Suddenly, the wagon lurches, and the terrible cry of an injured horse rends the air. The wagon jerks to a halt, sending boxes and baskets flying and tipping Maren’s jar to its side.
O’Neill and I struggle to our feet and hurry to right the jar. The pearls slosh to the bottom. Maren signs that she is not hurt.
Jasper wakes up swearing and pushes a box off his legs. “Now what? You wait here, and I’ll find out why we’ve stopped.”
“It’s Hippocrates, the bay horse. His leg is broken,” O’Neill says after Jasper leaves. “There is no mistaking the meaning of that cry.”
Furious shouts almost overpower the horse’s wails of pain. Dr. Phipps calls down curses upon all horses, upon all fortune-tellers, upon all ill-repaired roads, upon the entire earth and all of humanity.
The volume and vehemence of the doctor’s curses unsettle me. I look to O’Neill for reassurance, and he takes my hand.
The shouting stops. I hear a gunshot, and the horse’s cries cease. But the silence lasts only seconds before Soraya begins to wail.
“Stay here,” O’Neill says. He steps over fallen boxes and baskets until he reaches the little sliding window that opens to the driver’s seat. He peers out.
“What has happened?” I ask.
“Hippocrates is dead. Jasper and Soraya are kneeling on the ground beside Phipps,” O’Neill says.
“Dr. Phipps is dead, too? Then the prophecy of the monster did not come true.”
“He may still live. I cannot tell from here. I’m going out. Will you come?” O’Neill hurries toward the door, picking a path through more debris.
I glance at Maren, who is sleeping peacefully now that the wagon’s wild motions have ceased. I follow O’Neill.
“Poor Hippocrates,” O’Neill says as we come upon the bloody scene. “He was a gentle soul.”
“There you are, O’Neill,” Jasper says, scrambling to his feet. “Give us a hand getting Papa into the wagon. He’s had some sort of fit. He’s unconscious.”
“Please, boys,” Soraya says, “be careful with him. He is not well, not at all well.” She sobs into her veil. How she can love such a wicked brute, I will never understand. Perhaps he slipped an exceptionally powerful love potion into her tea many years ago.
I go ahead of them and arrange the cushions on Soraya’s couch, making room for the doctor’s limp body.
Once Jasper and O’Neill install him there, Soraya covers him with a blanket and lifts his hand to her moist cheek. “Please wake up, my love,” she says.
“Rest is what he needs, Mama,” Jasper says. “He has overtaxed himself.”
“Yes, my son,” Soraya says, “that is true. He needs rest.” She loosens her husband’s cravat and unbuttons his vest and shirt. She fusses with his hair and adjusts the blanket.
“We must move the wagons off the road,” Jasper says. “We’ll have to make camp until we find another horse.”
“Yes, son,” Soraya says. “You take care of these things. I will take care of your poor father. Oh, my darling George! My love!” She covers his face with kisses.
Whatever love potion she imbibed was very strong indeed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The sun wears a fiery orange halo as I watch it sinking beyond the rolling acres of cornfields. Crickets sing and a few fireflies rise up from the grass, flashing their secret signals to one another. Tonight’s dinner bubbles in the pot: a rabbit stew flavored with wild herbs and a few spices from Soraya’s well-stocked cabinet.
Jasper and O’Neill approach the fireside almost soundlessly. They set Maren’s jar beside me, presenting her as though she is a gift. Which, of course, she is. My sister swims in circles and waves her tiny hand at me. She presses her palms to the glass and stares at the campfire’s bright flames. My sister has always loved a campfire—perhaps because it is not something someone born of water ought to do.
With Dr. Phipps laid up in the wagon and Soraya scrutinizing his every twitch, O’Neill, Jasper, Maren, and I have gained a measure of freedom.
“This is Scarff’s kind of night,” O’Neill says as he sits cross-legged between Maren and me. “A nice half-moon rising, peeper frogs peeping, the air perfumed with stew and wood smoke, and a pretty lass or two to admire.”
“Pretty lasses!” I say. “I thought Scarff was devoted to Auntie, his wife!”
“Well, he only looked,” O’Neill says wryly. “Truly, Clara, he liked the lasses around for their cooking. The fellow burned everything he ever put in a pan, even water! But in all our days together, Scarff never spoke of anyone as fondly as he did of Auntie Verity. And her two girls.”
Jasper sits opposite me and begins cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife. “Is he flirting with you again, Clara? Does he never stop?”
“Don’t be silly, Jasper. He’s practically my brother.” I wish I could crawl under a very large rock.
“Practically does not a brother make,” Jasper says. “But if that is what you believe, Clara . . .”
Maren frowns, her eyes glinting at Jasper. O’Neill is hers, she would tell Jasper if she could speak. She flicks her tail menacingly, and waves form atop the water. I think it would be unwise to tangle with an angry mermaid, even one as small as she.
Jasper shrugs. “So be it, then. What I would like to know is this: Is my dinner ready yet, woman?” He uncaps a silver flask and drinks.
I throw a handful of grass at Jasper. “Get it yourself,” I say, smiling as if in jest—although I mean what I say. “I may be your father’s slave, but I am not yours.”
“Ouch,” Jasper says. “I am undone by your bitter words, my lady.”
“Good. You needed some undoing,” I say, playing along. Things are changing since the doctor’s fit, and making Jasper believe I am his friend may soon prove advantageous. “And while you’re getting your stew, would you mind getting mine?”
“Ah, Jasper! Never vex one of Verity’s girls,” O’Neill says. “You’ll pay the price, and then be forced to pay it again!”
“Both of you should fill your mouths with food instead of words for a change,” I say, and I get up to do the serving.
After I am seated again, I turn my attention to my sister for a moment. Now reclining upon the pearls in the bottom of her jar, Maren has regained her peaceful demeanor. She combs her fingers through her coppery hair and then begins braiding a section of it.
“How is your father?” I ask Jasper between bites.
“The same,” Jasper says, sounding unconcerned. “But rest assured. Once I purchase a new horse, we will be on our way again. As they say, ‘The show must go on.’?” He holds out his bowl, demanding more without asking. “I thought we could try a few new acts while Papa doctor is under the weather. O’Neill tells me he can eat fire, and I am positively dying to see you onstage in one of Mama’s flimsy dancing costumes, Clara.”
I fill his bowl, wishing I could dump its contents over his unmannerly head.