The contents of Soraya’s cauldron boil and bubble over into the fire with a loud hissing, all but obscuring the birds’ twilight songs. A heady aroma spews forth and swirls through the air: the stench of simmering bones, garlic, sassafras bark, peculiar pink-and-yellow powders, and one of Dr. Phipps’s woolen socks. I hold a handkerchief over my face in a futile attempt to avoid breathing the tainted air.
I remember countless hours spent stirring Auntie’s mixtures over an outdoor fire. Some of them are pungent, to be sure—but none reek as much as Soraya’s. Auntie cooks up potions to cure warts, elixirs to clear congested lungs, syrups to tame aching stomachs . . . as many as a hundred different medicines in a season. The day before I took to the road with Maren and O’Neill, I helped Auntie make a potent sleeping draught. I am surprised by how much I miss such a mundane task.
A sleeping draught, I think.
Such a simple thing might be our salvation.
It is a thought to mull over.
“Do you really believe that will help Papa?” Jasper says, pinching his nostrils. “It smells like a possum carcass rolled in fish guts.”
Soraya stirs the sputtering concoction with a long-handled wooden spoon. “Of course. It is an ancient remedy my mother taught me. If it smelled good, it would not be so powerful.”
Inside her jar, Maren is blessedly unbothered by the smell. I watch her for a moment, floating like a small angel in a cloudless sky. Not that I have ever heard of an angel with a fish’s tail.
Poor Maren. She is shrinking again, bit by bit, and she is increasingly listless. While Soraya has been caring for her husband, she has neglected to add the mysterious preservatives to our mermaid’s jar.
O’Neill, too, is watching Maren. The expression on his face cannot be named. There is no word for the emotion between pity and love, or for the one between longing and sorrow. Just as words cannot describe what I feel right now, something between envy and shame, and between compassion and disappointment.
“We move on tomorrow,” Jasper announces. “We have lingered here long enough. We sell nothing camped in the wilderness. And I am bored.” He accuses me, with a hard glance, of being the reason for his boredom. His jealousy of O’Neill’s impetuous kiss still festers, obviously.
“Very well,” Soraya says. “You are the man of the family until the doctor recovers his strength.” She scoops a spoonful of liquid from the pot and holds it beneath her nose. “Hmm. It needs more amber dust, and another hour of cooking.”
I stand, unable to bear the stench any longer and eager to be alone with my thoughts of sleeping draughts. It is a relief to have something to think of besides O’Neill’s brazen kiss. “I am going for a walk,” I declare, expecting Soraya to object.
“Night will fall soon,” she says calmly. “Do not wander far. I have heard wild things growling and creeping nearby these last few nights.”
O’Neill stands and brushes the dirt from the seat of his trousers. “I will go with you,” he says.
“No!” I say. “I need to be alone, to think.”
Jasper grunts. “I smell a lovers’ quarrel. Which, by the by, smells far better than Mama’s medicine. It is regrettable that you did not choose your lover more carefully, Clara. Of course, it is not too late to change your mind.”
“Oh, be quiet!” I shout. I flounce away toward the woods.
“Wait!” O’Neill calls, following me.
“Leave me alone,” I say. I walk faster, ducking under branches and stepping over fallen tree trunks, stumbling often in the growing darkness.
“Look, I said I was sorry,” he says, close to catching up with me.
“Sometimes sorry doesn’t mend things, O’Neill. You had no right!” I pull aside a branch so I can pass, and then let it go. It hits his chest with a loud crack.
“Clara,” he says breathlessly. “Please stop. We must talk. You must listen.”
From high in the trees comes a shriek. Seconds later, a wyvern descends, knocks O’Neill to the ground, and sits on him.
Osbert is my hero, again.
“Get off!” O’Neill shouts as Osbert licks his face. “Down, you big lout! Down, Osbert!”
If I were in a better mood, I would laugh at O’Neill’s ineffectual struggling.
Finally, Osbert hops off O’Neill’s body. He sits on his haunches and smiles, drool dripping from his pointy chin.
