I think he is serious. I refuse to further his amusement by expressing my horror at the thought of the immodest dress.
Jasper jumps to his feet. “I’ll just hurry over and ask Papa doctor and Mama what they think of the idea. Then I’ll find that fabulous gown for you to try.” He winks at me roguishly before walking away.
“There,” says O’Neill. “Problem solved.”
“One of them,” I say. “And not the most pressing one. We are no closer today to finding a way to deliver Maren to the ocean than we were the day Phipps first dosed us. Time is passing, and her chances with it.”
“Not so loud, Clara,” O’Neill says. “First of all, do as I do, and feign friendship. Or at least submission. You must not cause the slightest suspicion.” He leans closer, resting his cheek against mine as he whispers in my ear. “I have been thinking about Maren’s dilemma, every minute of every day. I will find a way to take her to the ocean, Clara. If I have to die to do it, I will.”
“What’s all this?” Dr. Phipps’s voice bellows behind us. “Lovers’ murmurings, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” O’Neill says without missing a beat.
“Well, fair Romeo, you are needed for some honest work. Madame Phipps wishes to rearrange the artifacts in the Gallery of Wonders and requires brute strength. Get thee hence before she becomes a gorgon and transforms us all to stone.”
I do not care for his attempts at humor. I know he is a devil, and nothing he can say will make me smile.
O’Neill tips an imaginary hat and leaves us. I watch him go, glad to see that he is hardly limping today. Dr. Phipps grips my arm with one leather-gloved hand and grabs my jaw with the other. His touch is neither gentle nor kind.
“Be careful, little Clara,” he says. He calls me little, but he is only a few inches taller than I, and his shoes are made with extra-thick soles to elevate him. His breath smells of stale coffee and sardines. “Your face betrays your rebellious thoughts. You think you are so very clever. But you must remember to whom you belong now. You must remember whose power holds sway over your very life. You should remember and be in awe.”
I shudder. Not from fear, but from revulsion.
“You are trembling, little one.” Dr. Phipps laughs grimly and drops his hands to his sides. “Now you have given me my due. Be a good girl and get the fire going. And no more silly lovers’ meetings. Affairs between servants never end well, especially when the servants are addicted to my Beloved Bondage tea. Ask Jasper if you do not believe me.”
I stare at my shoes until the sound of Dr. Phipps’s footsteps fades away.
Such an evil, evil man is Dr. Phipps. I almost wish Osbert would eat him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I am gathering firewood in a grove of birch and hemlock trees. It is just after dawn, and I must feed the embers of last night’s campfire so that Dr. Phipps may have his morning porridge on time. The man lives by his pocket watch—a strange practice for a nomadic fellow. Scarff, the true wayfarer, has always hated clocks and watches. O’Neill told me that Scarff once threw a gold pocket watch into the gaping mouth of an alligator because the incessant ticking drove him to distraction. I suspect there is more to that tale, as Scarff is not the sort to toss valuables aside so easily.
Something stirs in the branches above my head. Something much bigger than a squirrel. I look up just as the thing swoops down and knocks me to the ground.
A rough tongue bathes my face. “Osbert!” I cry, hugging the scaly beast.
The wyvern sits back on his tail and grins. He lifts one foot to show me the suede pouch between his talons.
“Is that for me?” I ask.
He nods and opens his mouth. The pouch falls into my hands and I quickly pry open the cinched top. Inside I find a small leather scabbard, and within the scabbard is a dagger. The dagger is plain—without jeweled hilt or engraving—but the blade fairly sings with sharpness.
“Osbert, what am I to do with this?”
He wags his barbed tail and cocks his head to one side.
“Well, thank you,” I say, patting him between the pointy ears. “Good boy.”
“Clara!” Jasper’s voice echoes through the trees. “Where are you?”
Osbert flaps his wings and returns to the camouflage of the treetops. I sheathe the blade and hide it in the deep pockets of the skirt Soraya gave me to wear for servant work.
“I’m here,” I say. “Collecting firewood.”
“Hurry back,” Jasper shouts. “Papa wants an early breakfast. He has decided to move on today instead of tomorrow.”
“Grand,” I mutter. “It seems that even the reliable cannot be relied upon.”
I pick up the sticks I dropped in the wyvern attack. “Osbert,” I whisper to the treetops. “Follow closely, but not too closely. I will meet you again as soon as it is safe for us both. I’ll use the mourning dove cry, in three groups of three. Wiggle a branch if you understand.”
Far above, a hemlock bough sways, raining tiny fir cones upon my head.
“Clara!” Jasper shouts impatiently.
“Coming!” I reply just as testily. But for all my irritation at being disturbed by Jasper, my heart is glad. I have been with dear Osbert, and he has armed me well—even though I do not intend to stab anyone anytime soon.
O’Neill is brushing one of the horses as I pass by with my armload of wood. Without slowing my gait, I whisper, “Osbert paid me a call.”
“Good morning,” O’Neill says, emphasizing the “good.”
“Hurry, child!” Soraya calls from beside the smoldering embers. “Dr. Phipps is a bear this morning. We must soothe him with his breakfast. Drop the sticks there and fetch the sack of dried berries from the hutch in the wagon. Second drawer.” Her forehead is creased with worry.
Jasper follows me into the wagon. “Stay clear of Papa today,” he warns. “The last time he was in such a foul mood, I was forced to dig a grave. Our clumsy young servant girl Florry—or was it Nadine? Well, no matter. She tripped and splashed him with hot coffee, and that was the end of her. It was a shame. She was the most talented harpist, and she had the body of a goddess.”
“What did he do to her?” I ask, but quickly change my mind about wanting to know. “No, please don’t tell me.” I locate the small sack of berries and turn to go.
“Listen,” he says. “I like you and O’Neill. More than I should. You must be careful.”
“I will,” I say, surprised at his great concern.
He reaches out and cups my shoulders with his hands. “Papa swears that last night he saw in the flesh the thing of his nightmares, the thing that a fortune-teller once said would bring his death. He is frantic with fear. And when Papa is fearful, his temper is short. We are all in danger at such times. Even Soraya bears scars to testify to that.”
“I promise to be wary,” I say. “Thank you for your advice.”