We both laugh. It is a good moment, one I plan to treasure, whatever our ending may be.
Suddenly, the wagon lurches, and the terrible cry of an injured horse rends the air. The wagon jerks to a halt, sending boxes and baskets flying and tipping Maren’s jar to its side.
O’Neill and I struggle to our feet and hurry to right the jar. The pearls slosh to the bottom. Maren signs that she is not hurt.
Jasper wakes up swearing and pushes a box off his legs. “Now what? You wait here, and I’ll find out why we’ve stopped.”
“It’s Hippocrates, the bay horse. His leg is broken,” O’Neill says after Jasper leaves. “There is no mistaking the meaning of that cry.”
Furious shouts almost overpower the horse’s wails of pain. Dr. Phipps calls down curses upon all horses, upon all fortune-tellers, upon all ill-repaired roads, upon the entire earth and all of humanity.
The volume and vehemence of the doctor’s curses unsettle me. I look to O’Neill for reassurance, and he takes my hand.
The shouting stops. I hear a gunshot, and the horse’s cries cease. But the silence lasts only seconds before Soraya begins to wail.
“Stay here,” O’Neill says. He steps over fallen boxes and baskets until he reaches the little sliding window that opens to the driver’s seat. He peers out.
“What has happened?” I ask.
“Hippocrates is dead. Jasper and Soraya are kneeling on the ground beside Phipps,” O’Neill says.
“Dr. Phipps is dead, too? Then the prophecy of the monster did not come true.”
“He may still live. I cannot tell from here. I’m going out. Will you come?” O’Neill hurries toward the door, picking a path through more debris.
I glance at Maren, who is sleeping peacefully now that the wagon’s wild motions have ceased. I follow O’Neill.
“Poor Hippocrates,” O’Neill says as we come upon the bloody scene. “He was a gentle soul.”
“There you are, O’Neill,” Jasper says, scrambling to his feet. “Give us a hand getting Papa into the wagon. He’s had some sort of fit. He’s unconscious.”
“Please, boys,” Soraya says, “be careful with him. He is not well, not at all well.” She sobs into her veil. How she can love such a wicked brute, I will never understand. Perhaps he slipped an exceptionally powerful love potion into her tea many years ago.
I go ahead of them and arrange the cushions on Soraya’s couch, making room for the doctor’s limp body.
Once Jasper and O’Neill install him there, Soraya covers him with a blanket and lifts his hand to her moist cheek. “Please wake up, my love,” she says.
“Rest is what he needs, Mama,” Jasper says. “He has overtaxed himself.”
“Yes, my son,” Soraya says, “that is true. He needs rest.” She loosens her husband’s cravat and unbuttons his vest and shirt. She fusses with his hair and adjusts the blanket.
“We must move the wagons off the road,” Jasper says. “We’ll have to make camp until we find another horse.”
“Yes, son,” Soraya says. “You take care of these things. I will take care of your poor father. Oh, my darling George! My love!” She covers his face with kisses.
Whatever love potion she imbibed was very strong indeed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The sun wears a fiery orange halo as I watch it sinking beyond the rolling acres of cornfields. Crickets sing and a few fireflies rise up from the grass, flashing their secret signals to one another. Tonight’s dinner bubbles in the pot: a rabbit stew flavored with wild herbs and a few spices from Soraya’s well-stocked cabinet.
Jasper and O’Neill approach the fireside almost soundlessly. They set Maren’s jar beside me, presenting her as though she is a gift. Which, of course, she is. My sister swims in circles and waves her tiny hand at me. She presses her palms to the glass and stares at the campfire’s bright flames. My sister has always loved a campfire—perhaps because it is not something someone born of water ought to do.
With Dr. Phipps laid up in the wagon and Soraya scrutinizing his every twitch, O’Neill, Jasper, Maren, and I have gained a measure of freedom.
“This is Scarff’s kind of night,” O’Neill says as he sits cross-legged between Maren and me. “A nice half-moon rising, peeper frogs peeping, the air perfumed with stew and wood smoke, and a pretty lass or two to admire.”
“Pretty lasses!” I say. “I thought Scarff was devoted to Auntie, his wife!”
