After we open the other packages (a tin of dried seaweed, six oranges, several yards of scarlet and black brocade, two drawing pencils, a harmonica, eight well-polished clamshells, and a jar of vanilla beans), I slip away to the bedroom to read my letter from O’Neill.
Perched on the edge of the bed, I stare at the loops and swirls that make up my name. What was he thinking when he penned the letters? That he missed me? That he missed his almost-sister? Or that he needed to hurry and get to his chores, or into the arms of some lovely gypsy girl?
My trembling fingers pry the flap loose and the letter falls into my lap. The folded paper is onion-skin thin. Words crisscross over words like the dark tracks of ice skates upon a frozen pond.
With great care, I coax the missive flat and begin to read.
Dear Clara,
I hope this letter finds you well, and that Zedekiah has arrived before Christmas. He promised to do his utmost to reach you before December’s end.
I am writing to you privately because I do not wish to alarm Auntie. But I feel compelled to tell you the truth, dearest friend. That truth is, Scarff is quite unwell. The fever has left him weak as a kitten, yet he manages to cough as if he might bring up a lung. His clothes are suddenly too large for him. I wish that I could deliver him into Auntie’s care, as I know she could fatten him up and restore his vim and vigor in no time. Unfortunately, Scarff is constrained by rules that you and I cannot comprehend, rules that dictate the days and seasons he may set foot upon your splendid mountain. This is a mystery to me, as I know it is to you. In Auntie’s stead, the incense-burning gypsy Madame Vadoma looks after him in her way. She is a hundred years old if she is a day, and seems to have a way with medicines and charms. Scarff is as gruff as a bear with her, but it only makes her cackle.
How I miss you and Maren! My greatest fear is that the mermaid will overtake her before I return. I enclose Madame Vadoma’s receipt for a tisane that she claims will slow the transformation, and ease any pain Maren might have. I beg you to try it (with Auntie’s permission, of course).
Please tear the receipt from this letter and then burn it. (I mean burn the letter, not the receipt.)
In the spring, we will dance in the orchard with the honeybees. I will teach you how to eat fire and throw knives (skills my gypsy friends have taught me). These things I swear, dear Clara, by all the alligators in the lake.
Your faithful servant,
O’Neill
Madame Vadoma’s Receipt for Maren
2 teaspoons dried seaweed
Shredded rind of ? orange
1 teaspoon dried lavender flowers
? teaspoon salt (preferably sea salt)
2 pinches of crushed clamshell (use mortar and pestle to make like sand)
1 strand of hair from the Person Who Needs This Medicine
Dash of black pepper
Tie ingredients inside a square of cotton cloth and steep in 1 cup of boiled water for 5 minutes. Add 1 teaspoon of honey and drink all within 3 minutes with eyes closed and a silver coin in left hand. Drink once before breakfast and once at bedtime.
I read the letter again and again. Why does O’Neill’s odd penmanship make it difficult for me to breathe?
In spite of his instructions, I tear the letter into three pieces. One is the receipt to give to Auntie, one is the paragraph in which O’Neill promises to dance with me and teach me to eat fire, and one is the rest of the letter. I set the receipt on the nightstand. I tuck the paragraph about dancing and fire-eating beneath my pillow. I toss the largest section into the coals of the bedroom’s fireplace and watch as the paper turns gray and then black before bursting into flame.
Watching the flames, I picture O’Neill. He extends his arms and I step into them as a shower of apple blossoms descends around us. He begins to hum, and we waltz around the apple tree. There is no one else in the world but us, and I am happy.
It is one more wish for my collection.
Auntie is asleep in her chair by the fire, her embroidery hoop in her lap. Osbert snores beside Maren’s footbath. Maren hums softly, a song I do not know. If I had to give it words, it would tell of undersea princesses riding dolphins to their undersea weddings.
My sister seems content. Perhaps it is only my imagination, but I think her countenance has brightened since Auntie dosed her with Madame Vadoma’s tisane—although less than an hour has passed since Maren drank the murky, dark-green liquid.
A glint of gold on the mantel shelf catches my eye. Gold ribbon wrapped around a tiny cherrywood box. Simon’s Christmas gift to Maren! How could I have forgotten it all this time?
I take the box down and give it to Maren. A note is tucked beneath the ribbon.
“Will you read it, sister?” Maren asks. “Reading tires me so.” I can see several rows of silver-edged scales through the fabric of her nightgown, ending just above the curve of her hip. She never wears a proper dress anymore; a corset would be unbearable, for it would crush her new scales. Besides, mermaids were not meant for clothes. Even the thinnest of nightgowns seems to irritate her.
I unfold the note. “Are you sure I should read it? It is from Simon. It may be private.”
“Read,” she says. She closes her eyes, and I begin.
Dearest darling Maren,
Here is a gift for you. It is very special. I bought it at the medicine show on the second night, when you were not with me, from the woman who sang and almost sold us gloves. She said it was from her country, and that if you kept it close to you, it would ease any sufferings you might have. She seemed to think you were unwell. Regardless, I thought it pretty. But not as pretty as you, my dearest darling.
Ever yours,
Simon David Shumsky
I groan. “Dearest darling? Ugh.”
“He cannot help his feelings, I suppose,” Maren says. She lifts the lid of the box and takes out a small stone. It is deep brown with a stripe of bronze down the center, like the eye of a cat. “It is rather pretty.” She pries open the locket O’Neill sent and places the stone inside. “It will be safe there, and if it has the magic the woman said it does, it will be close enough to me to do its work. Perhaps it will lessen the pain of changing. At times it is almost more than I can bear.”
“I will be glad if it helps you. But I do not think that anything they sold at the show was genuine,” I say. “Remember how Auntie had to make special tonics for many of the villagers who took Dr. Phipps’s mixtures?”
Maren yawns. “Yes. But this is only a bit of rock. What harm could it do?”
Auntie awakens with a start. “Goodness me, it’s nigh on midnight. Time for bed, my girls.”
Auntie and I each put an arm about Maren’s shoulders and help her hobble to bed. We wrap her greenish-blue legs in damp towels and kiss her good night.