“Good boy, Osbert,” I say. I rub the spot between his triangular ears and he whacks his tail against the forest floor. “At least I can still trust Osbert to behave as he should.”
“It is good that he stays nearby,” O’Neill says, “although he can be quite a pest.” He pulls himself to his feet using a sapling for leverage. He brushes pine needles and slobber from his cheek. “We may well need a wyvern’s aid very soon.” He picks a beetle off my shoulder and I wince at his touch. “Clara, you must forgive me for Maren’s sake. Or at least pretend to forgive me long enough for us to plan our escape.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “For Maren’s sake.”
“Good.”
“I do have an idea,” I say. “If I can get into Soraya’s herb cupboard, I think I can concoct a sleeping draught for Jasper and Soraya. I helped Auntie make a few doses not so long ago. But if I mix it wrong—”
“I have every confidence in you. Do not consider failing, Clara. Not now.”
His compliment and the earnestness in his voice warm my whole body. I wish I could become immune to him. Quickly, I ask, “Will we take horses?”
“Yes. The two fastest. They have pledged their loyalty to me.”
A rumbling growl comes from the treetops. I remember Dr. Phipps’s dream monster and begin to panic, but Osbert continues happily smacking his tail up and down. If we were in danger, he would certainly alert us.
“We should go back,” O’Neill says. “Or Jasper will come looking for us.”
Yes, I think, and you might be forced to kiss me again, which would only further confound my heart and send Jasper into a jealous rage. I turn my attention to my wyvern. “I will see you again soon, Osbert,” I say. I kiss his cool reptilian jowl. It is the only kiss I will be doling out today. I hope. I think of Jasper and I shudder.
Briskly walking side by side, O’Neill and I follow the vile scent of Soraya’s medicine back to the camp.
We are within sight of the wagon when O’Neill grabs my hand and says, “We do need to talk. I know you are still angry with me, and I do not like it.”
“You ought to have thought of that before you made me angry,” I say, pulling my hand out of his grasp. “Sometimes you are as bad as Jasper, taking liberties with no regard for the consequences. With no regard for anyone’s feelings but your own.”
I run ahead of him into the circle of firelight. Jasper eyes me hungrily as I straighten my skirt and tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. Am I any safer here than in the woods with wild beasts and the enigmatic, exasperating O’Neill? A blush heats my face like the hottest summer sun, and I feel like I am a living example of the expression “out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
Nestled amongst plump cushions and down-filled coverlets, Dr. Phipps dozes as Jasper and O’Neill drive the wagons northward. It is early June, and even with every window of the wagon thrown open, the atmosphere within is close to stifling. Soraya, wearing only a cotton shift, beats the air with a fan made of brightly colored feathers. Beads of sweat dot her forehead and upper lip.
Constrained by my innate modesty, I refuse to lounge about in my undergarments. Jasper can clearly view us through the open window, and Auntie always warned Maren and me not to tempt men by revealing “too many secrets.” Besides, I know full well that Jasper needs no temptation at all. Since O’Neill’s foolish kiss, Jasper has made plain his desire for me.
Consequently, I am drenched in perspiration, short of breath, and short of temper.
Maren is unbothered by the heat; I imagine she dreams of tropical waters as she sways within her jar.
Whenever Dr. Phipps moans, Soraya dabs his forehead with a damp cloth and sings softly, foreign songs with foreign words, but unmistakably songs of love. From time to time, she puts a cup to his lips and he swallows some of her malodorous medicine. She has dosed him with it a hundred times, and yet he seems neither better nor worse.
He sleeps most of the day away, much like Maren. And in his case, it seems a good thing. He does not bellow, threaten, or terrorize. He does not create lies to enslave people, or dole out poisoned (or unpoisoned) tea.
In fact, Jasper, O’Neill, and I have not tasted the doctor’s Beloved Bondage tea in days. And none of us have suffered for lack of it. Jasper has not mentioned it once, but surely he must have noticed by now.
“The medicine is gone,” Soraya says as she taps the little bottle against the rim of the cup. “I will make more tonight.”