“Well, he only looked,” O’Neill says wryly. “Truly, Clara, he liked the lasses around for their cooking. The fellow burned everything he ever put in a pan, even water! But in all our days together, Scarff never spoke of anyone as fondly as he did of Auntie Verity. And her two girls.”
Jasper sits opposite me and begins cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife. “Is he flirting with you again, Clara? Does he never stop?”
“Don’t be silly, Jasper. He’s practically my brother.” I wish I could crawl under a very large rock.
“Practically does not a brother make,” Jasper says. “But if that is what you believe, Clara . . .”
Maren frowns, her eyes glinting at Jasper. O’Neill is hers, she would tell Jasper if she could speak. She flicks her tail menacingly, and waves form atop the water. I think it would be unwise to tangle with an angry mermaid, even one as small as she.
Jasper shrugs. “So be it, then. What I would like to know is this: Is my dinner ready yet, woman?” He uncaps a silver flask and drinks.
I throw a handful of grass at Jasper. “Get it yourself,” I say, smiling as if in jest—although I mean what I say. “I may be your father’s slave, but I am not yours.”
“Ouch,” Jasper says. “I am undone by your bitter words, my lady.”
“Good. You needed some undoing,” I say, playing along. Things are changing since the doctor’s fit, and making Jasper believe I am his friend may soon prove advantageous. “And while you’re getting your stew, would you mind getting mine?”
“Ah, Jasper! Never vex one of Verity’s girls,” O’Neill says. “You’ll pay the price, and then be forced to pay it again!”
“Both of you should fill your mouths with food instead of words for a change,” I say, and I get up to do the serving.
After I am seated again, I turn my attention to my sister for a moment. Now reclining upon the pearls in the bottom of her jar, Maren has regained her peaceful demeanor. She combs her fingers through her coppery hair and then begins braiding a section of it.
“How is your father?” I ask Jasper between bites.
“The same,” Jasper says, sounding unconcerned. “But rest assured. Once I purchase a new horse, we will be on our way again. As they say, ‘The show must go on.’ ” He holds out his bowl, demanding more without asking. “I thought we could try a few new acts while Papa doctor is under the weather. O’Neill tells me he can eat fire, and I am positively dying to see you onstage in one of Mama’s flimsy dancing costumes, Clara.”
I fill his bowl, wishing I could dump its contents over his unmannerly head.
“Clara was brought up to be modest, Jasper,” O’Neill says. “Is that not something to be valued in a young lady?”
“A young nun, perhaps. Clara has no idea how to enjoy life. I am only offering to help her open up to the possibilities of experience and sensation. You could use some unbuttoning yourself, O’Neill.” Jasper stands and reaches inside his jacket. He takes out his pennywhistle. “Let me help you. I will play you a tune, and you will dance. You will have fun tonight, even if I must make you.”
I glance at Maren. She sleeps, completely undisturbed by Jasper’s advances. For once, I am jealous of her.
Jasper plays a merry jig. O’Neill stands, takes my hand, and pulls me to my feet. “Keep playing along, Clara,” he whispers. “For Maren’s sake.” He twirls me about.
And so I imagine we are dancing next to one of Auntie’s bonfires, surrounded by frolicking Llanfair Mountain children. I picture Scarff playing the songs, and Maren dancing with one of t
he Fischer boys. I focus on O’Neill’s familiar face and pretend that we have not a care in the world. For a few minutes, I dare to let joy bubble up inside me.
After several songs, Jasper asks O’Neill, “Do you play?”
“I do,” he says, bent over with hands on thighs, trying to catch his breath. His limp has all but disappeared but he is still not as strong as he was before the caravan fire.
Jasper hands him the pennywhistle. “Something slow and sweet,” he says. He bows to me, saying, “May I have this dance?”
“I am tired,” I say. “I would like to rest.”
“Nonsense. I just used my best manners, and therefore you must dance with me. Just one song, I promise.” Jasper takes my hand and places his arm about my waist. “Don’t be scared. I am not an ogre.”
