The Mermaid's Sister(56)

“Wait, dear,” Mrs. Smith calls as I step into the street. “You have left your things behind.”

“My employer said to throw them away,” I say. “Would you mind?”

“Not the item in the pocket, surely,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

The dagger! How could I have forgotten it? “Oh, my,” I say. “Forgive my absentmindedness.”

She beckons me back to the private changing room. “I have not seen such a thing in many years,” she says. She closes the door and takes the scabbard out from beneath the pile of my discarded garments. “May I examine it?”

“Yes,” I say, puzzled by her look of amazement.

She holds the blade in a beam of sunlight and turns it slowly. “How did you come upon such a treasure?”

“A friend gave it to me. Even so, I would not call so plain a thing a treasure.”

She gasps. “You do not know?”

I shake my head.

“It is a healing blade. What it cuts, it mends. It is older than the mountains, made by the pixies in the Old Country.” She sheathes it and places it in my hands as if it was a holy relic. “Take great care of it, my dear. I have a feeling in my old bones that you will have need of it soon. But be wise, for it may only be used once.” She pats my cheek as Auntie used to. “You must be a very special girl to have been given such a thing.”

I hold the dagger in front of me, unsure what to do with it.

Mrs. Smith points to my hip. “Your dress has deep pockets. I never make one without them.”

The scabbard easily slides into a pocket. The skirt falls just so, hiding its presence. “You are a great seamstress,” I say. “And very kind.”

She beams with pride. “Hurry along now, dear. It is getting late.”

The church bell tolls five as I reach the wagons.

“Miraculous,” Jasper says from the large wagon’s doorway. “You should have a new dress every day.”

“Who’s flirting now?” O’Neill says from behind me.

“Shall we duel at dawn?” Jasper asks. “Swords or pistols?”

“Definitely swords,” O’Neill says. “But Clara will most likely win.”

“Touché!” Jasper says with a chuckle as he hops to the ground. “The road beckons, my children.”

As O’Neill passes me, he whispers, “You look very pretty, Clara.”

My face heats. I blush more deeply as I berate myself for blushing too much. Just what I need, I think, to feel even hotter when I am about to climb back into an oven of a wagon.



The next evening, in an odd little town that Jasper says is entirely populated by shoemakers, the show goes on. I swear it will be my last—and Maren’s. Whether I find time to cook the sleeping draught or not, tomorrow morning, or perhaps afternoon, we will leave the Phipps family behind. I vow this to myself, over and over. I will tell O’Neill of my plans tonight if I find a way to speak to him alone. He will object, but I will not be swayed this time. I must take this last chance to save my sister’s life.

After the show, an almost impossibly tall cobbler sidles up to me. (I know he is a cobbler because he forgot to remove his tool belt before leaving his shop.) With the air of a frightened rabbit, he looks down into my face, and then at my boots. He is polite enough to resist staring at my scanty costume.

“Pardon me, miss,” he says. “If I might measure your lovely foot, I would reward you with a pair of fine shoes before the sun rises.”

“That is very kind,” I reply. “But I have no money to pay you.”

“I would do it for the joy of it,” he says quietly. “And for a single strand of your beautiful hair.”

“Clara!” O’Neill shouts. “You are needed in the wagon. Urgently!”

“I am sorry,” I say to the timid cobbler. New shoes—shoes made for my feet rather than Soraya’s—would have been most useful on my upcoming journey. “Sorry.”

Gripped with fear, I climb the steps into the wagon. Is Maren worse? Is she dead?

“What is it?” I ask.

“You were in grave danger,” O’Neill says. “That shoemaker’s wares cost a terrible price.”

I laugh. “You are mistaken. He said he’d make them for the joy of doing so.”

“And a strand of your hair. And with that exchange, you would be bound to him and his kind forever.”

“Is that some kind of ancient shoemaker marriage ritual?” I think O’Neill is making a fool of me again.

“He is of elven blood. And so are most of the citizens of this mountain. Jasper knows it, and he brought us here anyway. He endangers us all.”

Soraya speaks from the dark corner where she holds vigil over the doctor. “Jasper came here because I asked him to. These elven folk grow the seven-needle root I need to cure Dr. Phipps.”

“And has Jasper procured it?” O’Neill asks. “Or shall we spend the night here and risk our mortal souls?”

“Neelo, child! How dramatic you are!” She laughs. “So suited for the stage!” She leans back and languidly flutters her fan. “Yes, Jasper has the root. Go strike the show and hitch the horses, and we can flee this place that turns you into a scared little boy.” She giggles behind her fan. I suspect that she has been drinking wine from the cabinet behind her.