The Mermaid's Sister(39)

Soraya has left me a kettle of hot water, a rag, and a basin for washing the dishes. I scrub them hard, taking out my frustrations upon every bowl and spoon. Not sure what to do with them next, I pile the clean dishes on the chairs near the fire.

When I go to empty the basin in the bushes, a beady eye glints up at me.

The eye is set in a plumed black head that rests, disembodied, atop a pile of dark feathers. The sheen of these plucked feathers is familiar to me.

That poor bird was not just any bird.

I am sick to my very soul. We have eaten our dear friend Pilsner for supper.



I do not want to watch the show.

I want to take Maren’s jar and steal a horse and ride to the Atlantic as fast as I can. I want O’Neill to go with me. I want Maren to be safe and well in her ocean home, and I want to go home to Llanfair Mountain and Auntie.

Wanting is as bad as wishing, I suppose, if the one who wants does nothing. Or can do nothing.

I find O’Neill backstage. He is staring into the distance. His face is pale, his forehead creased with concern.

“They served us Pilsner for supper,” I blurt. I could not keep myself from telling him. I shiver as I remember finding the raven’s pretty head. I sit on an overturned wooden box and try not to give way to tears. Could I ever stop weeping if I allowed myself to begin now? Could the ocean contain such a flood?

Beside me, O’Neill is perched on a wooden stool, his right leg propped on a box. When I sniffle, he hands me a handkerchief. He rests his cool hand on the back of my neck. “Pilsner was a good friend. I am sorry for your loss. For our loss,” he says.

“It is no use being sorry,” I say. “Will we do nothing about it? Will you accept his death as easily as you have accepted our Maren being put on display and ogled?” The words spill out, laced with poison like Phipps’s tea. “Have you forgotten your promise to protect my sister and me? After all your time with magical gypsies, have you no idea how to escape the curse of the doctor’s tea? Perhaps if you kill the owner of the curse, the curse will be broken.” My whole body pulses with the pounding of my heart. Did I truly just ask O’Neill to commit murder?

He removes his hand from my neck. “How can you hold me accountable for the Phippses’ treachery? It is unfair, Clara. And do you think that I have not considered every possible solution to our problems? Not for one minute have I forgotten my promises to you. But Scarff spent years teaching me to overcome my natural impulse to act rashly, and I will not risk our lives by rushing to revenge.”

“Forgive me. I feel as if I am coming apart at the seams. Perhaps it is the tea’s fault. Or perhaps I am changing into my true self as Maren did, only my true self is neither girl nor stork, but an ugly, mean thing. A troll or a harpy.”

“You do not believe that,” he says gently. “You are hurt and afraid and losing hope. Be hurt and afraid if you must, and grieve for poor Pilsner, but do not lose hope. Wouldn’t Auntie give you this same advice, my dear?”

I stare at the floor. “Yes,” I say, ashamed. I use O’Neill’s handkerchief to dab the tears that have somehow seeped from my eyes. “But you know what they are up to, do you not? Maren is to be the main attraction in the Gallery of Wonders. They will drag her about the country and show her off until their pockets are overflowing and she dies from being kept in a jar. She is not the first mermaid they have used in such a way. Jasper wears the same tattoo as you. And you and I will be their slaves until they tire of us—and in the end Jasper will add our names to his list.”

On the other side of the red velvet curtain, the audience talks and laughs, growing louder as more voices join in. They are excited, glad for the free entertainment. Would they be so happy if they knew the utter depravity of the Phipps family?

“Look!” O’Neill says, his face turned skyward.

Osbert swoops low, his blue-scaled body almost invisible against the late afternoon sky.

“Our faithful wyvern guardian angel,” O’Neill says. “Reason enough to hope a little, don’t you think?”

Dr. Phipps climbs the steps on the opposite end of the platform and joins us backstage. “Quiet now,” he says. “The show is about to begin.” He walks to the place where the curtains meet and signals for them to be opened. To the side, I see Jasper pull the ropes, causing the curtains to slide apart with a whoosh.

Dr. Phipps steps forward and the crowd is instantly silent. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaims, “I, Dr. George Wilhelm Hieronymus Lewis Balthazar Phipps, welcome one and all to this, our astounding and spectacular entertainment! Prepare to be amazed!”

The crowd applauds. Dr. Phipps removes his hat and bows low for a count of three. Once upright again, he extends his arms and says, “I present to you the toast of the crowned heads of Europe and Asia, the beautiful chanteuse Madame Soraya of Gojanastani.”

Soraya sweeps onto the stage in a sparkling gown of sunset-colored silk and a veil as sheer as candlelight. Phipps takes her hand; she curtsies low. And then he leaves her.

I did not expect the stage to be so beautiful from this vantage point. Strings of brass lanterns hang above the platform, and with the footlights they cast a golden glow upon the doctor’s wife.

She begins to sing. The song is strange, its notes sliding and curving, its lyrics poignant to me even though I do not know one word of the language. Her soprano voice climbs the scale and holds a note more piercing than any I have ever heard.