The Mermaid's Sister(48)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE





The sun wears a fiery orange halo as I watch it sinking beyond the rolling acres of cornfields. Crickets sing and a few fireflies rise up from the grass, flashing their secret signals to one another. Tonight’s dinner bubbles in the pot: a rabbit stew flavored with wild herbs and a few spices from Soraya’s well-stocked cabinet.

Jasper and O’Neill approach the fireside almost soundlessly. They set Maren’s jar beside me, presenting her as though she is a gift. Which, of course, she is. My sister swims in circles and waves her tiny hand at me. She presses her palms to the glass and stares at the campfire’s bright flames. My sister has always loved a campfire—perhaps because it is not something someone born of water ought to do.

With Dr. Phipps laid up in the wagon and Soraya scrutinizing his every twitch, O’Neill, Jasper, Maren, and I have gained a measure of freedom.

“This is Scarff’s kind of night,” O’Neill says as he sits cross-legged between Maren and me. “A nice half-moon rising, peeper frogs peeping, the air perfumed with stew and wood smoke, and a pretty lass or two to admire.”

“Pretty lasses!” I say. “I thought Scarff was devoted to Auntie, his wife!”

“Well, he only looked,” O’Neill says wryly. “Truly, Clara, he liked the lasses around for their cooking. The fellow burned everything he ever put in a pan, even water! But in all our days together, Scarff never spoke of anyone as fondly as he did of Auntie Verity. And her two girls.”

Jasper sits opposite me and begins cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife. “Is he flirting with you again, Clara? Does he never stop?”

“Don’t be silly, Jasper. He’s practically my brother.” I wish I could crawl under a very large rock.

“Practically does not a brother make,” Jasper says. “But if that is what you believe, Clara . . .”

Maren frowns, her eyes glinting at Jasper. O’Neill is hers, she would tell Jasper if she could speak. She flicks her tail menacingly, and waves form atop the water. I think it would be unwise to tangle with an angry mermaid, even one as small as she.

Jasper shrugs. “So be it, then. What I would like to know is this: Is my dinner ready yet, woman?” He uncaps a silver flask and drinks.

I throw a handful of grass at Jasper. “Get it yourself,” I say, smiling as if in jest—although I mean what I say. “I may be your father’s slave, but I am not yours.”

“Ouch,” Jasper says. “I am undone by your bitter words, my lady.”

“Good. You needed some undoing,” I say, playing along. Things are changing since the doctor’s fit, and making Jasper believe I am his friend may soon prove advantageous. “And while you’re getting your stew, would you mind getting mine?”

“Ah, Jasper! Never vex one of Verity’s girls,” O’Neill says. “You’ll pay the price, and then be forced to pay it again!”

“Both of you should fill your mouths with food instead of words for a change,” I say, and I get up to do the serving.

After I am seated again, I turn my attention to my sister for a moment. Now reclining upon the pearls in the bottom of her jar, Maren has regained her peaceful demeanor. She combs her fingers through her coppery hair and then begins braiding a section of it.

“How is your father?” I ask Jasper between bites.

“The same,” Jasper says, sounding unconcerned. “But rest assured. Once I purchase a new horse, we will be on our way again. As they say, ‘The show must go on.’?” He holds out his bowl, demanding more without asking. “I thought we could try a few new acts while Papa doctor is under the weather. O’Neill tells me he can eat fire, and I am positively dying to see you onstage in one of Mama’s flimsy dancing costumes, Clara.”

I fill his bowl, wishing I could dump its contents over his unmannerly head.

“Clara was brought up to be modest, Jasper,” O’Neill says. “Is that not something to be valued in a young lady?”

“A young nun, perhaps. Clara has no idea how to enjoy life. I am only offering to help her open up to the possibilities of experience and sensation. You could use some unbuttoning yourself, O’Neill.” Jasper stands and reaches inside his jacket. He takes out his pennywhistle. “Let me help you. I will play you a tune, and you will dance. You will have fun tonight, even if I must make you.”

I glance at Maren. She sleeps, completely undisturbed by Jasper’s advances. For once, I am jealous of her.

Jasper plays a merry jig. O’Neill stands, takes my hand, and pulls me to my feet. “Keep playing along, Clara,” he whispers. “For Maren’s sake.” He twirls me about.

And so I imagine we are dancing next to one of Auntie’s bonfires, surrounded by frolicking Llanfair Mountain children. I picture Scarff playing the songs, and Maren dancing with one of the Fischer boys. I focus on O’Neill’s familiar face and pretend that we have not a care in the world. For a few minutes, I dare to let joy bubble up inside me.

After several songs, Jasper asks O’Neill, “Do you play?”

“I do,” he says, bent over with hands on thighs, trying to catch his breath. His limp has all but disappeared but he is still not as strong as he was before the caravan fire.