“You have no hope of escape,” I whisper. “We have no hope of escape.”
His mouth curves in an unconvincing smile. “Well, it is not such a bad life. We travel, we sow moments of rapture, and we reap applause and money. We are adored like gods by the bored housewives and frustrated farmers we entertain.” He recites these words as if reading lines from a play. “It is not such a bad life at all.”
O’Neill sneers. “Except you cannot leave it for another life of your choosing.”
Jasper shrugs. His face is like a mask, emotionless. Has he been enslaved so long that it seems normal to him, unremarkable? “I wish for nothing but the life I have with the show,” he says.
“Wishing gets you nothing,” I say.
“That is the truth,” Jasper says. “Why despair over things we cannot change? And I predict that we shall have some grand adventures together on the road.”
“But what of Maren?” O’Neill asks. “She will perish if she is not taken to the ocean soon.”
“She may well outlive us all,” Jasper says. “And she looks quite happy in that jar of hers. I half envy her simple, easy life.” He wanders back to the fire and pokes it with a long stick. Sparks fly heavenward and he watches them rise and then flicker out. “Well, what is done is done, and what shall be is yet to be, and I must change into my costume. Clean up here and then go backstage. You can watch the show from there.” He saunters off.
I cannot decide whether I pity Jasper or hate him.
Could he have saved O’Neill and me from bondage, or would it have cost him his life? And what would I have done in his place? His story is not my own. I do not know its complexities and what lurks in its corners, and so I cannot say. Perhaps if he had spoken out against his father tonight, Soraya would be laying the three of us out upon a funeral pyre now, right here beneath the rising crescent moon.
O’Neill limps back to a chair by the fire. He sits, head in hands, his suffering obvious. But how can I help him? I have neither balms nor elixirs to heal his body; nor do I have any words of cheer to displace his despair.
Soraya has left me a kettle of hot water, a rag, and a basin for washing the dishes. I scrub them hard, taking out my frustrations upon every bowl and spoon. Not sure what to do with them next, I pile the clean dishes on the chairs near the fire.
When I go to empty the basin in the bushes, a beady eye glints up at me.
The eye is set in a plumed black head that rests, disembodied, atop a pile of dark feathers. The sheen of these plucked feathers is familiar to me.
That poor bird was not just any bird.
I am sick to my very soul. We have eaten our dear friend Pilsner for supper.
I do not want to watch the show.
I want to take Maren’s jar and steal a horse and ride to the Atlantic as fast as I can. I want O’Neill to go with me. I want Maren to be safe and well in her ocean home, and I want to go home to Llanfair Mountain and Auntie.
Wanting is as bad as wishing, I suppose, if the one who wants does nothing. Or can do nothing.
I find O’Neill backstage. He is staring into the distance. His face is pale, his forehead creased with concern.
“They served us Pilsner for supper,” I blurt. I could not keep myself from telling him. I shiver as I remember finding the raven’s pretty head. I sit on an overturned wooden box and try not to give way to tears. Could I ever stop weeping if I allowed myself to begin now? Could the ocean contain such a flood?
Beside me, O’Neill is perched on a wooden stool, his right leg propped on a box. When I sniffle, he hands me a handkerchief. He rests his cool hand on the back of my neck. “Pilsner was a good friend. I am sorry for your loss. For our loss,” he says.
“It is no use being sorry,” I say. “Will we do nothing about it? Will you accept his death as easily as you have accepted our Maren being put on display and ogled?” The words spill out, laced with poison like Phipps’s tea. “Have you forgotten your promise to protect my sister and me? After all your time with magical gypsies, have you no idea how to escape the curse of the doctor’s tea? Perhaps if you kill the owner of the curse, the curse will be broken.” My whole body pulses with the pounding of my heart. Did I truly just ask O’Neill to commit murder?
He removes his hand from my neck. “How can you hold me accountable for the Phippses’ treachery? It is unfair, Clara. And do you think that I have not considered every possible solution to our problems? Not for one minute have I forgotten my promises to you. But Scarff spent years teaching me to overcome my natural impulse to act rashly, and I will not risk our lives by rushing to revenge.”
“Forgive me. I feel as if I am coming apart at the seams. Perhaps it is the tea’s fault. Or perhaps I am changing into my true self as Maren did, only my true self is neither girl nor stork, but an ugly, mean thing. A troll or a harpy.”
“You do not believe that,” he says gently. “You are hurt and afraid and losing hope. Be hurt and afraid if you must, and grieve for poor Pilsner, but do not lose hope. Wouldn’t Auntie give you this same advice, my dear?”
I stare at the floor. “Yes,” I say, ashamed. I use O’Neill’s handkerchief to dab the tears that have somehow seeped from my eyes. “But you know what they are up to, do you not? Maren is to be the main attraction in the Gallery of Wonders. They will drag her about the country and show her off until their pockets are overflowing and she dies from being kept in a jar. She is not the first mermaid they have used in such a way. Jasper wears the same tattoo as you. And you and I will be their slaves until they tire of us—and in the end Jasper will add our names to his list.”
On the other side of the red velvet curtain, the audience talks and laughs, growing louder as more voices join in. They are excited, glad for the free entertainment. Would they be so happy if they knew the utter depravity of the Phipps family?
“Look!” O’Neill says, his face turned skyward.
Osbert swoops low, his blue-scaled body almost invisible against the late afternoon sky.
“Our faithful wyvern guardian angel,” O’Neill says. “Reason enough to hope a little, don’t you think?”
Dr. Phipps climbs the steps on the opposite end of the platform and joins us backstage. “Quiet now,” he says. “The show is about to begin.” He walks to the place where the curtains meet and signals for them to be opened. To the side, I see Jasper pull the ropes, causing the curtains to slide apart with a whoosh.