The Mermaid's Sister(53)

“Tell me of your sister,” she says, her voice calm again.

“She loves water. She always has. And one day, she began to change into a mermaid.” I stop, unwilling to share the intimate details of my sister’s story with someone who has taken advantage of her.

“How did this happen? Did your aunt put a spell on her? Did someone else curse her?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps she angered the water sprites of our mountain springs. Perhaps they were jealous of her beauty. They are hideous little creatures, the Llanfair spring sprites.” There. I can spin a yarn as well as Scarff if I try.

“Ah,” Soraya says. “The water spirits of my country are also vain creatures, and dangerous.”

“You understand, then,” I say.

“Magical creatures are not to be toyed with,” she says. She yawns daintily and closes her eyes.

I stare at her, puzzled and a little angry. Is this what she truly believes? How dare she say such a thing, when she herself toys with Maren’s life? Or does she only do what the doctor decrees, whether she thinks it right or wrong? I want to shake her, to make her understand the incongruity of her words and actions. To make her consider the consequence of her “toying with” my mermaid sister.

But she has fallen asleep, and now Dr. Phipps is staring at me with vacant eyes.

I get up and move out of his line of sight. He does not attempt to follow me with his eerie gaze. For that, I am thankful.

As soon as Soraya’s snoring commences, I hasten to the cabinet that houses her medicinal herbs. Fortunately, it stands behind the doctor’s couch—were Soraya to awaken, she might not see me right away.

I slide open the drawers and pull out little bottles, looking for the proper labels. White pennythorn leaf, root of flameweed, dried doe’s milk, petals of chamomile. I drop the bottles into my skirt’s pockets. But although I search every drawer, I do not find the scarlet truffle powder necessary to complete the concoction.

Dr. Phipps cries out in his sleep and Soraya stirs. I return to my place on the floor before she opens her eyes.

I will wait for another chance to continue my pilfering.

Of course, more waiting is not at all what I would wish for.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE





The patrons chatter excitedly as they leave the showground. They have seen a fire juggler, listened to a captivating songstress, watched a magician make a scandalously dressed girl disappear into thin air, and danced to the music of a devilishly handsome violinist. They have purchased cures for stomach ailments, women’s troubles, gout, and consumption. They have bought balms to treat baby rashes and bug bites. They have stared in wonder at the jarred eyes of Egyptian pharaohs and a braid of Saint Catherine’s hair (strands of corn silk woven together three days ago by a bored Jasper). And they have visited a real, live mermaid.

If they had seen the wyvern lurking in the top of a nearby hemlock tree, they would not be quite so jolly.

Outside the gallery tent, I wave to Osbert, knowing his keen eyes will see me even in the pale, flickering light of the torches outlining the camp. Tonight, there is no moon.

A blanket falls over my shoulders. “If Auntie saw that gown, she’d faint,” O’Neill says.

I gather the blanket around myself like a cape. “If I saw myself in this gown, I’d likely faint,” I say. “I have made every effort to avoid mirrors and reflective surfaces.”

“All those poor farm lads will have indecent thoughts for weeks because of you.”

I scowl. “I do not find that especially amusing, O’Neill,” I say. “I already feel guilty for wearing such a revealing dress. You know it was not my choice.”

A look of genuine repentance appears on his face. “I am sorry, Clara. I only meant to tease you a little. I forgot how ladylike you are. How Scarff always remarked upon your perfect manners.”

“I will forgive you since you brought me this blanket to make up for my lack of fabric.” I smile at him, and he repays me in kind.

“You do look beautiful in that ruby color, though.”

“Thank you,” I say, wishing the butterflies in my stomach would cease their fluttering. The memory of O’Neill’s kiss makes my knees weak. Why are his eyes so blue? Why must he stand so close?

I look about us to make sure we are alone before changing the subject. “I have all but one ingredient for the draught,” I whisper.

“Good,” he says. “The horses are ready, and I have set aside a large tin bucket with a lid for Maren. It will have to do.”

“Yes,” I say. “She is fading fast. Whatever Soraya put in her water is no longer working to keep her well. We must get her to the ocean quickly.”

“Trust me,” O’Neill says. “I will get us away from this show and save Maren. I have promised, and I promise again.”

“I hope so,” I say. “With all my strength.”

From across the camp, Jasper shouts for O’Neill.

“Duty calls,” he says. “Jasper needs me to check the horses’ shoes. And you need to change your clothes.” He gives me one last crooked smile and walks away.

He takes my silly heart with him. I have lost all control of the blasted thing.



Rain patters on the roof of the wagon like the dancing feet of a hundred happy elves. A rumble of thunder vibrates the floor beneath my thin pallet. I roll over and wonder if Jasper and O’Neill’s tent is keeping the rain out. I am glad that Soraya has insisted that I sleep in the wagon with her and the doctor.