“I hope Maren will last that long. She is so small now that she can almost swim in the bathtub,” I say. I pick a pine needle from my skirt and toss it to the wind.
“Job and January will do their best to carry us there speedily. They have sworn a solemn oath to me.” The horses whinny as if in agreement. O’Neill winks at me like a storybook scoundrel.
“Can you not be serious for five minutes, O’Neill?” Suddenly, I am weary to the soul.
“You think I am teasing? You don’t believe that animals communicate with me?” he asks, sullen.
“Of course I do. I know they do. That is not the issue. What drives me mad is that you carry on playing and winking when the situation calls for solemnity.”
He fumbles with his cuff. I know that even despite my tirade he is itching to do some parlor trick to lighten my mood. “I swear, O’Neill, if you pull a flower from your sleeve, I will jump off this wagon,” I say.
“Sorry,” he replies sadly.
I have hurt him, and I deeply regret it. “No, I am sorry.” I touch his arm and he winces.
“Perhaps I should take Maren to the ocean alone, then, if you cannot tolerate me. If you believe I am nothing but tricks and amusements without substance.”
“O’Neill, please forgive me,” I beg. “You know that you are my dearest friend. And I do love your tricks and illusions. It is just that I am so tired and confused. The world is not at all what I thought it was. There is more magic in it, and more mystery, and more pain.”
He lets the reins slacken in his hands and turns his face to me. A smile lurks at the edges of his mouth. “I forgive you, Clara dear. And I hope that you will soon see that the world is also more beautiful than you had known, and more full of kindness and love. Perhaps, on our journey, you will find this out for yourself. You will come with Maren and me, won’t you?”
“Yes,” I say. “If you left me behind, I would send my dangerous wyvern after you. He would eat you for supper and bring me back your boots as a souvenir.” My humor has returned, much to my surprise.
“Ah,” he says, shaking the reins to hurry the horses now that we’ve reached level ground, “I am afraid you actually mean that.”
“Never cross a wyvern,” I say. “And never, ever cross one of Verity’s daughters.”
“Wise advice,” he says with that crooked O’Neill grin, the one that brings the sunshine out from behind a clouded heart. The one, I must remind myself, that belongs to my sister’s true love. But as the proverb goes, even a cat may look at a king.
As O’Neill hitches the horses to the post in front of Norton’s Feed Store, Mrs. Locke and Mrs. Grieg take notice of the caravan and scurry across the street, waving and yoo-hooing. As Scarff and O’Neill are wont to brag, such middle-aged housewives find their exotic wares irresistible.
With the charisma of a stage actor and the skill of an experienced vendor, O’Neill throws open the doors and cabinets of the colorful wagon and begins to expound upon the incomparability of his merchandise. He is a whirlwind of charm and flurrying silk scarves, trays of silver rings and boxes of Chinese fans.
List in hand, I leave O’Neill to his work and seek out Mr. Peterman at the general store.
While Mr. Peterman gathers the items we need, I wander about the store, hoping that browsing might help me remember anything I forgot to put on the list.
“Hello, Miss Clara,” Simon’s voice says from behind me.
I turn to him. “Good morning, Simon,” I say. “You are looking well.”
“I was married last Saturday,” he says. “Do you remember Tabitha Gorse?”
“Yes,” I say. “She moved to Iowa a few years ago, didn’t she?”
“She moved back here in February,” he says. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other nervously. He clears his throat twice, then asks, “How is your sister?”
“Very changed, I am afraid.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Truly sorry.” Is that a tear in his eye or a trick of the light? He turns away from me and takes a few slow steps.
“She liked your Christmas gift,” I say. “The pretty stone you sent. She keeps it in her locket, so it is always with her.” I do not know if it was proper or kind for me to say so, but he looks back at me for a moment and almost smiles.
“Good-bye,” he says. He leaves the store quickly, without purchasing a thing. I think he loves Maren still. I feel sorry for his wife.
“Your order is ready,” Mr. Peterman announces. “I’ll carry it out for you. All that salt makes for a heavy load. It’s an odd time of year to be pickling and preserving, isn’t it?”
I hold the door for him. “You know Auntie and her strange concoctions,” I say.
I am glad we will leave Llanfair Mountain soon. Hiding a mermaid is proving more difficult than hiding a hundred-pound pet wyvern.
We reveal our plans to Scarff and Auntie during our habitual evening gathering in front of the fireplace.
“You must let me come,” Scarff says. “I insist upon it.”
“No, dear,” Auntie says. “The children are right. You are not well enough for such a journey. Besides, I have not been left alone in over seventeen years. It is your spousal duty to stay with me.” She pats his arm. “This is their journey to take. They are young and strong, and clever, as well. They are fit for travel and adventure, unlike us. Although it pains me to think I will not see Maren enter her new home.”
Scarff grumbles under his breath, but argues no more.
“We will leave in two days,” O’Neill says. “I will make sure the caravan is in good repair. Clara has been gathering supplies, and Maren is quite ready to go.”
In fact, Maren’s face is radiant with expectation. She wriggles her tail and slides down into the water, submerging herself completely. Smiling, she blows a string of tiny bubbles and watches them pop above her.
From head to tail fin, I doubt she measures more than four feet now.
“We bought a washtub to carry Maren,” I say. “It should be quite comfortable.”
“You must avoid the trains at all cost,” Scarff says. “I do not trust the iron beasts.”
“We would not risk taking a train,” O’Neill says. “Can you imagine us not being noticed transporting a mermaid in a tub of water?”
Scarff grunts and folds his arms across his chest.
Auntie shakes her head sadly. “How I hate to lose my seashell girl,” she says. “But if anyone in the world is happy, it is Maren as a mermaid.”
Tears stick in Scarff’s beard like drops of dew on tangled grass. Auntie grips his shoulder and says, “Come to bed, dearest. It’s time to put our cares to rest for the day.”
Auntie and Scarff lean over the tub and Maren comes out from beneath the water, offering her sparkling cheek for good night kisses. As the couple disappears into their bedroom, Maren beckons to O’Neill. She gestures that she wants to hold his hand, and that she wants him to sing for her.