The Mermaid's Sister(52)

Briskly walking side by side, O’Neill and I follow the vile scent of Soraya’s medicine back to the camp.

We are within sight of the wagon when O’Neill grabs my hand and says, “We do need to talk. I know you are still angry with me, and I do not like it.”

“You ought to have thought of that before you made me angry,” I say, pulling my hand out of his grasp. “Sometimes you are as bad as Jasper, taking liberties with no regard for the consequences. With no regard for anyone’s feelings but your own.”

I run ahead of him into the circle of firelight. Jasper eyes me hungrily as I straighten my skirt and tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. Am I any safer here than in the woods with wild beasts and the enigmatic, exasperating O’Neill? A blush heats my face like the hottest summer sun, and I feel like I am a living example of the expression “out of the frying pan and into the fire.”



Nestled amongst plump cushions and down-filled coverlets, Dr. Phipps dozes as Jasper and O’Neill drive the wagons northward. It is early June, and even with every window of the wagon thrown open, the atmosphere within is close to stifling. Soraya, wearing only a cotton shift, beats the air with a fan made of brightly colored feathers. Beads of sweat dot her forehead and upper lip.

Constrained by my innate modesty, I refuse to lounge about in my undergarments. Jasper can clearly view us through the open window, and Auntie always warned Maren and me not to tempt men by revealing “too many secrets.” Besides, I know full well that Jasper needs no temptation at all. Since O’Neill’s foolish kiss, Jasper has made plain his desire for me.

Consequently, I am drenched in perspiration, short of breath, and short of temper.

Maren is unbothered by the heat; I imagine she dreams of tropical waters as she sways within her jar.

Whenever Dr. Phipps moans, Soraya dabs his forehead with a damp cloth and sings softly, foreign songs with foreign words, but unmistakably songs of love. From time to time, she puts a cup to his lips and he swallows some of her malodorous medicine. She has dosed him with it a hundred times, and yet he seems neither better nor worse.

He sleeps most of the day away, much like Maren. And in his case, it seems a good thing. He does not bellow, threaten, or terrorize. He does not create lies to enslave people, or dole out poisoned (or unpoisoned) tea.

In fact, Jasper, O’Neill, and I have not tasted the doctor’s Beloved Bondage tea in days. And none of us have suffered for lack of it. Jasper has not mentioned it once, but surely he must have noticed by now.

“The medicine is gone,” Soraya says as she taps the little bottle against the rim of the cup. “I will make more tonight.”

“Is it helping?” I ask, wishing she would doze off so I could search her cabinets for the ingredients to make the sleeping draught. But her naps have become exceedingly rare since her husband fell ill.

“Of course,” she says. “Without it, he would have faded away by now, into the world between life and death. And then, one day, the gods would choose his next path. Perhaps leading into the everlasting pleasures of paradise, perhaps not. The gods are such temperamental beings. On one day, they might deem a man worthy of paradise, but on another they might decide the very same man should return to earth as a dung beetle. You simply cannot predict these things.”

“Oh,” I say. Her religion does not sound comforting in the least.

Soraya rests her head against the wall and resumes the fluttering of her feathered fan. “I have heard you say that your aunt is a healer. Tell me about her.”

To pass the time and to distract myself from the unbearable heat, I decide to answer her. “Auntie Verity is kindness itself,” I say. “She is very old and very wise. Her hair is as gray as ashes, and she wears it in a knot, speared with a pencil in case she needs to jot down a note or receipt. She is never without an apron. Her favorite is printed with tiny violets, and it has been mended so many times that it is practically quilted.” I smile, picturing her using the edge of that apron to wipe batter from the corner of my four-year-old mouth.

“Go on,” Soraya says. She takes a tasseled pillow from the floor and places it behind her back.

“Auntie has beautiful hands. Long, tapered fingers with elegant nails, each with a perfect crescent moon at its base, each as pink as the inside of a seashell—despite her endless gardening and yarn dyeing. They are not young-looking hands, but they are lovely. They have led me through forests, soothed me when I was hurt or afraid, and kneaded the bread for our table. They have picked plants and herbs that saved many a life, and they have delivered so many babies that Auntie has lost count.”

I am thinking of Maren as I speak, and of all the things Auntie has done for both of us. But I will not tell Maren’s story to Soraya. I would never entrust her with the tale of the seashell, the stork, and the apple tree. That tale is as sacred to me as Soraya’s fickle gods are to her.

“You left her behind,” Soraya says. “In my culture, we do not abandon our elders.”

“Auntie knows I had to leave to save Maren’s life,” I say. “She knows I will return to her as soon as I can. I would be home now if your husband had not interfered with our journey.”

She opens her eyes and scowls. “Speak carefully, Clara. My husband is my king, and I will not have you speak ill of him.”

“I beg your pardon,” I say—to pacify her, not because I regret what I said.