The Mermaid's Sister(14)

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Yes.”

“So be it,” he says. He draws his weapon back and then thrusts it toward my heart.



I awaken with a start and a cry.

Could I ever be as brave as the dream version of myself? I do not believe so.



The kitchen is quiet, save for the crackle of the fire, the arrhythmic clicking of my knitting needles, and the occasional swish of pages being turned by Auntie. Maren dozes in the rocker, and Osbert huddles beside her soaking feet.

Perhaps the foot-deep layer of snow on and about our cottage conceals the sound of Simon Shumsky’s carriage. Perhaps Osbert has fallen into some sort of wyvern hibernation. Regardless, Osbert does not provide his usual warning of unwanted company.

The knock on the door sends him flying to the cellar.

“Oh, my stars,” Auntie says as she gets to her feet. “He’s here. To take our Maren to the dance!”

“We must get rid of him before he sees her!” I say.

The door is thrown open. “Good evening, ladies,” Simon says, stepping into the kitchen. He wears a new coat and hat, and an eager smile. “Is Maren ready?”

Somehow (miracle of miracles!), he does not notice Maren fast asleep under her mound of dampened shawls.

To distract him, I say, “Let me make you a cup of tea. You must be half-frozen.” I take his arm and direct him to a seat at the table.

“Dear heavens,” Auntie says. “I hate to disappoint you, Simon, especially since you came all this way in the cold.”

“But she is better now, isn’t she?” His brow furrows with what I read as worry mixed with frustration.

“No, Simon. She is still unwell. I have done all that I can, but she is not fit to go out in the cold. She is in no way strong enough for dancing,” Auntie says gently but firmly.

I set the tea in front of him. “We should have sent word. We are very sorry. There will be other dances,” I say. Other dances for him, but not for Maren.

Auntie pulls a chair close to him. “Simon, may I speak plainly?”

He nods and drinks down his tea as though it is medicine.

“Maren has a condition of which she cannot be cured. I know that you love her, but I must tell you that she can never marry any man,” Auntie says in her most soothing voice.

Fat tears stand at the edges of Simon’s eyes. “Never?”

“What is worse, Simon, is that I must ask you not to visit again. She will become rather disfigured, and I know it would distress her to have you see her in such a state.”

One great sob escapes Simon before he regains his composure. “Forgive me,” he says.

“There is nothing to forgive,” I say. “Why should you ask forgiveness for being devoted to Maren? For loving her?”

“I am sorry,” he says. He stands and walks toward the door like a sleepwalker. He does not say good-bye and forgets to close the door behind him.

Osbert creeps up from the cellar. Auntie shuts the door and sighs. “The poor man. His heart is broken.”

“Was that true love, Auntie?” I pick up Simon’s empty cup.

“Indeed,” she says.

I wish . . .

I do not know what I wish.





CHAPTER NINE





A peculiar change in the weather melts all the snow on New Year’s Day and brings another pair of visitors to our cottage.

With a basket containing three eggs (and we are lucky the winter-hating chickens produced that many), I walk the gravel path between the henhouse and the cottage. Presently, I hear the wheels of an approaching wagon, but, alas, the music of odd chimes and banging pots does not accompany it. It is the wagon belonging to Peterman and Sons, the village’s general store.

Mr. Peterman, a spry gentleman on the far side of sixty, jumps down from the seat as nimbly as a cat. His plump son Henry Donald heaves himself to the frozen ground with a thud.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I say. “What brings you up the mountain?”

“Oh, it is good to see you, Miss Clara,” Mr. Peterman says, grinning, doffing his hat. “Nothing like a pretty girl to warm a man’s chilled heart and soul.”

“Hullo, Miss Clara,” Henry Donald says. His chapped cheeks redden further as he stares at his boots, the image of a schoolboy caught with a love letter. The poor fellow is forty years old and as shy as a fawn.

“There you are!” Auntie calls from the doorway. “Have you brought my special order?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Peterman replies. “It arrived at the store a week ago, but with the weather being such as it was, we couldn’t get up here till now.”

Auntie and I watch as the two men place planks from the wagon bed to the ground to form a ramp. At Henry Donald’s count of three, they lift a large wooden crate and carry it off the wagon.

“Where do you want it, Mrs. Amsell?” Mr. Peterman asks as he walks backward toward the cottage.

“Well, for now you can put it in the girls’ room,” Auntie says. She opens the door wide and steps aside. “Straight through there,” she says. “The room on the left just after the grandfather clock.”

With groans and scrapings of doorways, the Petermans reach their destination. I follow them, wondering what the box might hold—and where my sister is hiding.