O’Neill plays a beautiful tune, and Jasper waltzes me around the fire. When we reach the far side of it, he whispers, “Why do you despise me so, Clara?” His speech is slurred, his breath whiskey-scented.
I turn my head and lean back. I can think of no safe way to answer his question.
He smiles like a hungry fairy-tale wolf. “You are not at all my type. You’re far too sweet and plain. Nothing like my Zara. Yet I am fascinated by you. I dream of you, you know. I dream of us together, traveling the world, performing for royalty. I dream of covering you with jewels and fine dresses, spoiling you with delights.”
“Please do not say such things,” I say. I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.
“Clara,” he whispers, his hot breath on my earlobe, “you have bewitched me.”
The song ends abruptly. “It is late,” O’Neill says, “and we should sleep.”
Jasper releases me. His eyes are glassy with the exact look that boys have after seeing the mermaid. It sends a shiver up my spine.
“We shall camp beneath the stars,” Jasper proclaims. “Fetch the blankets, Clara.”
Inside my pocket, the dagger bumps against my leg as I walk to the wagon. If Jasper does not mind his manners, he may become acquainted with the fearsome weapon.
Hours later, Jasper and O’Neill sleep cocooned in blankets on the opposite side of the fire. I lie beside Maren’s jar and watch the moon inch its way across the spangled cloth of the heavens. I despair of ever falling asleep.
Suddenly, I realize: none of us have drunk our compulsory cup of Beloved Bondage tea tonight.
And I do not crave it at all—nor do I feel the least bit sickly.
Someone has been lying to us.
Dawn’s pink light dyes the clouds above our camp. I stand beside O’Neill’s blanket-wrapped, prostrate body and nudge him awake with my foot.
“Five more minutes,” he says, moaning.
I kneel beside him. “Hush,” I whisper. “Don’t wake Jasper. You must come with me to gather firewood. Now, O’Neill.”
Without further complaint, he untangles himself from his blankets and follows me into a copse of old trees.
Once the camp is out of sight, I stop and lean against a thick oak. “How do you feel?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his thatch of hair. “You want to know how I feel? About what, precisely?”
“Good heavens, O’Neill,” I say a bit too loudly. “I mean physically. Do you feel sick, or dizzy, or weak?”
“Oh.” He yawns. “Despite being rudely awakened, I feel fine. Actually, I feel quite well. And you?”
“Fine. But I am not trying to make polite conversation. I am asking because we did not drink Dr. Phipps’s tea last night. We should be ill by now, stricken with desperate craving, as he said would happen if we missed a dose. But here we stand, unaffected.”
“He lied,” O’Neill says. “The dirty old fiend.”
“I think Jasper lied, too. I think he made up that story about the name tattoos and his wife.”
“Perhaps,” he says. “But it would not be prudent to ask him. Jasper does his best to portray the doctor as wicked and dangerous, but he is ten times worse. He is obsessed with making the Phipps show world renowned, and he believes the mermaid is the key. Every day he warns me, without saying so directly, that he will kill me if I try to take Maren. He thinks you are putting me up to it. That I am under your spell or something.”
“He says those things?”
“When we are alone in our tent, he tells stories. Allegories of a gullible young man in love with an enchantress who persuades him to steal the king’s most treasured possession. The king inevitably catches them and sentences them to violent deaths. Evisceration, twin guillotines, drawing and quartering. Dreadful stuff.”
“He is mad,” I say.
“I am afraid so.” O’Neill’s dear face looks so very grim.
“All the more reason to plan our escape. You must think, O’Neill. Think hard, and I will as well. There must be some way.”
“I’ve thought of little else since the fire,” he says. “Meanwhile, we must prepare. We need to find a smaller vessel for transporting Maren. Something that can be moved without the brute strength of two grown men.”
Behind us, twigs crack and snap beneath someone’s feet.
“Kiss me,” O’Neill says.
“What?”
Before I can object, he pulls me into his arms and presses his mouth to mine. I feel like I am melting, like I am a blazing candle melting into a pool of liquid wax. Time and the universe seem to disappear. There is nothing in the world but O’Neill.
