He rubs his twitching nose. “At the Wishing Pool,” he says.
“Not just at the Wishing Pool. In it. Swimming underwater like a minnow. Swimming as if she’d been born a fish and not a girl.”
“A natural talent,” he says.
“Natural because she is a mermaid.”
“You don’t want to save her. You, who call yourself her sister. You would just toss her into the sea and be done with her?” His accusations are bitter, but they are entangled with heartache and desperation.
“It is what she wants! What she has always wanted! It is who she is. Who she was born to be, O’Neill. It is her choice, not mine. And not yours.”
“I would lay down my life for her! To save her for Auntie and Scarff. To save her for you, Clara. You speak bravely but I know that you could not live without your sister.”
I step toward him. I touch his sleeve and speak softly. Perhaps he will hear me yet. “We must let her go, no matter how it pains us. She is happy as a mermaid. It is her desire and her destiny.”
“If that is how you feel, then you are as spellbound as she, Clara. But I will find a way to break this magic. I will save her, and you will thank me afterward.” He walks away, and the tears I have been withholding spill down my face.
This is my wish: that Maren could speak again—long enough to tell O’Neill the truth that he refuses to hear from me.
I am more than sorry that the truth will break his heart. His brave heart that dares to believe there can yet be a future for him and Maren.
In the morning, O’Neill acts as though we never argued. He sings Maren’s favorite sea chanteys at the top of his lungs so she can hear them as the caravan rattles and bumps its way through the woods.
I, for one, am thankful to be under way again, and thankful that Osbert has brought us no more remnants of Simon Shumsky. My hope is that Simon has regained his sanity and gone home to his bride.
When we stop to rest the horses, Pilsner flies off. He does this often of late. No one could blame a strong, young bird for wanting to stretch his fine wings. Sometimes he brings back gifts: a tiny daisy, a plump blackberry, a coin. Once he even brought me an emerald ring, encrusted with dirt. I wear it on my pointer finger and make believe I am a princess on a grand tour of my dominion.
I know I am no princess. I do envy Maren a little, and O’Neill, as well. She is a mermaid; he is a performer. They have their places in the world. Me, I am just a girl who may or may not become a stork. I am not striking to behold and I do not cry pearl tears. I cannot dance or sing or juggle fire. I am a terrible cook and mediocre apothecary—I have seen Auntie dump many of the elixirs I mixed when she thought I was not looking.
On the floor of the caravan, I spy a tiny white feather. Where did that come from? Is it mine?
I shiver—and then I pray: If I must change, let it not happen before we reach the ocean! For who knows if my transformation would be slow and painful like Maren’s, or if I might change from girl to bird in a matter of hours?
Perhaps it is not my feather at all, but an embellishment from a fan or costume. I choose to believe that. I take a deep breath and decide the feather came from O’Neill’s wares, not my body.
O’Neill climbs into the wagon and joins Osbert beside Maren’s tub. With eyes half-closed, she reaches up, silently asking him to hold her hand. Her hand is no bigger than a baby’s now; it does not begin to fill O’Neill’s palm. They regard each other tenderly, making secret vows with their eyes.
I turn my back to them and rearrange the jars of spices, trying to imagine the taste of each one to keep my mind from wandering where it should not: along paths of jealousy, sorrow, self-pity, and regret.
A jar of pure white peppercorns reminds me of Maren’s mermaid tears. It occurs to me that Maren has not shed a single pearl-tear since we left home. Indeed, why should she cry now? She is on the brink of wonders I will never know, a life beneath the waves with magical creatures. And meanwhile, she has O’Neill’s devotion.
“We must stop for supplies at the next town,” O’Neill says behind me.
“Yes,” I say. I place the jar of peppercorns into the rack. “There is not enough salt left to keep Maren supplied for another day, and we are almost out of cheese. Pilsner gobbles it down as if he is near starvation, despite his many foraging trips.”
“Onward we must go, then,” he says. I listen to the faint sloshing of water and imagine Maren embracing him by way of farewell. Only after I hear the sound of his footsteps behind me do I turn to face him.
“Pilsner has not come back,” I say.
“He will find us. He always does,” O’Neill says. He rubs my shoulder. “No need to worry, my dear.”
“My, you remind me of Scarff sometimes.” I smile, thinking fondly of the man who has always been like a father to me, in spite of his lengthy absences.
“That is a grand compliment,” O’Neill says. Quick as lightning, he kisses my cheek. “Settle in now. I’ll let Job and January know their rest is done.” He leaps out the back door, turning a somersault in the air and landing on his feet so nimbly that no dust is stirred.
Weak in the knees, I sit on the edge of the bed. My skin burns where his lips touched it. My heart turns over like a thirsty leaf in the presence of a cloud full of rain.
For the next half hour, I berate myself for the renewed unsisterly feelings I have for my almost-brother. They are his fault this time, not mine.
Leaning over to reach the dresser, I pick up a gilt-framed hand mirror and examine my face. It is still ordinary. His kiss left no mark on my skin. If only it had not left a mark on my heart.
I should be angry with him. To kiss me seconds after embracing my sister! It is obscene. It is cruel. But then again—had I not just compared him to Scarff? Has Scarff not given me many such fatherly kisses on that very cheek? Surely O’Neill meant his kiss to be like Scarff’s: sweet and chaste. Of course that is how he meant it.
How often must I remind myself that he has chosen Maren and not me? How often must I remind myself to rein in my ridiculous emotions?
I force myself to look long at Maren.