The Mermaid's Sister(9)

“Good night,” I say.

Truth be told, I do wish we had stayed home. And I wish the medicine show woman had not caught a glimpse of Maren’s webbed fingers. I hope Maren’s careless revelation is quickly forgotten and does not bring consequences upon our little family.

My most fervent wish tonight, the last wish I will allow myself before surrendering to sleep, is for Madame Soraya and the dreadful medicine show to leave Llanfair Mountain before dawn and never return.





CHAPTER FIVE





August melts into September. Auntie and I harvest our crops of beans, potatoes, carrots, and beets. We gather herbs and hang them to dry in the attic. We pick grapes, pears, and apples. Every apple I pick reminds me of O’Neill, the apple tree child. I can no longer tell myself that I think of him only as my brother. I love him, and when he returns, I . . . I will most certainly not tell him.

Here on Llanfair Mountain (too many miles from wherever O’Neill may be), even the nosiest gossip fails to mention Maren’s odd hands being revealed by the medicine show woman. For that, I am exceedingly grateful.

Maren is changing. Osbert follows her about, hanging his head and whimpering.

While Auntie and I work, Maren sits in the shallow end of the Wishing Pool if the weather is fine, or on a chair with her feet soaking in the washtub if there is a chill in the air. She must always be touching water now, as being completely dry causes her anxiety and discomfort.

She is losing her voice. Her loudest words come out as a whisper.

And the fishlike scales no longer hide beneath her skin’s surface. Cool to the touch, they adorn her sides in silvery-green layers.

She hobbles on feet that are closer to fins.

When the pain of her body’s transformation causes her to weep, tiny pearls fall from her eyes. She catches them in a bowl and buries them in the garden when she thinks Auntie and I are not looking. The garden is full of little mounds, as if an army of very industrious moles has taken up residence there.

I am glad we live two miles uphill from the village and rarely receive callers this time of year. But what if someone were to arrive and catch Maren unawares? She could not run to safety on her unwieldy fin-feet. She could not fight off even a salamander in her weakened state.

In a few weeks, Maren and I will be seventeen. I desire no gift more than the return of Scarff and O’Neill. Their presence would lift our spirits and distract Maren from her sufferings better than any medicine. And with any luck, O’Neill will bring some potion, pill, or enchantment to heal her, as he has sworn to do.

Day after day, I listen for the sound of clanging pots and pans and the music of Scarff’s fantastic collection of wind chimes. I dream of it, and awake disappointed.





CHAPTER SIX





Christmas is next week. Auntie is stirring a pot of spiced apples on the wood-burning cookstove. The kitchen air is warm and when I breathe in, I can almost taste the cinnamon, cloves, and fruit. I knit clumsily, my stitches uneven and lumpy, while Maren dozes in the rocker at the hearthside. Her feet, which no longer look human at all, are soaking in a bucket of warm water. Bits of silver on her cheeks and brow catch the firelight. She looks beautiful and tragic, ill yet perfect.

Osbert bays like a hound and hurls himself into the cellar just before the pounding begins on the kitchen door. I throw a blanket over Maren, covering her from her neck to the floor as the visitor lets himself in, uninvited.

“A happy Christmas to you,” says Simon Shumsky. He presses a wooden crate into Auntie’s hands and then removes his hat. “Mother sent you a fruitcake, a jug of elderberry wine, and her greetings.” His attention quickly turns to the shawl-covered girl. “Is she feeling poorly, Mrs. Amsell?”

Maren opens her eyes. “Oh, hello, Simon,” she whispers.

“Well, thank you for stopping,” I say. I grab his elbow and attempt to steer him toward the door, but he is built like an ox. And this ox is bent on getting closer to Maren.

“I am in no hurry to go, Miss Clara,” he says, brushing past me.

Simon gets on one knee beside Maren, his square face inches from her sparkling cheekbone. “I came to ask you to the Christmas dance, Miss Maren. Father says I can use his new carriage. Your sister can come along, too. I bought a new suit last week just for the occasion.” His adoring, eager smile makes me feel quite sorry for him.

“Too sick,” Maren mutters. Her eyelids close.

“Well, you have eight days to get well. Doesn’t your aunt have the cure for everything?” He places a small box in her blanket-covered lap. “I brought you a Christmas gift. I’ve been saving it for months.”

Her eyelids flutter. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“I am sorry, Simon,” I say. “She simply cannot stay awake at times. It is her condition. I am sure she will enjoy opening your gift later.”

He stands, still wearing the same lovesick face he always wears in Maren’s presence. “I will pick her up for the dance on the twenty-sixth at three, Mrs. Amsell. And Clara, too, if she cares to go.”

Auntie puts her hands on her hips. “We do thank you for your kind invitation, but Maren is too ill to go to the dance, Simon.”

“Surely the sickness will pass,” he says. “I will say many prayers, and I know you will nurse her well. If I may tell you a secret, I plan to announce our engagement at the dance.”