Pilsner follows Auntie about like a winged, two-legged puppy. He is utterly devoted to her, as she was to him after a mere hour of acquaintance. She feeds him bits of our best cheese, morsels of apples and pears, and wee griddle cakes studded with sunflower seeds and raisins—all arranged prettily on a blue-flowered saucer. At night, he perches on her bedpost like a black-plumed guardian angel.
And as O’Neill said in his note, Pilsner is a bird of extraordinary talent. If his only talents had been the finding of dropped sewing needles and lost buttons (besides the delivery of letters from afar), he would have been amazing enough. But he is also a fine opponent at checkers, and a gifted dancer. His best talent of all, however, is making our Maren laugh.
Osbert’s jealousy is both pitiful and comical. His attempts to be a lap dog are ridiculous. Who wants to cuddle a hundred-pound dragon, for goodness’ sake? His mournful whimpering for attention is most unwyvernlike. Occasionally, I catch him eyeing the bird with a hungry look and remind him that he is the one who chose to be a domestic creature, and therefore must not give way to his wild urges.
Amusing ravens and envious wyverns aside, I am worried.
Worried because it is now the second week of March and Scarff and O’Neill have not yet rattled and clanged their way to our gate. But more worried because I am certain that my sister is shrinking.
Auntie sees it, too, I know. Although she has not said a word about it, I have watched Auntie run her gaze along the length of our mermaid girl, shaking her head and clucking her tongue.
Auntie lifts one of Maren’s hands and kisses her pale, glittery skin. Maren stirs but keeps her mother-of-pearl colored eyelids closed. Auntie’s brow furrows with concern and sorrow. She sprinkles a teacupful of salt into the tub and stirs it with her hand, swirling the warm water and causing Maren’s floating locks to tangle.
My sister is no longer human. From her coppery hair to the end of her glorious, iridescent tail, Maren is a mermaid. She is beautiful in a way that no mere human could ever be. The only remnants of humanness she retains are O’Neill’s locket (which she refuses to remove), and the shawl that covers her breasts.
I will not ask, “How long can she survive this way?” or “Is she truly growing smaller each day?” I fear Auntie’s utterly honest answers. And in my heart of hearts, I know what they would be.
Osbert nuzzles my leg with his snout and I scratch him between his pointy ears. He could live five hundred more years, he could grow bigger than the cottage and boast teeth as tall as O’Neill, but he will never forget any of this. Wyverns never forget a thing, not even silly pet wyverns like our Osbert.
Suddenly, he lifts his head and perks his ears. His wings twitch and his tail slaps the hardwood floor. With a hearty howl, he dashes into the kitchen and berates the door for being shut. In between his complaints and barks, I hear the faint sound of pots and pans banging together, the tinkle of many wind chimes. My heart races so that I can barely catch my breath.
Auntie is on her feet before I can persuade my own feet to move. Happy tears stream over her plump cheeks as she gives me a gentle shove. “Go on, girl,” she says. “Hurry out and welcome the wanderers home. Thank heavens the winter is finally over!”
Osbert and I race to the wagon, with Pilsner soaring above us. As soon as O’Neill’s boots meet the ground, I throw myself into his arms.
“Well,” he says, “I did not expect such a welcome from you, my well-mannered lass.”
“Thank you, thank you,” I say into his shoulder, breathing in that O’Neill scent I have missed: spices and strong soap, sun-dried clothes and happiness. I feel rescued and hopeful—and in love. “I thought you’d never come.”
He pats my back. “Ah, but I always do, don’t I? As surely as the spring, Scarff and I always return to our girls.”
I step out of his embrace, still clutching the fabric of his colorful vest, and I look into his face. “It was silly of me to think otherwise.” I blush like Mr. Peterman’s awkward son and let go of his clothes.
“You’re even prettier than the last time I saw you, Miss Clara,” he teases.
“And you’ve grown taller, haven’t you? Has Scarff been forced to buy you new trousers again?”
O’Neill holds out a leg. “He gave me his old boots instead. Says people won’t notice how short my trousers are if my boots go to my knees.”
Scarff and Auntie face one another, holding hands. She is fussing over his gauntness, the hollows in his cheeks, the thinness of his pale wrists, how his beard needs trimming and his jacket needs mending. He smiles like a leprechaun beholding an overflowing pot of gold.
“Take me to Maren,” O’Neill says, tugging me along by the hand.
“You will not like what you see,” I warn as we cross the threshold into the kitchen. “She is quite changed, O’Neill.”
“Madame Vadoma’s receipt did not work?”
“It helped a little. Have you brought nothing else for her? A charm or another receipt?”
He shakes his head. “The gypsies had nothing else to offer. I’m sorry.”
From the doorway of the bedroom, the back of Maren’s gold-speckled hair is just visible above the edge of the tub. He releases my hand and approaches her slowly, each step noiseless. When he rounds the tub and sees her fully, all color drains from his face.
“O’Neill,” she mouths, her voice all but gone. Joy expands across her features, making her skin sparkle even more than usual.
“Oh, love,” he whispers. He falls to his knees and reaches for her, cupping her cheek in his palm. “Look at you.”
Maren lifts her silvery-green fin from the water, without any indication of regretting its presence. In fact, she seems proud of her strange appendage. “Beautiful,” she mouths.
O’Neill stares at her in wide-eyed wonder. “Does it hurt? Are you in pain, dearest?”
She shakes her pretty head and motions with her hands. She touches her heart, then points outward, then pantomimes the waves of the ocean.
“She longs for the ocean,” I translate. “She’s been losing her voice.” But I do not think he hears me. Every bit of his attention is directed toward Maren, and I cannot mistake the presence of pure love in his gaze and his gestures.
How I hate myself in this moment. I hate that I am jealous of his undisguised devotion. I hate that I love him and that he does not return my love. I hate that I can so easily think of myself and my desires when my sister is in danger of dying. I leave the room. What is between them is not meant for spectators.
I wish . . .
I wish, above all things, that none of this had ever happened.