The Mermaid's Sister(35)

“We cannot afford to be waylaid,” I say. “We do not have time to help put on shows, no matter how beholden we may be to the Phipps family. We must not continue with them unless they agree to take us to the ocean. Maren’s life is in the balance.”

“I will ask the doctor,” O’Neill says. “He does not frighten me with his shouting and lording.”

“Thank you.” A pillow tumbles off Soraya’s couch and rolls within my reach. I take it and stuff it behind my back. Its softness, combined with Osbert’s presence and O’Neill’s promise, gives me a measure of comfort.

“I will ask Dr. Phipps’s leave for you to see Maren, as well,” he says. “I know how much you miss her. All the sparkle has left your eyes.”

“Maren is the one who sparkles,” I say. I change the subject. “How does it feel to wear such fine clothes?”

O’Neill is dressed in a blue silk shirt and a black vest and trousers pinstriped with yellow. Jasper’s garments, obviously.

“As usual, my trousers are two inches too short,” he says. “And this shirt smells of Jasper and sandalwood.”

“What is it you children whisper of?” Soraya says. Her many bracelets jangle as she yawns and stretches her arms wide.

“We have been friends since we were infants,” O’Neill says. “We talk of everything, and sometimes nothing at all.”

“Dr. Phipps does not approve of idle talk,” Soraya says. “He says that it weakens the soul.”

“Then I beg to differ with the doctor,” O’Neill says. “I find good conversation very energizing.”

“You would do well not to speak to the doctor of your opinions, young man. He does not take kindly to those who oppose him. In Dr. Phipps’s show, he is king. He is never wrong.”

“Have you never disagreed with your husband?” O’Neill asks.

Soraya’s eyes widen in horror. “Never!”

“I see,” O’Neill says. He opens his mouth to continue, but I interrupt. I will not sit and watch him endanger himself by picking petty fights with Soraya. If the doctor is king, then she is queen, and O’Neill is dancing on dangerous ground.

“You should rest,” I say to him, rather loudly. “You are still recovering from your injuries, after all.”

“I am tired all of a sudden,” he says. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I believe he understands my unspoken plea for him to tread more carefully.

“Sleep,” Soraya says. “For how will you repay your debts to us if you do not regain your strength? How much is it worth, the saving of a life? A dozen performances? A whole season’s shows? We shall let Dr. Phipps decide, yes?”

I shudder, knowing such a debt can never be repaid. We are butterflies in a net, O’Neill, Maren, and I—and we must find a way to escape while Maren still lives.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





The wagon rolls to a stop. Soraya’s breaths are deep and even as she indulges in her third nap of the day. Through the window, I see small-town buildings, their windowpanes reflecting the red and purple of the setting sun.

Jasper opens the door and summons O’Neill and me with a gesture. I help O’Neill to his feet and let him lean on me as we make our way through the wagon. With his limping, it is difficult to be quiet—yet we do not wake Soraya.

At the door, Jasper takes over supporting O’Neill, helping him to the ground. “Papa doctor has gone to procure a performance space,” Jasper says. “He’ll have a drink or two before he comes back. Mama is obviously unconscious. So, now is your golden opportunity to see the mermaid.”

“Truly?” I say. “You will take us now?” I could sing for joy at the thought of seeing Maren again.

“This way, lady and gentleman,” Jasper says. He leads us to the other wagon. After removing a padlock and chain, he opens the door. “Go ahead, Clara. I will help our gimpy friend.”

The wagon is full of wooden boxes and strange shapes draped with lengths of gray cloth. Although the windows are open, the space is dark and dim. The air smells of dust, dried flowers, and old books. We barely have enough room to move among the objects.

Jasper brushes past me and stands beside what appears to be a pillar covered with midnight-blue velvet. He takes hold of one corner of the fabric and pulls it slowly, languidly, as though to build excitement in his little audience. Finally, the velvet slides down to form a dark pool around the base of the largest glass apothecary jar I have ever seen—five feet tall, pale green, and crowned with a fancifully wrought silver lid. “Behold the mermaid!” Jasper says theatrically.

As if on cue, Maren opens her eyes. When she sees me, she presses her doll-sized hand to the glass and smiles. Her color is less ashen—pearlier than when last I saw her. Her skin has regained some of its shimmer. Her copper-gold hair floats about her head like a nimbus.

I kneel beside the jar and place my hand against hers; the layer of glass between us warms slowly. “I have missed you, sister,” I say. Although I do not think she can hear me, she smiles wider and blows a kiss with her free hand.

O’Neill lowers himself to the floor beside me. Maren’s face lights up, and she flicks her tail prettily. I glance at his odd expression: part fascination, part shock. It is then that I notice she has lost her wrappings and is bare-breasted.