“Merry Christmas, sister,” Maren and I say at the same moment. A tiny pearl rolls down Maren’s cheek and onto her pillow.
I lie down with her and press my hand against her cool, glittering cheek. “We have had the best of Christmases, haven’t we, dear? Snow and gifts from Scarff and O’Neill, that funny little horse, and Auntie’s good food. I am grateful for it, and you.” I swallow hard, tasting unshed tears in the back of my throat.
She closes her eyes. “I wonder if they celebrate Christmas beneath the sea. If I will.” Her voice is fading again. Whatever Christmas miracle returned it to her is diminishing.
“That is a mystery,” I say. “A very great mystery.”
Next year, unless O’Neill procures a very great miracle to reverse the change, she will know for certain what the merfolk do at Christmas. Will she send a message by seagull to share with me the customs they keep in the deep? Will she send gifts of sea glass and pirates’ lost coins? Will she remember us at all?
Time will tell.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In my nighttime dreams, I am brave.
Maren rides behind me on Zedekiah. He is not the small horse who has taken up residence in the barn with our three goats. He is a splendid stallion, sixteen hands high, regal and fearless. He carries us over mountains and through rivers, across barren plains and through tangled forests.
I sit up as straight and tall as a princess, but I am dressed as a boy, and a long sword bounces against my leg with each of Zedekiah’s prancing steps. We journey through many days and nights until we reach the sea.
Zedekiah gallops into the water. He slows as the water reaches his chest, and stops altogether when it reaches the base of his neck.
Something is approaching, moving fluidly toward us, moving fast under a layer of water as thin as glass. I draw my sword.
Out of the water appears the head of a giant sea horse, and enthroned upon the sea horse is a bare-chested man. Or rather, a bare-chested merman. His hair is white and as wild as the waves, and his crown is made of coral and pearls. His fishy half starts just below his navel, scales of iridescent green and orange and gold. His brow is furrowed, but he is smiling. “Daughter?” he says, his ocean-colored eyes on my sister. He urges the sea horse closer and reaches for Maren.
“Stand down,” I command. “We have not come to surrender, but to demand that you release her from your realm. We demand that you grant her freedom from the sea and return her to her human form.” My sword is pointed at his head. I do not tremble before this king.
He laughs with the sound of a thousand waves crashing into the sands of a thousand beaches. Still, I neither tremble nor back down. “Release her,” I say. “Or your blood shall mingle with these waters.”
With a slap of his tail, the merman bids the sea horse to charge. He raises his trident and in that instant, I swipe at him with my sword.
I miss.
The points of his trident press into my chest. “Silly girl,” he bellows. “Would you exchange your life for her freedom?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Yes.”
“So be it,” he says. He draws his weapon back and then thrusts it toward my heart.
I awaken with a start and a cry.
Could I ever be as brave as the dream version of myself? I do not believe so.
The kitchen is quiet, save for the crackle of the fire, the arrhythmic clicking of my knitting needles, and the occasional swish of pages being turned by Auntie. Maren dozes in the rocker, and Osbert huddles beside her soaking feet.
Perhaps the foot-deep layer of snow on and about our cottage conceals the sound of Simon Shumsky’s carriage. Perhaps Osbert has fallen into some sort of wyvern hibernation. Regardless, Osbert does not provide his usual warning of unwanted company.
The knock on the door sends him flying to the cellar.
“Oh, my stars,” Auntie says as she gets to her feet. “He’s here. To take our Maren to the dance!”
“We must get rid of him before he sees her!” I say.
The door is thrown open. “Good evening, ladies,” Simon says, stepping into the kitchen. He wears a new coat and hat, and an eager smile. “Is Maren ready?”
Somehow (miracle of miracles!), he does not notice Maren fast asleep under her mound of dampened shawls.
To distract him, I say, “Let me make you a cup of tea. You must be half-frozen.” I take his arm and direct him to a seat at the table.
“Dear heavens,” Auntie says. “I hate to disappoint you, Simon, especially since you came all this way in the cold.”
“But she is better now, isn’t she?” His brow furrows with what I read as worry mixed with frustration.
“No, Simon. She is still unwell. I have done all that I can, but she is not fit to go out in the cold. She is in no way strong enough for dancing,” Auntie says gently but firmly.
I set the tea in front of him. “We should have sent word. We are very sorry. There will be other dances,” I say. Other dances for him, but not for Maren.
Auntie pulls a chair close to him. “Simon, may I speak plainly?”
He nods and drinks down his tea as though it is medicine.
“Maren has a condition of which she cannot be cured. I know that you love her, but I must tell you that she can never marry any man,” Auntie says in her most soothing voice.
Fat tears stand at the edges of Simon’s eyes. “Never?”
“What is worse, Simon, is that I must ask you not to visit again. She will become rather disfigured, and I know it would distress her to have you see her in such a state.”
One great sob escapes Simon before he regains his composure. “Forgive me,” he says.
“There is nothing to forgive,” I say. “Why should you ask forgiveness for being devoted to Maren? For loving her?”
“I am sorry,” he says. He stands and walks toward the door like a sleepwalker. He does not say good-bye and forgets to close the door behind him.
Osbert creeps up from the cellar. Auntie shuts the door and sighs. “The poor man. His heart is broken.”
“Was that true love, Auntie?” I pick up Simon’s empty cup.
“Indeed,” she says.
I wish . . .
I do not know what I wish.
CHAPTER NINE
A peculiar change in the weather melts all the snow on New Year’s Day and brings another pair of visitors to our cottage.
With a basket containing three eggs (and we are lucky the winter-hating chickens produced that many), I walk the gravel path between the henhouse and the cottage. Presently, I hear the wheels of an approaching wagon, but, alas, the music of odd chimes and banging pots does not accompany it. It is the wagon belonging to Peterman and Sons, the village’s general store.
Mr. Peterman, a spry gentleman on the far side of sixty, jumps down from the seat as nimbly as a cat. His plump son Henry Donald heaves himself to the frozen ground with a thud.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I say. “What brings you up the mountain?”