The Mermaid's Sister(58)

“I never cared for that one, either,” I say. Jealousy churns in my stomach. It is an ugly thing, and I hate it. But I am weary to the bone of waiting to escape . . . and of wishing O’Neill would love me, and wishing that I did not love him.

O’Neill shrugs. “Maren adored that song when we were six. She used to demand to hear it ten times in a row.”

I remember all too well. “Scarff always refused and called her a rascal, but she never failed to charm him into singing it again,” I say. The pleasant memory eases my jealous heart—a little.

Jasper hands the bottle to O’Neill. He plugs the hole with his thumb and pretends to drink. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve for good measure. O’Neill passes me the bottle, and I do the same.

“We shall be famous,” Jasper announces. “The three—I mean, the four of us. You two and me and our mermaid. We shall perform before the crowned heads of Europe. Queens will fall in love with me, and you can have the duchesses, Neelo. And Clara here will wear fancy gowns and rub our tired feet with her hair.”

Jasper is definitely drunk. I shove the bottle back into his grasp.

If he drinks himself into unconsciousness, we will not need the sleeping draught. I question O’Neill with my eyes. He motions for me to remain still. I hear the mixture bubbling in the kettle behind me. In another minute, it should be ready.

“Neelo, my lad,” Jasper continues. “You should quit dilly dallying and marry Clara. Because if you don’t, one of these nights . . . one of these long, lonely nights, I am going to make a dishonest woman of her. And after just one night with me, she will never want anyone else but me. Especially not you, juggler boy.”

“You are a pig, Jasper!” I glare at him and clench my hands into fists at my sides.

“See? She is a tigress, Neelo. A tigress who wants taming.” Jasper sucks on the wine bottle like a calf at an udder.

Let O’Neill serve the tea. I have heard enough. “I am going to bed,” I say, immediately regretting my choice of words.

“Is that an invitation? And is it for Neelo or for me?” Jasper doubles over with laughter.

O’Neill springs to his feet. “That is no way to speak to a lady,” he says. His nostrils flare and I suspect he wants to punch Jasper as much as I do. But he breathes deeply and says, “Why don’t you get us some of that tea, Clara? We are out of wine and Jasper seems to still have a thirst.”

“Tea? Bah! I will get more wine,” Jasper says.

I lift the kettle and fill Jasper’s favorite mug with reddish brown liquid. “But I made this for you, Jasper,” I say. I step close to him and offer the drink, smiling as sweetly as I can. “Try it, for me?”

He takes the mug and pulls me into his lap at the same time. “Ah,” he says. “I feel like a king. I am a king.” He swallows the draught in a few loud gulps. I try to stand but his arm holds me to him like a vise.

“What was that you said before, Clara? About going to bed?” His breath is hot on my neck.

O’Neill has panic and confusion in his eyes. “More tea?” he says.

“La, no! Terrible stuff, that was.” Jasper stands with me in his arms, cradling me close to his chest. “You finish it, O’Neill. I have better plans.”

“Put me down,” I say. “Please, Jasper.”

“Why would I?” he says. “You have teased me long enough.”

“Just for a few moments. I want to wear the red costume for you. Let me put it on, and I will dance for you.”

He sets me down. He sways a little, putting his hand on my shoulder to steady himself. “Hurry, then,” he says. “Come to my tent. Or I will come and find you, little vixen.”

I walk to the wagon, hoping against hope that Jasper will topple like a tree before I get inside.

My right foot is on the lowest step when I hear an unearthly moan and a resounding crash from inside the wagon. I step back.

“Sit down, my love!” Soraya’s voice pleads. “You are unwell!”

Another crash. The sound of glass breaking.

“You have poisoned me, you faithless whore!” Dr. Phipps bellows.

“No! You are better now! See how your strength has returned!”

Soraya backs out the door and stumbles down the four steps. I move out of her way.

“Calm yourself, my love. You need to rest.” Her eyes are wild with fear. “I think your new medicine has disagreed with you, my darling. Hush, now.”

Jasper’s legs buckle and he sits down hard in the dirt, watching his frantic mother and yawning like a spectator at an uninspiring show.

O’Neill pulls me farther away from Soraya as the doctor emerges. His face is purple, streaked with red. Bright blood flows freely from a gash above one eyebrow. His rumpled clothes hang from his emaciated body. His hands are curved into claws.

Soraya hums a shaky lullaby and steps backward, arms extended to ward off her husband’s approach.

With a springing leap, Dr. Phipps catches her by the throat. He growls as he crushes her delicate neck between his dusky hands.

O’Neill rushes toward them, and at that moment, a gunshot rends the air.

As if tripped, O’Neill tumbles forward, knocking Soraya and the doctor to the ground. And I scream.

“Stay back, Clara,” Jasper says. He moves toward his fallen parents and O’Neill, still clutching the gun.