I follow him past tables of taxidermied animals and birds, strange things floating in jars, wooden masks and spears, artifacts enclosed in glass boxes. Finally, he pushes aside a thick gold curtain to reveal a raised platform and a glass apothecary jar containing a mermaid.
I tap on the glass. “Maren,” I say. “Wake up, dear. We have come to pay you a visit.”
She turns toward us with a swish. When she sees O’Neill, she bats her eyelashes and wriggles her hips so that her scales shimmer in the lantern light. She combs her fingers through her coppery hair so it floats loose about her head. She flicks her tail, flaunting her mermaidness as if O’Neill is a sailor she wishes to bring to ruin.
He turns away, his expression pained. His tattoo protects him from being utterly destroyed by her, but I know it does not save him from heartache or spare him from the normal desires of a young man.
“Maren, it is not nice to tease O’Neill like that. It’s crude, and unfair to him,” I scold.
She sticks out her tongue at me and then swims a few swift laps.
“It must be the liquid Soraya put her in,” I say. “She is quite out of hand.”
O’Neill keeps his back to Maren. “We should go,” he says.
“Her locket is gone,” I say. “The one you gave her for Christmas. She treasured it so.”
“Stolen by Soraya, no doubt,” O’Neill says. “Say your good-byes, Clara, before we are missed.”
I press my hand against the glass. “Good-bye, sister,” I say. “Keep well, and do try to remember your manners.”
Maren stops swimming and places her hand in line with mine. From each of her sea-colored eyes falls a single pearl tear. And then she motions with her hands, asking, When will I go to the ocean?
She is not happy, after all.
“I do not know,” I say. “We are trying to figure that out.”
She motions again, telling of her love for O’Neill.
“We know that you love us, dear,” I say. I will not repeat her exact sentiment to him—he has had enough torture for one day. “We love you, too. But we must go now.”
O’Neill and I do not speak again until we are outside. “Thank you,” I say. “I know how difficult that was for you.”
“Yes. Well—”
“You are a good brother,” I say. “The very best.”
At the sound of approaching footsteps, he turns his head. “Phipps is coming,” he says. “We must not be seen together.”
I watch his back as he takes pained steps toward his tent, his shoulders slumped in a very un-O’Neill kind of way.
While O’Neill and Jasper spend the afternoon rehearsing magic tricks and juggling, I wash clothes in a nearby creek and gather greens for an early dinner—all the while thinking about the poisoned tea. (Does it make me think such thoughts, or are they a product of my own fears and frustrations?) From time to time, Dr. Phipps’s voice rings through the air: “Throw them higher, boy! And smile! What good is a morose juggler, I ask you?”
Perhaps if you had not poisoned us, I would like to say to him, then we might work more joyfully for you. Perhaps if you would help us deliver Maren to the sea, we would perform feats that would astound even you.
Soraya beckons me to the large wagon and commands that I remove my clothes down to the thin chemise she gave me after the fire. Horrified at the affront to my modesty, I blush from head to toe. Soraya titters like a small bird and holds forth a garment of heavy silk the color of celery, patterned with pink flowers and brown branches. “This is a kimono,” she says. “In it, you will be a Japanese princess.”
My arms slip into the rectangular sleeves like Maren gliding through water. Just beneath my breasts, Soraya ties long, ribbon-like strips around the kimono, stuffing the fabric one way, tugging another. As though she has dressed a hundred Japanese girls this week, she deftly wraps a wide band of pale blue around my ribs and whips its ends into a perfect bow.
“There,” she says, looking pleased with her work. “Now close your eyes.”
She rubs something cool and slick onto my face, and paints my lips and eyelids with a damp brush. Finally, she tells me to open my eyes. She dips a tiny brush into a little pot of black paste and outlines my eyelids. Then she uses her nimble fingers to gather my hair into a knot at the back of my head.
My curiosity gets the better of me, and I break the vow I made to myself not to speak to Soraya unless absolutely necessary. I ask, “Why are you doing this?”
“You must earn your keep. And performing is pleasure as well as work. Here is your chance to create art, to be art. You should thank me.” She reaches into a box and pulls out a stiff-looking wig the color of Pilsner’s feathers. She arranges it over my hair. It is heavy and smells of cedar and candle wax.
“Beautiful,” she says, looking me over from top to toe. “Tonight, you will be part of our Gallery of Wonders. Our patrons will worship your loveliness. You will stand between the stuffed tiger cub and the African masks. I will ask Jasper to place a crate there for you, to make you a little stage of your very own.”
“Am I to stand there like a statue?”
“This is your role: You play Hatsumi, a princess who has escaped her evil stepmother’s house. You meet no one’s eyes. You do not speak. You stare at the floor and count the sorrows of your life.” Soraya smiles and tucks a stray hair under the wig. “The patrons will weep for you, poor lost flower of the Orient.”
Counting my sorrows should not be a problem, I think.
But I will do this for Maren. To be near her for a few hours. To keep peace with our captors while O’Neill and I plot our escape.
Soraya smoothes the silken fabric of her sky-blue sari. “Someday, if you prove to Dr. Phipps that you can sing or dance or play an instrument, you might share the stage with Jasper and Neelo. For now, you are Hatsumi.” She sets a pair of odd wooden sandals on the floor and takes my hands, helping me step into them. “You need your special tea. And then you must take your place in the gallery before our patrons begin to arrive. For them to see you outside would be unlucky, like a man seeing his bride before the wedding.” She points to the door. “Hurry now, Hatsumi, to your tea. You are longing for it, are you not? Wanting it as a bee wants nectar or a leech craves blood.”
When she smiles with all her teeth showing, she reminds me of a winter graveyard with two neat rows of snowy headstones.
As I wait inside the Gallery of Wonders tent, I can hear Dr. Phipps starting the show. He welcomes the townsfolk to the second night of performances, thanks them for their hospitality, praises their wisdom in purchasing his wares the previous night.