I am lying on a cot inside a large tent. I vaguely remember the man called Jasper carrying me to this place, his mother covering me with soft blankets and holding a cup of water to my parched lips before I fainted or fell asleep.
Now fully aware, I look about the tent. It is furnished as colorfully and splendidly as the caravan was, with copper lanterns, embroidered cushions, and trunks full of unknown treasures—like an illustration from the tale of Aladdin. But this place lacks Scarff’s warmth and O’Neill’s charm, the very things that made their wheeled home a place of delight rather than a mere collection of fripperies.
The image of the caravan reduced to smoldering ashes floats before me like some horrific ghost. I wish it were nothing but the memory of a nightmare, to be easily dismissed and forgotten.
A string of little bells tinkles as the door flap is pushed aside and Jasper’s mother enters.
She sits down on the edge of the cot and hands me a mug of fragrant tea. “Your sister is a mermaid,” she says without wonder, as if having a mermaid in one’s family is commonplace. “She is very beautiful.”
“You found her?” I almost drop the tea.
“My son Jasper found her, and the man who took her, a few miles from here. I am afraid that it did not end well for the thief.”
“Simon,” I say. “He followed us.”
“He will follow you no more. The path of his life ended in misfortune.” The woman pours red syrup from a bottle into a spoon. “For your throat and lungs,” she says.
I swallow the medicine. It tastes like spoiled potatoes and overripe cherries with a dash of coal dust. I rinse it down with half the tea. “Is my sister all right?”
“She is very weak, but I have seen to her. I have dealt with her kind before, and I know what they must have, what elements will keep them alive outside the sea.”
“Thank you,” I say, although I care for neither her choice of words nor the coolness of her tone.
“She is not your true sister, the mermaid,” she says, laying a palm against my forehead to check for fever.
“Not my sister by blood, but every bit the sister of my heart.”
“Ah,” she says, “a sister is more valuable than rubies.” A dozen gold bracelets clink together on her arm as she lifts her hand from my forehead. “No fever. Good.”
“How is my friend? The young man?” I am very anxious to hear of O’Neill and to change the subject.
“Neelo sends his greetings. He is much improved, but his legs were badly burned and will take time to grow strong again. He rests in Jasper’s tent.”
“O’Neill,” I say. I feel a weight lift from my heart; Maren and O’Neill are safe.
“He tells me you are called Clara. My name is Soraya. Soraya Phipps. My son Jasper rescued you and your friends, and later you will meet his father, the great Dr. Phipps.”
“How fortunate that you found us,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “It was most fortunate.”
“When can I see my sister?”
“Soon. It is best not to disturb her for a day or two as she acclimates to her new habitat.”
Something about the word habitat does not sit well with me. But perhaps Soraya chose the only English word she knew to describe Maren’s liquid-filled home. The strength of her accent makes it plain that English is not her native tongue.
“Maren needs to go to the ocean soon, or she will die,” I say.
“She is fine. We will speak of such things later.” Soraya stands. She adjusts her tunic-like dress and the silk whispers like sea on sand, like Maren’s voice not so long ago. “Rest now,” she says as she brushes the tent flap aside and exits.
My mind is awhirl with the events of the last day (or days—for how am I to know how long I slept?): the wonderful picnic, Scarff’s magnificent caravan engulfed in flames, Jasper carrying me to safety, my hand grasping O’Neill’s as we lay side by side, Soraya telling me that my sister is safe.
I wonder how Osbert fares, and if anyone will ever tell Simon’s widow that he died while attempting to kidnap a mermaid. I doubt she would believe the truth if she heard it.
In a way, Simon sacrificed his life for Maren. And what of O’Neill, who swears to restore her humanness? Will his dedication to his vow cost him his life as well?
I close my eyes and picture Auntie. “Hush, now,” I hear her saying. “Not to worry, my girl. One chicken cannot sit on the whole world’s eggs.” I imagine her soft-cotton, plump-armed embrace and her lavender-and-fresh-bread scent, and I am almost comforted.
Wishing I were home is as useless as worrying, I suppose. Yet that is my wish.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dressed in a borrowed sari and shawl, I step out of the tent into a bright spring morning.
Jasper stands beside the campfire, drinking from a huge mug. He notices me right away and lifts the mug in salutation. “Coffee,” he says. “It runs through my veins.” He has his mother’s lithe figure and dark amber eyes, and his hair is a mop of unruly, brassy curls. He could be twenty or even thirty years old; his boyish face makes guessing difficult. He sets his mug on a chair. “You are Clara,” he says. He steps closer and takes my hand, lifting it to his lips. “Your servant, Jasper Armand Phipps.”
He presses his mouth against my skin, gazing into my eyes like a dime-novel knave attempting to seduce an innocent maiden. Finally, he releases my hand and says, “Mama has not worn that costume in ages. I must say, it suits you far more than it ever suited her.”
The word “costume” unlocks a flood of memories. Where has my mind been? How could I not have recognized these people? How could I have forgotten the medicine show Maren and I attended last spring, and the unsettlingly curious woman who offered to help cure Maren’s “condition”? How could I have forgotten Jasper’s music and his father’s charismatic sales pitch?
“You are quite pale, Clara. Come, sit down.” He guides me by the hand to a chair near the fire and takes a seat on a stool beside me. “We must become acquainted.”
“Thank you,” I say, unable to think of another reply. His suave manner makes me quite uncomfortable. I survey the camp instead of looking him in the eye. I see two tents—one large and one small, both dark-green canvas with red-and-gold pennants flying from their central poles. Between the tents is a mustard-colored wagon (similar in shape to our now-ruined caravan but twice as large). Crimson letters on the side spell out “Dr. Phipps and Company, Medicine Show and Astounding Wonders.” A second wagon, its smaller twin, is parked behind the tents.
“Welcome to our nomadic home,” Jasper says. “I hope that you have been quite comfortable.”