“Ha!” Jasper’s voice interrupts my elation. “I knew it! I knew you two were hiding something. ‘He’s like my brother!’ says Clara. Ha!” He grins, but his tone is bitter. “I should have guessed there was a reason you resisted me last night, you little minx. I should have known your virginal rebukes were nothing but an act.”
I step out of O’Neill’s embrace, my knees trembling and my heart racing.
“Well, you’ve caught us,” O’Neill says boldly. He takes my hand and holds it to his chest. “Clara, darling, it was a delicious secret. But no more.”
His acting is superb. His eyes sparkle as he hides a kiss in my palm.
“Enough!” Jasper says. “Go back to keeping it secret, would you? Anyway, I did not come here looking to find a lovers’ tryst. I came to find you, O’Neill, so that we could venture into town and buy a horse. Because, as you so often boast, you know horses like you know your own left foot. Whatever that may mean.”
“Right,” O’Neill says, releasing my hand. “I will help you gather wood later, Clara.”
Jasper slaps O’Neill on the back, a little too hard for a friendly gesture. “Is that your code now? Perhaps Clara would like to ‘gather wood’ with me later.” He pushes O’Neill along the path. What was O’Neill thinking, provoking a madman to jealousy?
Well, it cannot be undone.
And would I wish for it to be undone?
As I pick up twigs, as I step over fallen branches, as I bundle kindling and tie it with lengths of young wild grape vine, I think of the kiss. My first kiss. How I would give a year of my life to have it back, just so I could have it once more from him.
But O’Neill loves Maren, doesn’t he?
Or has that changed somehow? Could I dare to hope for such a thing? Would it be wrong to hope for it?
I am so confused. My stomach churns. Maybe I did need that dose of tea, after all. Maybe O’Neill did, too. Maybe we are both insane from the lack of it.
My foot catches in a tree root and I fall facedown into a patch of moss. O’Neill pulls me to my feet and wipes away the bits of green fluff clinging to my cheek and hair. I cannot decide what the look in his eyes means, why he has come back.
“Sorry,” he whispers as he hands me the kindling.
“For what?”
“You know. The kiss.”
“Oh,” I say. I look at the ground as Princess Hatsumi would and I try to gather enough pride to keep from bursting into tears.
“I didn’t know what else to do when I heard him coming. I panicked.”
“It is f
ine,” I say as my heart shatters. “You did what had to be done.”
“Come on, O’Neill,” Jasper shouts. “Where are you now? Not kissing again, I hope! Let’s get on the road, shall we?”
I follow O’Neill out of the woods. My eyes are dry, but inside I am weeping.
Yet would I wish he had never kissed me? Honestly, I cannot say.
As I stir the porridge, I hate O’Neill.
As I spoon the porridge into Dr. Phipps’s favorite blue-and-white china bowl, I love O’Neill more than life itself.
As I fetch water from the creek for Soraya (so that she might bathe her husband’s pale face), I detest O’Neill.
As I sit beside Maren and mend a skirt Soraya gave me (stabbing the needle through the fabric and yanking the thread into an ugly row of puckered stitches), I hate him with a passion. He had no right to give that kiss to me—it ought to have been Maren’s.
I hate him for stealing my first kiss from me. It was precious, and he robbed me of it.
Was it his first kiss? Or did some gypsy girl claim that from him long ago, under a full moon, beside a lake full of alligators and flying fish?
I touch my mouth, remembering the pressure of his lips, the warmth of his breath, how he tasted of summer rainstorms. I love him, and it is wrong. And hopeless.
Maren taps on the glass. She questions me with her eyes. As she has since we were infants, she senses when I am troubled. “It’s nothing,” I lie. “The sun is so bright today that it is giving me a headache.”
She shakes her head, clearly unconvinced by my falsehood.
“Did I show you this skirt?” I hold it high, hoping she might focus upon it instead of my face. My lower lip quivers. “Look at the embroidery along the edge. Can you see the little deer and trees? It must have taken a year to sew such an intricate pattern.” I am choking on tears.
Soraya beckons me, and I am relieved. “I will be back soon, sister,” I say. I set my sewing beside the mermaid’s jar and flee her searching gaze.
I hate O’Neill.
Almost as much as I hate myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
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