happy if they knew the utter depravity of the Phipps family?
“Look!” O’Neill says, his face turned skyward.
Osbert swoops low, his blue-scaled body almost invisible against the late afternoon sky.
“Our faithful wyvern guardian angel,” O’Neill says. “Reason enough to hope a little, don’t you think?”
Dr. Phipps climbs the steps on the opposite end of the platform and joins us backstage. “Quiet now,” he says. “The show is about to begin.” He walks to the place where the curtains meet and signals for them to be opened. To the side, I see Jasper pull the ropes, causing the curtains to slide apart with a whoosh.
Dr. Phipps steps forward and the crowd is instantly silent. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaims, “I, Dr. George Wilhelm Hieronymus Lewis Balthazar Phipps, welcome one and all to this, our astounding and spectacular entertainment! Prepare to be amazed!”
The crowd applauds. Dr. Phipps removes his hat and bows low for a count of three. Once upright again, he extends his arms and says, “I present to you the toast of the crowned heads of Europe and Asia, the beautiful chanteuse Madame Soraya of Gojanastani.”
Soraya sweeps onto the stage in a sparkling gown of sunset-colored silk and a veil as sheer as candlelight. Phipps takes her hand; she curtsies low. And then he leaves her.
I did not expect the stage to be so beautiful from this vantage point. Strings of brass lanterns hang above the platform, and with the footlights they cast a golden glow upon the doctor’s wife.
She begins to sing. The song is strange, its notes sliding and curving, its lyrics poignant to me even though I do not know one word of the language. Her soprano voice climbs the scale and holds a note more piercing than any I have ever heard.
“Glass would break,” O’Neill says, “if she sang one note higher.”
A moment later, she ends the song with a flourish of her bracelet-covered arm. Applause erupts from the audience. Soraya curtsies several times before stepping behind the curtain’s edge. She comes close to us, saying, “That is how you enchant these small-town peasants. Tomorrow night, Neelo, you will perform and know the love of the crowd, the delicious devotion of strangers.” Her smile, I imagine, would not look out of place on a crocodile with a belly full of fresh antelope. Her jewelry jingles as she descends from the platform and heads toward her tent.
Jasper takes the stage, carrying his violin and a wooden stool. He makes a show of flinging the tails of his expertly tailored green coat out of the way before he sits. A hush falls over the audience as he tucks the violin beneath his chin. He begins to play a slow melody, the essence of a lazy summer afternoon. He taps one foot to the beat, and the tapping grows faster as one song leads into the next. Soon, all but the feeblest spectators are on their feet, dancing and jumping and clapping.
He stands and bows; the people clamor for another song. He obliges them, choosing a tune as sweet and light as birdsong.
Dr. Phipps walks to Jasper’s side, raising both arms in a grand gesture. “The great Jasper Armand shall entertain you again momentarily,” he says. “First, I must deliver unto you a message of the greatest import. As a practitioner of the medical arts, I am bound by conscience to speak to you plainly, to reveal the deep secrets of healing I have gathered. Open your ears to the sound of my voice, ladies and gentlemen.”
Jasper carries his instrume
nt offstage as his father continues to speak. He winks at me as he breezes by.
Dr. Phipps’s speech is almost identical to the one he gave last spring on Llanfair Mountain.
I exchange a look with O’Neill. The doctor’s claim to want to heal and help all mankind does not sit well with those of us who have been drugged and deceived by him.
Half an hour later, Jasper plays a Pied Piper song on a pan flute as the townsfolk move in a mesmerized herd toward the sales tables.
“Amazing,” O’Neill says.
“Disgusting,” I reply. “Dr. Phipps is evil incarnate.”
“Yes. Evil and charismatic. A most dangerous combination.” O’Neill gets to his feet. “I have seen enough.”
The music stops as Dr. Phipps returns to the stage. “Attention! Attention! I regret that I failed to invite you, one and all, to visit the large tent situated behind the stage. It is no ordinary tent, but our Gallery of Wonders! A mere five cents will gain you access to our collection of the unusual, the bizarre, and the outrageous. Wonders such as you could not imagine! Seize this opportunity by the horns, folks, or you will live with the weight of regret forever. Form a line at the door, and the famous Jasper Armand shall soon usher you in to view the secrets and curiosities of the ages!”
A pang of sorrow pierces my heart. “Maren,” I whisper. “They will see her, stare at her.”
“Come,” O’Neill says, taking my hand. “There is nothing we can do now.”
“He’s right,” Dr. Phipps says, startling us by poking his bewhiskered face between us. “Go to your beds, children, and do not delay. I will not have you hatching any silly plans—which would only hasten your deaths, I might add. And neither do I permit any romantic nonsense among my company. Consider yourselves forewarned on both counts. Go on, to your beds!”
As I approach my tent, I hear a rustling in a nearby tree. I look up. Two glowing eyes peer down from among the leaves. Wyvern eyes.
I blow a kiss to Osbert. I wish that I could invite him inside for the night. I would gladly share my pillow with him—and let him drool upon it.
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