“Is it helping?” I ask, wishing she would doze off so I could search her cabinets for the ingredients to make the sleeping draught. But her naps have become exceedingly rare since her husband fell ill.
“Of course,” she says. “Without it, he would have faded away by now, into the world between life and death. And then, one day, the gods would choose his next path. Perhaps leading into the everlasting pleasures of paradise, perhaps not. The gods are such temperamental beings. On one day, they might deem a man worthy of paradise, but on another they might decide the very same man should return to earth as a dung beetle. You simply cannot predict these things.”
“Oh,” I say. Her religion does not sound comforting in the least.
Soraya rests her head against the wall and resumes the fluttering of her feathered fan. “I have heard you say that your aunt is a healer. Tell me about her.”
To pass the time and to distract myself from the unbearable heat, I decide to answer her. “Auntie Verity is kindness itself,” I say. “She is very old and very wise. Her hair is as gray as ashes, and she wears it in a knot, speared with a pencil in case she needs to jot down a note or receipt. She is never without an apron. Her favorite is printed with tiny violets, and it has been mended so many times that it is practically quilted.” I smile, picturing her using the edge of that apron to wipe batter from the corner of my four-year-old mouth.
“Go on,” Soraya says. She takes a tasseled pillow from the floor and places it behind her back.
“Auntie has beautiful hands. Long, tapered fingers with elegant nails, each with a perfect crescent moon at its base, each as pink as the inside of a seashell—despite her endless gardening and yarn dyeing. They are not young-looking hands, but they are lovely. They have led me through forests, soothed me when I was hurt or afraid, and kneaded the bread for our table. They have picked plants and herbs that saved many a life, and they have delivered so many babies that Auntie has lost count.”
I am thinking of Maren as I speak, and of all the things Auntie has done for both of us. But I will not tell Maren’s story to Soraya. I would never entrust her with the tale of the seashell, the stork, and the apple tree. That tale is as sacred to me as Soraya’s fickle gods are to her.
“You left her behind,” Soraya says. “In my culture, we do not abandon our elders.”
“Auntie knows I had to leave to save Maren’s life,” I say. “She knows I will return to her as soon as I can. I would be home now if your husband had not interfered with our journey.”
She opens her eyes and scowls. “Speak carefully, Clara. My husband is my king, and I will not have you speak ill of him.”
“I beg your pardon,” I say—to pacify her, not because I regret what I said.
“Tell me of your sister,” she says, her voice calm again.
“She loves water. She always has. And one day, she began to change into a mermaid.” I stop, unwilling to share the intimate details of my sister’s story with someone who has taken advantage of her.
“How did this happen? Did your aunt put a spell on her? Did someone else curse her?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps she angered the water sprites of our mountain springs. Perhaps they were jealous of her beauty. They are hideous little creatures, the Llanfair spring sprites.” There. I can spin a yarn as well as Scarff if I try.
“Ah,” Soraya says. “The water spirits of my country are also vain creatures, and dangerous.”
“You understand, then,” I say.
“Magical creatures are not to be toyed with,” she says. She yawns daintily and closes her eyes.
I stare at her, puzzled and a little angry. Is this what she truly believes? How dare she say such a thing, when she herself toys with Maren’s life? Or does she only do what the doctor decrees, whether she thinks it right or wrong? I want to shake her, to make her understand the incongruity of her words and actions. To make her consider the consequence of her “toying with” my mermaid sister.
But she has fallen asleep, and now Dr. Phipps is staring at me with vacant eyes.
I get up and move out of his line of sight. He does not attempt to follow me with his eerie gaze. For that, I am thankful.
As soon as Soraya’s snoring commences, I hasten to the cabinet that houses her medicinal herbs. Fortunately, it stands behind the doctor’s couch—were Soraya to awaken, she might not see me right away.
I slide open the drawers and pull out little bottles, looking for the proper labels. White pennythorn leaf, root of flameweed, dried doe’s milk, petals of chamomile. I drop the bottles into my skirt’s pockets. But although I search every drawer, I do not find the scarlet truffle powder necessary to complete the concoction.
