Dr. Phipps steps forward and the crowd is instantly silent. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaims, “I, Dr. George Wilhelm Hieronymus Lewis Balthazar Phipps, welcome one and all to this, our astounding and spectacular entertainment! Prepare to be amazed!”
The crowd applauds. Dr. Phipps removes his hat and bows low for a count of three. Once upright again, he extends his arms and says, “I present to you the toast of the crowned heads of Europe and Asia, the beautiful chanteuse Madame Soraya of Gojanastani.”
Soraya sweeps onto the stage in a sparkling gown of sunset-colored silk and a veil as sheer as candlelight. Phipps takes her hand; she curtsies low. And then he leaves her.
I did not expect the stage to be so beautiful from this vantage point. Strings of brass lanterns hang above the platform, and with the footlights they cast a golden glow upon the doctor’s wife.
She begins to sing. The song is strange, its notes sliding and curving, its lyrics poignant to me even though I do not know one word of the language. Her soprano voice climbs the scale and holds a note more piercing than any I have ever heard.
“Glass would break,” O’Neill says, “if she sang one note higher.”
A moment later, she ends the song with a flourish of her bracelet-covered arm. Applause erupts from the audience. Soraya curtsies several times before stepping behind the curtain’s edge. She comes close to us, saying, “That is how you enchant these small-town peasants. Tomorrow night, Neelo, you will perform and know the love of the crowd, the delicious devotion of strangers.” Her smile, I imagine, would not look out of place on a crocodile with a belly full of fresh antelope. Her jewelry jingles as she descends from the platform and heads toward her tent.
Jasper takes the stage, carrying his violin and a wooden stool. He makes a show of flinging the tails of his expertly tailored green coat out of the way before he sits. A hush falls over the audience as he tucks the violin beneath his chin. He begins to play a slow melody, the essence of a lazy summer afternoon. He taps one foot to the beat, and the tapping grows faster as one song leads into the next. Soon, all but the feeblest spectators are on their feet, dancing and jumping and clapping.
He stands and bows; the people clamor for another song. He obliges them, choosing a tune as sweet and light as birdsong.
Dr. Phipps walks to Jasper’s side, raising both arms in a grand gesture. “The great Jasper Armand shall entertain you again momentarily,” he says. “First, I must deliver unto you a message of the greatest import. As a practitioner of the medical arts, I am bound by conscience to speak to you plainly, to reveal the deep secrets of healing I have gathered. Open your ears to the sound of my voice, ladies and gentlemen.”
Jasper carries his instrument offstage as his father continues to speak. He winks at me as he breezes by.
Dr. Phipps’s speech is almost identical to the one he gave last spring on Llanfair Mountain.
I exchange a look with O’Neill. The doctor’s claim to want to heal and help all mankind does not sit well with those of us who have been drugged and deceived by him.
Half an hour later, Jasper plays a Pied Piper song on a pan flute as the townsfolk move in a mesmerized herd toward the sales tables.
“Amazing,” O’Neill says.
“Disgusting,” I reply. “Dr. Phipps is evil incarnate.”
“Yes. Evil and charismatic. A most dangerous combination.” O’Neill gets to his feet. “I have seen enough.”
The music stops as Dr. Phipps returns to the stage. “Attention! Attention! I regret that I failed to invite you, one and all, to visit the large tent situated behind the stage. It is no ordinary tent, but our Gallery of Wonders! A mere five cents will gain you access to our collection of the unusual, the bizarre, and the outrageous. Wonders such as you could not imagine! Seize this opportunity by the horns, folks, or you will live with the weight of regret forever. Form a line at the door, and the famous Jasper Armand shall soon usher you in to view the secrets and curiosities of the ages!”
A pang of sorrow pierces my heart. “Maren,” I whisper. “They will see her, stare at her.”
“Come,” O’Neill says, taking my hand. “There is nothing we can do now.”
“He’s right,” Dr. Phipps says, startling us by poking his bewhiskered face between us. “Go to your beds, children, and do not delay. I will not have you hatching any silly plans—which would only hasten your deaths, I might add. And neither do I permit any romantic nonsense among my company. Consider yourselves forewarned on both counts. Go on, to your beds!”
As I approach my tent, I hear a rustling in a nearby tree. I look up. Two glowing eyes peer down from among the leaves. Wyvern eyes.
I blow a kiss to Osbert. I wish that I could invite him inside for the night. I would gladly share my pillow with him—and let him drool upon it.
I wish (for the first time in my life) that Osbert was a much bigger wyvern, one that could breathe fire on the terrible medicine show and then take to the sky while carrying Maren, O’Neill, and me on his back. Such a wyvern could carry us all the way to the ocean, and then home again to Llanfair Mountain.
But like magic, wyverns are rare in the world. Indeed, Osbert could be the last of his kind.
And what good is rescue or escape if it only ends in our dying for want of Dr. Phipps’s tea?
CHAPTER TWENTY
The next morning, Dr. Phipps goes to town for a shave and haircut. Soraya retires for her midmorning nap, and Jasper slinks off dressed in fine clothes and reeking of eau de cologne—most likely to seduce some silly farm girl or faithless wife.
I finish scrubbing the pans and dishes from breakfast and then take a seat beside the dying fire. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine what Auntie might be doing now. Is she weeding her gardens or mixing up remedies for fevers? Is she delivering Hattie Benfer’s yearly baby? Or is she resting on the bench by the front door, enjoying the sunshine and a cup of tea with her long-missed husband?
A poke in the ribs makes me gasp.
“O’Neill, you should not sneak up on a lady like that,” I say. I smack his arm hard.
“Ladies should not be so violent,” he says. “I finished mending the harnesses. Where is everyone?”
“The men have gone to town. Soraya is asleep. Osbert is watching from the white pine above the gallery tent.”
He grabs my arm. “Come,” he says. “We may not have another chance soon.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Do you need to ask?” Despite his limp, he pulls me along briskly, not stopping until we are inside the Gallery of Wonders.
The place is dark and smells of old wood, musty books, and lamp oil. O’Neill finds a lantern and matches on the table just inside the door.
“She should be near the back. I heard Jasper say something about a special mermaid viewing area,” O’Neill says.