The Mermaid's Sister(32)

By Simon? Did Simon set the caravan ablaze?

I try to sit up but fail.

The woman says, “Rest here. I will bring you water and blankets. When my son returns, he will take you to our tents and we will make you more comfortable, poor lamb.”

Only then do I remember Pilsner. I pray that he managed to escape.

What of Job and January, left to graze nearby?

And where is Osbert? He never returned after he ran off panicking in the storm.

Have I lost my most dear, nonhuman companions, and my sister, in one night?

Beside me, O’Neill stirs. “Clara?”

“I am here,” I whisper. I find his hand and grasp it. He squeezes my fingers tightly, with the grip of someone in great pain.

I turn my head toward him. The moonlight shows me his soot-covered profile. A thin strip of whiteness runs from the corner of his eye to the lobe of his ear, marking the trail of his tears. I want to cry out for the woman to return, to beg her to bring something to ease his suffering, but I am overcome by another fit of coughing.

As my coughing lessens, O’Neill’s hand relaxes in mine. He is either asleep or unconscious, in a temporary escape from pain. Auntie would say that it is a good thing, that a mind at rest frees the body to work at healing itself.

But is there anything in the world that will heal his heart once he hears that Maren is gone?





CHAPTER SIXTEEN





I am lying on a cot inside a large tent. I vaguely remember the man called Jasper carrying me to this place, his mother covering me with soft blankets and holding a cup of water to my parched lips before I fainted or fell asleep.

Now fully aware, I look about the tent. It is furnished as colorfully and splendidly as the caravan was, with copper lanterns, embroidered cushions, and trunks full of unknown treasures—like an illustration from the tale of Aladdin. But this place lacks Scarff’s warmth and O’Neill’s charm, the very things that made their wheeled home a place of delight rather than a mere collection of fripperies.

The image of the caravan reduced to smoldering ashes floats before me like some horrific ghost. I wish it were nothing but the memory of a nightmare, to be easily dismissed and forgotten.

A string of little bells tinkles as the door flap is pushed aside and Jasper’s mother enters.

She sits down on the edge of the cot and hands me a mug of fragrant tea. “Your sister is a mermaid,” she says without wonder, as if having a mermaid in one’s family is commonplace. “She is very beautiful.”

“You found her?” I almost drop the tea.

“My son Jasper found her, and the man who took her, a few miles from here. I am afraid that it did not end well for the thief.”

“Simon,” I say. “He followed us.”

“He will follow you no more. The path of his life ended in misfortune.” The woman pours red syrup from a bottle into a spoon. “For your throat and lungs,” she says.

I swallow the medicine. It tastes like spoiled potatoes and overripe cherries with a dash of coal dust. I rinse it down with half the tea. “Is my sister all right?”

“She is very weak, but I have seen to her. I have dealt with her kind before, and I know what they must have, what elements will keep them alive outside the sea.”

“Thank you,” I say, although I care for neither her choice of words nor the coolness of her tone.

“She is not your true sister, the mermaid,” she says, laying a palm against my forehead to check for fever.

“Not my sister by blood, but every bit the sister of my heart.”

“Ah,” she says, “a sister is more valuable than rubies.” A dozen gold bracelets clink together on her arm as she lifts her hand from my forehead. “No fever. Good.”

“How is my friend? The young man?” I am very anxious to hear of O’Neill and to change the subject.

“Neelo sends his greetings. He is much improved, but his legs were badly burned and will take time to grow strong again. He rests in Jasper’s tent.”

“O’Neill,” I say. I feel a weight lift from my heart; Maren and O’Neill are safe.

“He tells me you are called Clara. My name is Soraya. Soraya Phipps. My son Jasper rescued you and your friends, and later you will meet his father, the great Dr. Phipps.”

“How fortunate that you found us,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “It was most fortunate.”

“When can I see my sister?”

“Soon. It is best not to disturb her for a day or two as she acclimates to her new habitat.”

Something about the word habitat does not sit well with me. But perhaps Soraya chose the only English word she knew to describe Maren’s liquid-filled home. The strength of her accent makes it plain that English is not her native tongue.

“Maren needs to go to the ocean soon, or she will die,” I say.

“She is fine. We will speak of such things later.” Soraya stands. She adjusts her tunic-like dress and the silk whispers like sea on sand, like Maren’s voice not so long ago. “Rest now,” she says as she brushes the tent flap aside and exits.

My mind is awhirl with the events of the last day (or days—for how am I to know how long I slept?): the wonderful picnic, Scarff’s magnificent caravan engulfed in flames, Jasper carrying me to safety, my hand grasping O’Neill’s as we lay side by side, Soraya telling me that my sister is safe.