The Mermaid's Sister(18)

“Take me to Maren,” O’Neill says, tugging me along by the hand.

“You will not like what you see,” I warn as we cross the threshold into the kitchen. “She is quite changed, O’Neill.”

“Madame Vadoma’s receipt did not work?”

“It helped a little. Have you brought nothing else for her? A charm or another receipt?”

He shakes his head. “The gypsies had nothing else to offer. I’m sorry.”

From the doorway of the bedroom, the back of Maren’s gold-speckled hair is just visible above the edge of the tub. He releases my hand and approaches her slowly, each step noiseless. When he rounds the tub and sees her fully, all color drains from his face.

“O’Neill,” she mouths, her voice all but gone. Joy expands across her features, making her skin sparkle even more than usual.

“Oh, love,” he whispers. He falls to his knees and reaches for her, cupping her cheek in his palm. “Look at you.”

Maren lifts her silvery-green fin from the water, without any indication of regretting its presence. In fact, she seems proud of her strange appendage. “Beautiful,” she mouths.

O’Neill stares at her in wide-eyed wonder. “Does it hurt? Are you in pain, dearest?”

She shakes her pretty head and motions with her hands. She touches her heart, then points outward, then pantomimes the waves of the ocean.

“She longs for the ocean,” I translate. “She’s been losing her voice.” But I do not think he hears me. Every bit of his attention is directed toward Maren, and I cannot mistake the presence of pure love in his gaze and his gestures.

How I hate myself in this moment. I hate that I am jealous of his undisguised devotion. I hate that I love him and that he does not return my love. I hate that I can so easily think of myself and my desires when my sister is in danger of dying. I leave the room. What is between them is not meant for spectators.

I wish . . .

I wish, above all things, that none of this had ever happened.



Grateful that Scarff and O’Neill have brought sunshine with them, we throw open all the doors and windows to let in the warm air and the sounds of birds rejoicing. Auntie bustles about, gathering ingredients and supplies to prepare a celebratory feast. At Auntie’s command, I stir and knead, baste and slice, chop and arrange. She alternately hums and fusses over the food. Will there be enough applesauce? Are those carrots cut thinly enough? Does O’Neill still hate cabbage?

Scarff and O’Neill are entertaining Maren. For once, she is wide awake and able to enjoy herself. Scarff’s terrible jokes follow close upon O’Neill’s fervent ballad singing (slightly off-key but still moving). Scarff’s deep voice echoes through the cottage as he tells outrageous tales of his youth—which may or may not be true.

When the air is saturated with the scents of ham and fresh bread rolls, candied carrots and apple pie, and once the perfect sprig of parsley is plucked from its pot on the windowsill and placed atop the steaming platter of potatoes, Scarff and O’Neill drag Maren’s tub into the kitchen—mermaid and all. She is given a view of the table and a cup of seaweed tea, for she no longer eats anything.

Other than the bathtub in the kitchen, the celebration resembles every other return-of-Scarff-and-O’Neill party we have ever had—complete with overeating and the exchange of stories and fond glances. Finally, Scarff stands and raises his glass of elderberry wine.

“A toast to the present company,” he declares. We clink glasses and take sips, despite our full bellies. “Now, an announcement.”

Maren claps her hands. Water droplets splash into the fireplace, hissing as they evaporate.

“For many long years has this wonderful creature been the very heart of my heart,” he begins. He looks at Auntie as if they were both seventeen and stricken with first love.

“Do sit down,” Auntie says, “and try not to embellish things too much!”

With a harrumph, Scarff settles into his chair beside Auntie. He takes her hand in his and rests them upon the table. “Shall I start at the very beginning, my love?”

Auntie nods, eyes twinkling.

Scarff leans back in his chair. “If I were to tell you how long ago this tale begins, you would doubt the entire telling of it. So, I will use the traditional beginning. Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young maiden.”

Auntie rolls her eyes heavenward.

“’Tis true, ’tis true,” Scarff insists. “No ordinary girl was she. It was said that her mother was of full faerie blood, and her father was a warrior prince of a far northern land. But she was placed in the care of a pair of spinster ladies. They raised her in a rambling redbrick mansion beside a blue lake. They taught her manners and dancing and how to sew a fine seam. What they did not teach her, what she already knew in her half-faerie bones, were the names and uses of every herb and plant in the forest. Why, without any lessons or books, the lass could make up medicines to cure almost anything. And when the spinster ladies—the Furstwangler sisters, they were called, Inga and Hilma—when they realized the depths of their adopted daughter’s unusual talents, they sent her to be apprenticed to a healer woman in Bremen by the name of Frau Albruna. Some said Albruna was a witch, but I’d never call her such. She did not like the word, and crossing her never did anyone a lick of good. Well, our girl—who came to Albruna with the unlikely name of Veritude—had a mind like a thirsty sponge and before long she’d soaked up all Albruna had to teach. After that, young Fr?ulein Verity taught Albruna a thing or two!” Scarff pauses to sip his wine and wink at Auntie.