Dr. Phipps cries out in his sleep and Soraya stirs. I return to my place on the floor before she opens her eyes.
I will wait for another chance to continue my pilfering.
Of course, more waiting is not at all what I would wish for.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The patrons chatter excitedly as they leave the showground. They have seen a fire juggler, listened to a captivating songstress, watched a magician make a scandalously dressed girl disappear into thin air, and danced to the music of a devilishly handsome violinist. They have purchased cures for stomach ailments, women’s troubles, gout, and consumption. They have bought balms to treat baby rashes and bug bites. They have stared in wonder at the jarred eyes of Egyptian pharaohs and a braid of Saint Catherine’s hair (strands of corn silk woven together three days ago by a bored Jasper). And they have visited a real, live mermaid.
If they had seen the wyvern lurking in the top of a nearby hemlock tree, they would not be quite so jolly.
Outside the gallery tent, I wave to Osbert, knowing his keen eyes will see me even in the pale, flickering light of the torches outlining the camp. Tonight, there is no moon.
A blanket falls over my shoulders. “If Auntie saw that gown, she’d faint,” O’Neill says.
I gather the blanket around myself like a cape. “If I saw myself in this gown, I’d likely faint,” I say. “I have made every effort to avoid mirrors and reflective surfaces.”
“All those poor farm lads will have indecent thoughts for weeks because of you.”
I scowl. “I do not find that especially amusing, O’Neill,” I say. “I already feel guilty for wearing such a revealing dress. You know it was not my choice.”
A look of genuine repentance appears on his face. “I am sorry, Clara. I only meant to tease you a little. I forgot how ladylike you are. How Scarff always remarked upon your perfect manners.”
“I will forgive you since you brought me this blanket to make up for my lack of fabric.” I smile at him, and he repays me in kind.
“You do look beautiful in that ruby color, though.”
“Thank you,” I say, wishing the butterflies in my stomach would cease their fluttering. The memory of O’Neill’s kiss makes my knees weak. Why are his eyes so blue? Why must he stand so close?
I look about us to make sure we are alone before changing the subject. “I have all but one ingredient for the draught,” I whisper.
“Good
,” he says. “The horses are ready, and I have set aside a large tin bucket with a lid for Maren. It will have to do.”
“Yes,” I say. “She is fading fast. Whatever Soraya put in her water is no longer working to keep her well. We must get her to the ocean quickly.”
“Trust me,” O’Neill says. “I will get us away from this show and save Maren. I have promised, and I promise again.”
“I hope so,” I say. “With all my strength.”
From across the camp, Jasper shouts for O’Neill.
“Duty calls,” he says. “Jasper needs me to check the horses’ shoes. And you need to change your clothes.” He gives me one last crooked smile and walks away.
He takes my silly heart with him. I have lost all control of the blasted thing.
Rain patters on the roof of the wagon like the dancing feet of a hundred happy elves. A rumble of thunder vibrates the floor beneath my thin pallet. I roll over and wonder if Jasper and O’Neill’s tent is keeping the rain out. I am glad that Soraya has insisted that I sleep in the wagon with her and the doctor.
“To safeguard your virtue,” she said after my first night of performing as magician’s assistant. “The men of the town must not have an easy path to you. Sleeping alone in a tent offers you no protection at all.” I think that even she finds my costume vulgar—yet she does not offer me a different one.
Through the tiny gaps in the window shutters, I watch lightning flicker. I count the seconds between the bursts of illumination and the thunderclaps. And finally, sleep overtakes me.
A huge stork leads me through the sky. Up and down, with elegant slowness, his wings move through the warm air. I follow him on weaker, smaller wings. My neck aches from the weight of its burden. I look down and see, dangling from a length of pink ribbon, an enormous conch shell. As I watch, it grows larger and larger until its weight pulls me into a rapid downward spiral toward the boiling sea. I open my beak to scream, but no sound escapes before I plunge into the churning waters.
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