The Mermaid's Sister(28)

“I have been thinking,” O’Neill says as he places a portion of fish on a stone for Pilsner. “I’ve been thinking of how we might save her.”

I hold out my plate for some fish. “We are saving her now. We are taking her home.”

“That is not what I meant, Clara. There must be a way to restore her. To change her back. We should not give up so easily. If the Sea King comes to meet her, we could strike a deal. We could buy her freedom or trade something for the removal of whatever curse is on her. Surely he has the power.” His eyes are bright in the firelight, his face aglow with hope and passion. He glances toward Maren’s sleeping form. “We must try.”

He may be able to resist a mermaid, but he has loved Maren since she was a little girl who could, in the space of an hour, both steal his slingshot and share her cake with him. I reach for his hand. I must begin to speak the truth to him, carefully and slowly, because in little more than a week, he must be prepared to accept it. He must be prepared to give her up. “O’Neill,” I say gently. “She does not wish to be saved in such a way. She is happy as a mermaid. She is a mermaid.”

“That is absurd,” he says. He pulls his hand away. “Her happiness is part of the enchantment. Part of the curse that made her into a mermaid. She is blinded by strong magic. You, of all people, should be able to see that.”

“Think, O’Neill, of her life. How she has always adored the water.”

“I like to swim, and I am no merman.” He sets his tin plate on the ground and crosses his arms over his chest. His nose twitches. It is classic angry O’Neill.

“Perhaps you have forgotten this story. One of Auntie’s favorites. We were picnicking in the forest, on the big slab of stone we always called the Giants’ Dinner Table. Auntie was setting out the food, making everything pretty. Scarff was bouncing you on one knee and me on the other, singing ‘Ride a Cock Horse’ and carrying on, making us laugh. We children were not quite three years old that summer. After Auntie finished arranging the pickles and tarts and filled the tin cups with milk, she looked about and discovered that Maren was gone. Do you remember where they found her, O’Neill?”

He rubs his twitching nose. “At the Wishing Pool,” he says.

“Not just at the Wishing Pool. In it. Swimming underwater like a minnow. Swimming as if she’d been born a fish and not a girl.”

“A natural talent,” he says.

“Natural because she is a mermaid.”

“You don’t want to save her. You, who call yourself her sister. You would just toss her into the sea and be done with her?” His accusations are bitter, but they are entangled with heartache and desperation.

“It is what she wants! What she has always wanted! It is who she is. Who she was born to be, O’Neill. It is her choice, not mine. And not yours.”

“I would lay down my life for her! To save her for Auntie and Scarff. To save her for you, Clara. You speak bravely but I know that you could not live without your sister.”

I step toward him. I touch his sleeve and speak softly. Perhaps he will hear me yet. “We must let her go, no matter how it pains us. She is happy as a mermaid. It is her desire and her destiny.”

“If that is how you feel, then you are as spellbound as she, Clara. But I will find a way to break this magic. I will save her, and you will thank me afterward.” He walks away, and the tears I have been withholding spill down my face.

This is my wish: that Maren could speak again—long enough to tell O’Neill the truth that he refuses to hear from me.

I am more than sorry that the truth will break his heart. His brave heart that dares to believe there can yet be a future for him and Maren.



In the morning, O’Neill acts as though we never argued. He sings Maren’s favorite sea chanteys at the top of his lungs so she can hear them as the caravan rattles and bumps its way through the woods.

I, for one, am thankful to be under way again, and thankful that Osbert has brought us no more remnants of Simon Shumsky. My hope is that Simon has regained his sanity and gone home to his bride.

When we stop to rest the horses, Pilsner flies off. He does this often of late. No one could blame a strong, young bird for wanting to stretch his fine wings. Sometimes he brings back gifts: a tiny daisy, a plump blackberry, a coin. Once he even brought me an emerald ring, encrusted with dirt. I wear it on my pointer finger and make believe I am a princess on a grand tour of my dominion.

I know I am no princess. I do envy Maren a little, and O’Neill, as well. She is a mermaid; he is a performer. They have their places in the world. Me, I am just a girl who may or may not become a stork. I am not striking to behold and I do not cry pearl tears. I cannot dance or sing or juggle fire. I am a terrible cook and mediocre apothecary—I have seen Auntie dump many of the elixirs I mixed when she thought I was not looking.

On the floor of the caravan, I spy a tiny white feather. Where did that come from? Is it mine?

I shiver—and then I pray: If I must change, let it not happen before we reach the ocean! For who knows if my transformation would be slow and painful like Maren’s, or if I might change from girl to bird in a matter of hours?

Perhaps it is not my feather at all, but an embellishment from a fan or costume. I choose to believe that. I take a deep breath and decide the feather came from O’Neill’s wares, not my body.