The Mermaid's Sister(29)

O’Neill climbs into the wagon and joins Osbert beside Maren’s tub. With eyes half-closed, she reaches up, silently asking him to hold her hand. Her hand is no bigger than a baby’s now; it does not begin to fill O’Neill’s palm. They regard each other tenderly, making secret vows with their eyes.

I turn my back to them and rearrange the jars of spices, trying to imagine the taste of each one to keep my mind from wandering where it should not: along paths of jealousy, sorrow, self-pity, and regret.

A jar of pure white peppercorns reminds me of Maren’s mermaid tears. It occurs to me that Maren has not shed a single pearl-tear since we left home. Indeed, why should she cry now? She is on the brink of wonders I will never know, a life beneath the waves with magical creatures. And meanwhile, she has O’Neill’s devotion.

“We must stop for supplies at the next town,” O’Neill says behind me.

“Yes,” I say. I place the jar of peppercorns into the rack. “There is not enough salt left to keep Maren supplied for another day, and we are almost out of cheese. Pilsner gobbles it down as if he is near starvation, despite his many foraging trips.”

“Onward we must go, then,” he says. I listen to the faint sloshing of water and imagine Maren embracing him by way of farewell. Only after I hear the sound of his footsteps behind me do I turn to face him.

“Pilsner has not come back,” I say.

“He will find us. He always does,” O’Neill says. He rubs my shoulder. “No need to worry, my dear.”

“My, you remind me of Scarff sometimes.” I smile, thinking fondly of the man who has always been like a father to me, in spite of his lengthy absences.

“That is a grand compliment,” O’Neill says. Quick as lightning, he kisses my cheek. “Settle in now. I’ll let Job and January know their rest is done.” He leaps out the back door, turning a somersault in the air and landing on his feet so nimbly that no dust is stirred.

Weak in the knees, I sit on the edge of the bed. My skin burns where his lips touched it. My heart turns over like a thirsty leaf in the presence of a cloud full of rain.

For the next half hour, I berate myself for the renewed unsisterly feelings I have for my almost-brother. They are his fault this time, not mine.

Leaning over to reach the dresser, I pick up a gilt-framed hand mirror and examine my face. It is still ordinary. His kiss left no mark on my skin. If only it had not left a mark on my heart.

I should be angry with him. To kiss me seconds after embracing my sister! It is obscene. It is cruel. But then again—had I not just compared him to Scarff? Has Scarff not given me many such fatherly kisses on that very cheek? Surely O’Neill meant his kiss to be like Scarff’s: sweet and chaste. Of course that is how he meant it.

How often must I remind myself that he has chosen Maren and not me? How often must I remind myself to rein in my ridiculous emotions?

I force myself to look long at Maren.

Although she is no longer than O’Neill’s arm, she is beautiful. Her skin has the sheen of a perfect pearl, pale and smooth and bright. It sparkles as if dusted with crushed diamonds, even in the dimness of the caravan, around her closed eyes and along her delicate cheekbones. The gold locket resting on her chest looks dull, she so outshines it. The iridescent scales, which begin just below her navel, glisten like thin slices of rare gems laid in row after row down the length of her. And where her dainty feet used to be, a glorious fan of silvery green tail. Every inch of her is stunningly beautiful. Indeed, it is the very beauty sailors would gladly die in pursuit of.

Somewhere inside this enchanting splendor, my sister still lives. The one who has heard my secrets and seen my midnight tears. The one who can name every scar on my body (and who caused a few of them herself). The one who has been with me since my first October, who has loved me as I have loved her. We meant to grow old together; we made promises for the future that will not be kept.

This girl, my sister, Maren, loves O’Neill, I remind myself solemnly. And once more I put away my feelings for him. I beg the stars above (though they cower behind daytime clouds) that he will not kiss me again. Ever.

“Are you asleep, Clara?” O’Neill calls from outside. “The store will close soon.”

I am surprised to find the wagon still. “I’m coming,” I say. I pull the oilcloth up to cover Maren, leaving only her small, doll-like head visible. “Osbert, you have guard duty,” I tell him firmly. “Be good and I’ll bring you some licorice.”

He wraps his barbed tail snugly around the tub, and without a sound swears to protect his mistress.



With furrowed brow, O’Neill glares at the map. “Did we turn right at Fulton Mills, or did we turn left?”

“I do not recall,” I say, offering January a carrot. We have stopped to rest the horses in a grove of blossoming fruit trees, hiding our wagon in the midst of row after row of gloriously scented branches. A fine place to be if one must lose one’s way—but I will not say so to O’Neill and risk offending him.

He shakes the map and groans. He rakes a hand through his blond hair several times. “This could cost us another day. How could I have taken a wrong turn when every minute counts?”

“You are tired,” I say soothingly. “We are all tired. Everyone makes mistakes when they are tired.”

“If we don’t make it in time . . . If she shrinks away to nothing before we reach the ocean, I will never forgive myself.”