The Mermaid's Sister(46)

“Listen,” he says. “I like you and O’Neill. More than I should. You must be careful.”

“I will,” I say, surprised at his great concern.

He reaches out and cups my shoulders with his hands. “Papa swears that last night he saw in the flesh the thing of his nightmares, the thing that a fortune-teller once said would bring his death. He is frantic with fear. And when Papa is fearful, his temper is short. We are all in danger at such times. Even Soraya bears scars to testify to that.”

“I promise to be wary,” I say. “Thank you for your advice.”

Soraya calls me again, and I brush past Jasper and hurry to do her bidding.

I wonder about Dr. Phipps’s nightmare monster. Strange how its sighting coincides with Osbert’s visit. Could Osbert be the instrument of his doom? I cannot imagine Osbert killing a person. The largest thing he has ever killed was a fox he found digging its way into the chicken coop. But a wyvern is a dragon, and dragons do have a history of man-killing.

I wish to escape, certainly, but there must be a less violent way to go about it. One that does not involve my pet wyvern acquiring a taste for human blood.

The dagger bumps against my hip as I walk. I wonder if it has tasted human blood, and if it might do so again.

What would I do to save my sister? What might I do to save O’Neill? I would give my life. But would I give someone else’s? Could I?

I hope that it will never come to that.

I wish I could be certain.



Jasper was right.

Today, his father is a black cloud full of explosive thunder and dangerous lightning. He leaves in his wake broken dishes, nervous horses, and a wife drenched in tears.

Dr. Phipps paces and mutters like a madman. He commands Jasper to bring the mermaid into the large wagon. Jasper is to watch over their priceless main attraction as Dr. Phipps drives. Jasper must also keep an eye on O’Neill and me, in case we are plotting mutiny or elopement. Soraya must drive the smaller wagon alone. When she hears this, her wailing grows more and more intense until Phipps threatens to beat her if she does not cease at once.

When the packing is done, and Soraya is installed upon her driver’s seat, Dr. Phipps whips the horses into a gallop that almost lifts the wagon wheels from the ground.

Every dish, treasure, and artifact rattles as we rush along. The water in Maren’s jar sloshes to and fro; her small body bumps into the glass over and over. If mermaids bruise, she will be black-and-blue by nightfall. No one speaks. No one dares to mention that Dr. Phipps is killing the horses by running them so mercilessly for so long.

Pearls the size of poppy seeds fall from Maren’s eyes and drift about her like snow. O’Neill and I exchange concerned glances. But there is nothing we can do to end her discomfort.

Jasper stares at Maren, his expression detached—as though he is observing a tadpole instead of a thinking, feeling, and cherished person.

I decide to test him to see if he will tell the truth about his protective tattoo: “How are you able to gaze at Maren that way without consequence, while the men who pay to look at her for a single minute become blathering fools?”

“Mermaids are not so fascinating once you’ve known a few. And perhaps I’ve built up a resistance. Anyway, I find girls with legs much more appealing than girls with fins,” Jasper says, leering at me. “That pink bodice suits you, Clara. The color makes your skin look like fresh cream.”

My face heats. “You are not behaving like a gentleman,” I say. I look to O’Neill and see anger in his eyes. I shake my head, silently warning him not to get into trouble with Jasper on my account.

“You never want to play, Clara. I find it quite disheartening.” Jasper leans back into a pile of fat cushions. “I might as well nap. Just remember, I’m only a few feet away if you get lonely.”

“Jasper, please show some respect,” O’Neill says in a polite but strained tone.

“You both bore me terribly.” Jasper closes his eyes. Soon, his head lolls and he sleeps—in spite of being jostled about in the careening wagon.

I reach deep into my skirt pocket. O’Neill raises his eyebrows.

I move to his side and am almost thrown into his lap as the wagon whips around a corner. He takes my arm to steady me.

“Thank you,” I whisper, kneeling beside him. “Look. Osbert brought this.” I place the scabbard in his hand.

Carefully, he slides the dagger from its sheath. “That is dangerous looking indeed.”

“My thought exactly. You should keep it,” I say.

“No. It is yours. Osbert chose to give it to you. He must have had his reasons for doing so.”

“But I could never use such a thing,” I say. “Except to open letters or slice cheese.”

“Save it for cheese, then. It is yours.” He returns the weapon to me. “But perhaps you will need it for something else. To save me from a sea monster. To defend my honor among unruly wenches.”

“Very amusing,” I say. I put the scabbard back into my pocket.

“I would not be surprised if it is endued with strong magic of some kind. Sometimes the plainest of things conceal the most unimaginable wonders,” he says. He peers at me oddly, as if searching for something behind my eyes. Then he sighs and lays his head upon my shoulder. “This is not the way I thought this story would be told.”