The Mermaid's Sister(33)

I wonder how Osbert fares, and if anyone will ever tell Simon’s widow that he died while attempting to kidnap a mermaid. I doubt she would believe the truth if she heard it.

In a way, Simon sacrificed his life for Maren. And what of O’Neill, who swears to restore her humanness? Will his dedication to his vow cost him his life as well?

I close my eyes and picture Auntie. “Hush, now,” I hear her saying. “Not to worry, my girl. One chicken cannot sit on the whole world’s eggs.” I imagine her soft-cotton, plump-armed embrace and her lavender-and-fresh-bread scent, and I am almost comforted.

Wishing I were home is as useless as worrying, I suppose. Yet that is my wish.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





Dressed in a borrowed sari and shawl, I step out of the tent into a bright spring morning.

Jasper stands beside the campfire, drinking from a huge mug. He notices me right away and lifts the mug in salutation. “Coffee,” he says. “It runs through my veins.” He has his mother’s lithe figure and dark amber eyes, and his hair is a mop of unruly, brassy curls. He could be twenty or even thirty years old; his boyish face makes guessing difficult. He sets his mug on a chair. “You are Clara,” he says. He steps closer and takes my hand, lifting it to his lips. “Your servant, Jasper Armand Phipps.”

He presses his mouth against my skin, gazing into my eyes like a dime-novel knave attempting to seduce an innocent maiden. Finally, he releases my hand and says, “Mama has not worn that costume in ages. I must say, it suits you far more than it ever suited her.”

The word “costume” unlocks a flood of memories. Where has my mind been? How could I not have recognized these people? How could I have forgotten the medicine show Maren and I attended last spring, and the unsettlingly curious woman who offered to help cure Maren’s “condition”? How could I have forgotten Jasper’s music and his father’s charismatic sales pitch?

“You are quite pale, Clara. Come, sit down.” He guides me by the hand to a chair near the fire and takes a seat on a stool beside me. “We must become acquainted.”

“Thank you,” I say, unable to think of another reply. His suave manner makes me quite uncomfortable. I survey the camp instead of looking him in the eye. I see two tents—one large and one small, both dark-green canvas with red-and-gold pennants flying from their central poles. Between the tents is a mustard-colored wagon (similar in shape to our now-ruined caravan but twice as large). Crimson letters on the side spell out “Dr. Phipps and Company, Medicine Show and Astounding Wonders.” A second wagon, its smaller twin, is parked behind the tents.

“Welcome to our nomadic home,” Jasper says. “I hope that you have been quite comfortable.”

“Yes,” I say. “Your mother has been very attentive. But as soon as O’Neill regains his strength, we will leave you. We do not wish to interfere with your routine.”

“You are no trouble at all, my dear. I for one find your presence inspiring, the adventure that brought you to us both providential and thrilling. Indeed, I hope you will stay with us long beyond O’Neill’s recovery.” He lifts my hand from my lap and folds his hands around it. His palms are warm but dry. “I deduce that you carry too many troubles on those pretty shoulders of yours. A bit of fun on the road would put the roses back in your cheeks and boost your sore spirits.”

I pull my hand away. Jasper is too charming for anyone’s good. “We have travel plans of our own that we must not delay,” I say. “But thank you for your kind offer.”

“You may yet change your mind.” He stands and brushes imaginary dust from his sleeves. “We move on this morning. Tomorrow night, we will perform in the next town. Marsburg, I believe it is called. You will surely be with us that long, at least.”

A man steps out of the smaller tent. He is short and stout and dressed in a perfectly tailored gray suit. His shoes are polished so that they reflect the sun. He shakes his silver-tipped walking stick at Jasper. “Son,” he says, “quit dallying and begin packing up the tents.”

“May I introduce my father, the great Dr. Phipps?” Jasper says. “Papa, this is Clara of the Conflagration.”

“Clara,” Phipps says. “Pretty enough. I am sure my wife can find a place for you in the show. Do you sing or dance?”

“No, sir,” I say. “But we—”

“No matter. Soraya will sort it out.” He speaks with authority, as a king who will not be questioned or opposed. “You may go find her now and ask her how you may assist in getting the show on the road, as it were.”

“Yes, sir,” I say. The doctor’s posture tells me it would be futile to disagree.

“Don’t just stand there, Jasper. Get to work, lad!” Dr. Phipps saunters toward the wagon, swinging his walking stick as if strolling a city street.

Jasper retrieves his mug and finishes his coffee. “Don’t mind the old bear too much. He is always grumpy in the morning.” He points toward the farthest tent. “You’ll find my mother in that direction, I believe.”

“Could I see my sister before we go?” I ask.

“Ah, yes. The mermaid. Mama told me you might inquire of her. She also said you must wait until tomorrow to visit. The mermaid needs time to recover her strength.”