“Nonsense,” Jasper says. “Maren is fine. The solution Mama concocted for her can keep her healthy for years. I have seen it done.”
“It is not what Maren wants, to live in a jar. It is not what is best for her.”
“And fretting like a wet hen is not what’s best for you, Clara dear. It ruins a girl’s looks. Now, relax and breathe in that heavenly aroma,” Jasper says, inhaling deeply. “The finest of spices combined to perfection.”
We round a corner. Dr. Phipps beckons us to the campfire, where four mismatched wooden chairs and a stool with a tufted cushion have been arranged in a semicircle. O’Neill gives a little wave; I duck out from under Jasper’s arm and hurry to sit beside him.
Soraya dips her ladle into the depths of a cast-iron pot. She fills blue china bowls and Jasper hands them around, serving his father first. Steam rises from each dish in deliciously fragranced curlicues. A brass teakettle sits at the edge of the embers, hissing and spitting.
“Eat, children,” Soraya says as she takes her seat.
We eat with silver spoons, scooping up yellow rice, tender bits of meat (rabbit or maybe chicken, but not squirrel, surely!), sliced almonds, and plump golden raisins, seasoned with an array of mysterious spices and herbs.
With each bite, I miss Auntie more. She would be able to name every ingredient in the dish. During such a dinner, she would recount a story about the dish’s origin, perhaps something about a camel herder’s ugly daughter winning a nomadic prince’s affections by way of her wonderful cooking. Maren has always loved such romantic tales.
After we enjoy second helpings of rice, Soraya presses an earthenware mug into my hand and gives O’Neill its twin. “Drink,” she says. And so we do, moving in dance-like unison as we lift the mugs to our lips and sip the hot liquid. I taste honey, cinnamon, and black tea, and behind those pleasant flavors, a tang that hints of forbidden pleasures. My whole body warms and tingles as I drain the cup.
Jasper rises with a strange, derisive snort and stalks away.
Across from O’Neill and me, Soraya sits at her husband’s feet and rests her head against his impeccably dressed knee. Dr. Phipps smiles, but not at her. He is smiling at O’Neill and me, and his smile is a wicked, wicked thing.
O’Neill wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “What was in that?” he asks. He is trembling, his shoulder shuddering against mine.
“Ah, dear boy. The devil does not share his receipts and neither do I,” Dr. Phipps says. “I call it Beloved Bondage, for you shall crave it daily for the rest of your lives, needing it more than the air you breathe, and you shall be enslaved to the one who holds its secrets. That would be me.”
The world seems to tip on its axis at this revelation, and I grab for O’Neill’s arm as if he might prevent me from falling off.
O’Neill lunges toward the doctor with raised fists. “You son of a—”
“If you choose to hit me, I promise that you will be dead within the week,” Dr. Phipps says calmly.
I look to Soraya for sympathy or outrage, hoping that she will object or demand that her husband grant us an antidote. Or that she will laugh and spoil his dark joke. Instead, she runs her red tongue over her lips and nestles closer to him.
Dr. Phipps takes a pocket watch from his vest and checks the hour. “It is time for you to change into your costume, Soraya my love.” He leans over and kisses her noisily. And then, like a minotaur lifting a nymph, Dr. Phipps hoists his wife and clutches her to his chest. Humming, he waddles toward the tents.
“Wash those dishes quickly, Clara,” Soraya calls over his shoulder. “You must not miss the show!”
O’Neill and I run to the bushes, coughing and gagging, trying to purge ourselves of the foul liquid, but it refuses to leave us.
Jasper emerges from the shadows like a ghost. “It’s no use,” he says. He curses and tosses a stone into the fire. “I have asked him not to use that stuff anymore, but he never listens. Why can we not be a regular traveling show with willing performers? Why must he poison each friend I make?” He kicks the dirt with his fine leather shoe and curses again.
“Help us,” O’Neill begs. “Get us the antidote and we can all escape together. You could get a job in the best circus in Europe if you wanted to. I have friends who could help you.”
Jasper sighs. “Alas, I am as bound to them as you are,” he says. “And there is no antidote. If you do not drink daily, you die.” Jasper lifts his trouser leg to his knee. His calf is tattooed with blue scrawls. “These are the names of those who have gone before you. Those who have dared to try to escape my father and his tea. Those whose bodies I have been forced to bury or burn or send down rivers.”
I cover my mouth. Even in moonlight, I can count twenty names.
“Here,” he says, pointing at the largest name. It is near his knee, its letters formed from flowering vines. “Zara was my wife. Papa found her performing in Canada and paid a handsome sum for her. Her own father sold her to him. She could charm the birds from the trees with her violin. She could make fireflies swarm like gnats around her body as she played and danced. Zara was the most beautiful and clever girl I’d ever met. We fell in love, but not before Papa poisoned her with his terrible tea. I didn’t know what it was then, and neither did she, for he had just invented it. She drank it happily each night after dinner, and we would whisper of our plans till dawn. One afternoon while Papa and Mama were bartering with a farrier, Zara and I snuck off and found a judge to marry us. We did not tell my parents, fearing Papa’s disapproval but also relishing the grand romance of a secret marriage. Eventually, we were discovered. She died soon after, and whether it was due to our son’s stillbirth or Papa’s wicked works, I do not know for certain.”
“You are as evil as he is. You did nothing to stop us from drinking the poison,” O’Neill says.
The venom in O’Neill’s voice chills me. I open my mouth to speak but find I cannot. I am too disturbed for words. I am thinking of my sister, our bondage, and how badly things have turned so quickly. That what seemed like rescue led to entrapment.
“Ah,” Jasper says, “what you do not know is that Papa gave me the tea on the same night he gave it to Zara. He has held my life hostage since. I do not dare oppose him. And even if I were to threaten his life, he would not tell me his secrets.”
“Did you try? When you found that he had poisoned your wife, did you even try to force him to tell you?” O’Neill asks. “Or were you too cowardly to stand up to him?”
“I did try,” Jasper says. “The night I lit the funeral pyre for Zara and our son. I held a knife to his throat. My hand shook so badly that I nicked him. He hides the scar beneath his cravat. He only laughed at my threats. He dared me to kill him. Said I’d join him in death within two days without his secret potion. So you see, there is nothing you can do but obey him, as I do.”