The Mermaid's Sister(34)

“Her name is Maren,” I say. “And we have never been apart for more than a few hours. Surely a visit from me would be beneficial.” If only I possessed Maren’s allure, he would not think of refusing me.

“Jasper!” Dr. Phipps bellows from behind the wagon. “Come here, son!”

Jasper rolls his eyes. “Duty calls. It has been a great pleasure, mademoiselle. We shall meet again.” He bows and takes a few steps before turning back to face me again. “A word to the wise, Clara dear: hurry along to Mama and don’t get into mischief.”

His condescension irks me. I wish my manners did not prevent me from telling him that he is not half as appealing as he seems to believe he is. Instead, I lift the too-long hem of the borrowed sari and walk like a well-mannered young lady in the direction he recommended.

As I pass Jasper’s tent, I am tempted to duck inside to visit O’Neill. Feeling disobedient and rather reckless, I give in to temptation and push my way through the tent flap.

“Clara!” O’Neill says, seeing me before I see him. He is cocooned inside a hammock-like bed with only his head and arms free.

“Hush,” I say, moving closer so that he might hear my whispers. “I am forbidden to see Maren, and I did not ask permission to see you, so it might be best to keep quiet.”

“Why? Have you been causing trouble?”

“You know I have not. But that Dr. Phipps is a fearsome man, and his son is quite . . . perplexing. They visited Llanfair Mountain last spring, selling their sham cures. I do not trust them.”

“You worry too much, Clara. They saved us, did they not? Jasper risked his life getting us out of the burning caravan.”

“Yes. Well. I would feel much better if I could see Maren, even for a few minutes.”

“You will see her soon. And we will return to the road in a day or two at most, whether this Dr. Phipps fellow approves or not. Although I am sorry to tell you we will have to continue without Job and January. Jasper says they fled the fire, but I think they were stolen. They would not have run from me after all our adventures together.” He offers me his hand and I notice that his arm is swathed in gauze. “We must not count our losses now, not while Maren still needs our help.”

“Are they bad, your injuries?” Against my better judgment, I place my hand in his. My heart beats faster than I wish it would.

“My right leg is the worst. But it should be as good as gold in no time, thanks to Soraya’s poultices.”

“I am glad you are improving,” I say. I try to take my hand back, but his grip is firm. “Please. I should go.” I do not add that by holding my hand so sweetly, he makes me betray myself and Maren.

He smiles his crooked smile, his eyes full of O’Neill mischief, and lets go. “As you wish,” he says.

I do not say good-bye before scurrying out of the tent, tripping over the sari’s hem as I exit.

Such a jumble of feelings crowds my heart again: uncertainty and impatience, love and disgust.

Surely it would be easier to be a stork than a seventeen-year-old girl.



Inside the speeding wagon, O’Neill and I sit on woven mats. Soraya reclines on an upholstered couch, snoring most daintily. Apparently she is unbothered by Dr. Phipps’s wild driving, how he relentlessly urges the four horses onward with the crack of his whip and the lash of his tongue.

Following in our dusty wake, Jasper drives the smaller wagon, the one loaded with the doctor’s collection of wonders and rarities. According to Dr. Phipps, the mermaid is lucky to be traveling amongst such priceless treasures. I should remind him that she is not an object to be collected, but a beloved sister and friend. Yet I keep silent—out of wisdom or cowardice, or perhaps a bit of both.

Soraya, O’Neill, and I ride in the company of less exalted items. Labeled cases of medicines are neatly stacked along the walls beside trunks of various sizes. Costumes and musical instruments hang from pegs. One shelf holds a row of men’s shoes and boots, and another displays a collection of ladies’ slippers (some leather, some satin, some spangled with crystals). Boxes and bottles of food crowd a few other shelves. Above my head, a huge burlap bag swings from a hook and rains down grains of rice, one at a time, from a tiny tear in its side.

As rapidly as we cross the countryside, time seems to drag inside the wagon. In my mind, I relive Maren’s transformation, from her simple love of water to the first hint of scales upon her side; from discovering her fused-together legs to beholding her brilliant tail fin; from her fading whispers to the sea-on-sand sound of her most recent laughter; from the Wishing Pool to the washtub, and to whatever vessel she now inhabits.

I miss her. I miss her as I’d miss my sight if I were suddenly blind. I miss her as a tree must miss its wealth of leaves come midwinter. I miss her continually, painfully.

Through the open window, I see the shadow of a large bird hover and swoop. I know that bird—and it is no bird. It is Osbert! He is safe, and he is with us.

“Worrying again, worry-bird?” O’Neill asks, whispering so as not to disturb Soraya’s slumber.

“I’ve just seen Osbert,” I say. “He is following us.”

“You see? No real harm can befall us while the wyvern watches. All is well. Other than my leg, that is.”

I wonder if Soraya has dosed him with something. How could he believe all is well when Maren is hidden from us and possibly shrinking away?