The Mermaid's Sister(47)



“Story?” I rest my head on his. The speeding carriage hits a bump and knocks our skulls together painfully. We both sit up straight and check for blood.

He rubs the sore spot above his ear. “You know, the story of our lives. I meant to be the great hero. I meant to save Maren and to make both of you blissfully happy.”

“O’Neill,” I say. “You have always made Maren and me happy.”

Jasper snores in piglike snorts. O’Neill continues. “I had a plan: a big house for all of us, with a solarium for Auntie’s herbs, a huge workshop for Scarff, a fine parlor for Maren to take tea in, and a library for you. Rooms for a dozen children. Even a ballroom for dancing. We would have had the most magnificent Christmas parties. But I suppose none of it is possible now.”

“This story is not yet finished,” I remind him. With all my being, I want to reach out to comfort him. Instead, I keep my hands folded in my lap. “You have told me again and again to hold on to hope. You must do the same.” I will not remind him that Maren is a mermaid now, and will never again be a tea-drinking young lady.

O’Neill reaches inside his jacket sleeve and pulls out a daisy, its slim white petals perfect and uncrushed. “For you,” he says.

I accept his gift and try not to blush. “Thank you.”

“What ending would you wish for, Clara?” he asks.

“Have you forgotten the message carved into the tree beside the Wishing Pool? ‘Wishing gets you nothing.’?”

“Who is the pessimist now?” He nudges me with his elbow. “That sign is ridiculous,” he says. “It should be destroyed.”

“I dare you to do it!” A smile invades my face and heart.

“All right, I will.” He raises his right hand and speaks solemnly, “I swear by the stars and the moon and Auntie’s plum cake that I, O’Neill of the Apple Tree, shall destroy the fallacious sign that maligns the Wishing Pool on Llanfair Mountain. I shall burn it and throw its foul ashes into the cesspit!”

We both laugh. It is a good moment, one I plan to treasure, whatever our ending may be.

Suddenly, the wagon lurches, and the terrible cry of an injured horse rends the air. The wagon jerks to a halt, sending boxes and baskets flying and tipping Maren’s jar to its side.

O’Neill and I struggle to our feet and hurry to right the jar. The pearls slosh to the bottom. Maren signs that she is not hurt.

Jasper wakes up swearing and pushes a box off his legs. “Now what? You wait here, and I’ll find out why we’ve stopped.”

“It’s Hippocrates, the bay horse. His leg is broken,” O’Neill says after Jasper leaves. “There is no mistaking the meaning of that cry.”

Furious shouts almost overpower the horse’s wails of pain. Dr. Phipps calls down curses upon all horses, upon all fortune-tellers, upon all ill-repaired roads, upon the entire earth and all of humanity.

The volume and vehemence of the doctor’s curses unsettle me. I look to O’Neill for reassurance, and he takes my hand.

The shouting stops. I hear a gunshot, and the horse’s cries cease. But the silence lasts only seconds before Soraya begins to wail.

“Stay here,” O’Neill says. He steps over fallen boxes and baskets until he reaches the little sliding window that opens to the driver’s seat. He peers out.

“What has happened?” I ask.

“Hippocrates is dead. Jasper and Soraya are kneeling on the ground beside Phipps,” O’Neill says.

“Dr. Phipps is dead, too? Then the prophecy of the monster did not come true.”

“He may still live. I cannot tell from here. I’m going out. Will you come?” O’Neill hurries toward the door, picking a path through more debris.

I glance at Maren, who is sleeping peacefully now that the wagon’s wild motions have ceased. I follow O’Neill.

“Poor Hippocrates,” O’Neill says as we come upon the bloody scene. “He was a gentle soul.”

“There you are, O’Neill,” Jasper says, scrambling to his feet. “Give us a hand getting Papa into the wagon. He’s had some sort of fit. He’s unconscious.”

“Please, boys,” Soraya says, “be careful with him. He is not well, not at all well.” She sobs into her veil. How she can love such a wicked brute, I will never understand. Perhaps he slipped an exceptionally powerful love potion into her tea many years ago.

I go ahead of them and arrange the cushions on Soraya’s couch, making room for the doctor’s limp body.

Once Jasper and O’Neill install him there, Soraya covers him with a blanket and lifts his hand to her moist cheek. “Please wake up, my love,” she says.

“Rest is what he needs, Mama,” Jasper says. “He has overtaxed himself.”

“Yes, my son,” Soraya says, “that is true. He needs rest.” She loosens her husband’s cravat and unbuttons his vest and shirt. She fusses with his hair and adjusts the blanket.

“We must move the wagons off the road,” Jasper says. “We’ll have to make camp until we find another horse.”

“Yes, son,” Soraya says. “You take care of these things. I will take care of your poor father. Oh, my darling George! My love!” She covers his face with kisses.

Whatever love potion she imbibed was very strong indeed.

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