The Mermaid's Sister(23)

“Salt, yes. Do you think ten pounds is enough? Perhaps I should buy twenty. Or thirty.”

“And I promised Osbert a sack of licorice lozenges,” O’Neill says guiltily.

“Good heavens, O’Neill! That wyvern needs licorice like he needs another tail! It makes him giddy, you know. You’ll be forced to play fetch-the-stick with him for a full day and night after he gulps it down.”

“Spoken like a true wyvern’s mother.” His lopsided smile appears. I must remind myself that he is nothing more than my almost-brother, no matter how handsome he might be.

“This from the young man who snuggles up with the wyvern each night. Will you two be getting married this June, by any chance?”

He jabs his elbow into my arm. “If you were a boy, I’d fight you for such an insult.”

“To defend your beloved wyvern’s honor?”

“You have wounded me!” He clutches his chest. The horses mistake his tugging of the reins for a command, and they slow down. “Trot, my beauties,” he calls to them. “Now back to the list. It’s a long journey we’re in for—we must not forget anything. Let’s think on it.”

After a few minutes, I lose focus on the list and begin to worry. When I can contain my anxieties no longer, I ask, “How long will it take to reach the ocean?”

“Two or three weeks, depending on the roads and the weather.”

“I hope Maren will last that long. She is so small now that she can almost swim in the bathtub,” I say. I pick a pine needle from my skirt and toss it to the wind.

“Job and January will do their best to carry us there speedily. They have sworn a solemn oath to me.” The horses whinny as if in agreement. O’Neill winks at me like a storybook scoundrel.

“Can you not be serious for five minutes, O’Neill?” Suddenly, I am weary to the soul.

“You think I am teasing? You don’t believe that animals communicate with me?” he asks, sullen.

“Of course I do. I know they do. That is not the issue. What drives me mad is that you carry on playing and winking when the situation calls for solemnity.”

He fumbles with his cuff. I know that even despite my tirade he is itching to do some parlor trick to lighten my mood. “I swear, O’Neill, if you pull a flower from your sleeve, I will jump off this wagon,” I say.

“Sorry,” he replies sadly.

I have hurt him, and I deeply regret it. “No, I am sorry.” I touch his arm and he winces.

“Perhaps I should take Maren to the ocean alone, then, if you cannot tolerate me. If you believe I am nothing but tricks and amusements without substance.”

“O’Neill, please forgive me,” I beg. “You know that you are my dearest friend. And I do love your tricks and illusions. It is just that I am so tired and confused. The world is not at all what I thought it was. There is more magic in it, and more mystery, and more pain.”

He lets the reins slacken in his hands and turns his face to me. A smile lurks at the edges of his mouth. “I forgive you, Clara dear. And I hope that you will soon see that the world is also more beautiful than you had known, and more full of kindness and love. Perhaps, on our journey, you will find this out for yourself. You will come with Maren and me, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I say. “If you left me behind, I would send my dangerous wyvern after you. He would eat you for supper and bring me back your boots as a souvenir.” My humor has returned, much to my surprise.

“Ah,” he says, shaking the reins to hurry the horses now that we’ve reached level ground, “I am afraid you actually mean that.”

“Never cross a wyvern,” I say. “And never, ever cross one of Verity’s daughters.”

“Wise advice,” he says with that crooked O’Neill grin, the one that brings the sunshine out from behind a clouded heart. The one, I must remind myself, that belongs to my sister’s true love. But as the proverb goes, even a cat may look at a king.



As O’Neill hitches the horses to the post in front of Norton’s Feed Store, Mrs. Locke and Mrs. Grieg take notice of the caravan and scurry across the street, waving and yoo-hooing. As Scarff and O’Neill are wont to brag, such middle-aged housewives find their exotic wares irresistible.

With the charisma of a stage actor and the skill of an experienced vendor, O’Neill throws open the doors and cabinets of the colorful wagon and begins to expound upon the incomparability of his merchandise. He is a whirlwind of charm and flurrying silk scarves, trays of silver rings and boxes of Chinese fans.

List in hand, I leave O’Neill to his work and seek out Mr. Peterman at the general store.

While Mr. Peterman gathers the items we need, I wander about the store, hoping that browsing might help me remember anything I forgot to put on the list.

“Hello, Miss Clara,” Simon’s voice says from behind me.

I turn to him. “Good morning, Simon,” I say. “You are looking well.”

“I was married last Saturday,” he says. “Do you remember Tabitha Gorse?”

“Yes,” I say. “She moved to Iowa a few years ago, didn’t she?”

“She moved back here in February,” he says. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other nervously. He clears his throat twice, then asks, “How is your sister?”