The Mermaid's Sister(37)

She turns to face me. Bubbles float up from her lips as she mouths, “O’Neill,” and presses both hands over her heart. Then she motions again, and I know what she intends to say: Tell him that I love him.

“Good-bye,” I say again. I crown the jar with its lid and drape the velvet over it.

I will deliver her message to O’Neill. But I wish I did not have to.





CHAPTER NINETEEN





The camp stands like a foreign guest in a dandelion-studded field. The fabric of the two green tents moves in and out with the breeze as if they are breathing. The large wagon is parked in front of them and has been transformed, by the attachment of a raised wooden platform, into a stage complete with red velvet curtains and copper, shell-shaped footlights. Queued in front of the stage, plank benches await the audience.

A big red-and-yellow-striped tent is situated to the right of the stage, a golden pennant snapping on its pole at the peak. The cloth sign above the door proclaims it the “Gallery of Wonders.” I have not seen this tent before; Phipps and company must not have pitched it when they visited Llanfair Village.

“Grand, is it not?” Jasper says from behind me, startling me. “It is time for supper, Clara. The townspeople will begin to arrive soon.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders and steers me along. “Mama has prepared my favorite dish, in honor of your joining the show.”

I try to shrug off his arm, but he fights my efforts. “We do appreciate your kindness, but it is not possible for us to join your show. O’Neill and I must take Maren to the ocean. She will not survive much longer otherwise.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I ought to have kept silent rather than revealing our plans to leave. I should have waited for O’Neill to speak to Dr. Phipps in his charming, persuasive O’Neill way—although I suspect Phipps will deny his pleas. Why would he give up a prize such as Maren?

“Nonsense,” Jasper says. “Maren is fine. The solution Mama concocted for her can keep her healthy for years. I have seen it done.”

“It is not what Maren wants, to live in a jar. It is not what is best for her.”

“And fretting like a wet hen is not what’s best for you, Clara dear. It ruins a girl’s looks. Now, relax and breathe in that heavenly aroma,” Jasper says, inhaling deeply. “The finest of spices combined to perfection.”

We round a corner. Dr. Phipps beckons us to the campfire, where four mismatched wooden chairs and a stool with a tufted cushion have been arranged in a semicircle. O’Neill gives a little wave; I duck out from under Jasper’s arm and hurry to sit beside him.

Soraya dips her ladle into the depths of a cast-iron pot. She fills blue china bowls and Jasper hands them around, serving his father first. Steam rises from each dish in deliciously fragranced curlicues. A brass teakettle sits at the edge of the embers, hissing and spitting.

“Eat, children,” Soraya says as she takes her seat.

We eat with silver spoons, scooping up yellow rice, tender bits of meat (rabbit or maybe chicken, but not squirrel, surely!), sliced almonds, and plump golden raisins, seasoned with an array of mysterious spices and herbs.

With each bite, I miss Auntie more. She would be able to name every ingredient in the dish. During such a dinner, she would recount a story about the dish’s origin, perhaps something about a camel herder’s ugly daughter winning a nomadic prince’s affections by way of her wonderful cooking. Maren has always loved such romantic tales.

After we enjoy second helpings of rice, Soraya presses an earthenware mug into my hand and gives O’Neill its twin. “Drink,” she says. And so we do, moving in dance-like unison as we lift the mugs to our lips and sip the hot liquid. I taste honey, cinnamon, and black tea, and behind those pleasant flavors, a tang that hints of forbidden pleasures. My whole body warms and tingles as I drain the cup.

Jasper rises with a strange, derisive snort and stalks away.

Across from O’Neill and me, Soraya sits at her husband’s feet and rests her head against his impeccably dressed knee. Dr. Phipps smiles, but not at her. He is smiling at O’Neill and me, and his smile is a wicked, wicked thing.

O’Neill wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “What was in that?” he asks. He is trembling, his shoulder shuddering against mine.

“Ah, dear boy. The devil does not share his receipts and neither do I,” Dr. Phipps says. “I call it Beloved Bondage, for you shall crave it daily for the rest of your lives, needing it more than the air you breathe, and you shall be enslaved to the one who holds its secrets. That would be me.”

The world seems to tip on its axis at this revelation, and I grab for O’Neill’s arm as if he might prevent me from falling off.

O’Neill lunges toward the doctor with raised fists. “You son of a—”

“If you choose to hit me, I promise that you will be dead within the week,” Dr. Phipps says calmly.

I look to Soraya for sympathy or outrage, hoping that she will object or demand that her husband grant us an antidote. Or that she will laugh and spoil his dark joke. Instead, she runs her red tongue over her lips and nestles closer to him.

Dr. Phipps takes a pocket watch from his vest and checks the hour. “It is time for you to change into your costume, Soraya my love.” He leans over and kisses her noisily. And then, like a minotaur lifting a nymph, Dr. Phipps hoists his wife and clutches her to his chest. Humming, he waddles toward the tents.