“Clara was brought up to be modest, Jasper,” O’Neill says. “Is that not something to be valued in a young lady?”
“A young nun, perhaps. Clara has no idea how to enjoy life. I am only offering to help her open up to the possibilities of experience and sensation. You could use some unbuttoning yourself, O’Neill.” Jasper stands and reaches inside his jacket. He takes out his pennywhistle. “Let me help you. I will play you a tune, and you will dance. You will have fun tonight, even if I must make you.”
I glance at Maren. She sleeps, completely undisturbed by Jasper’s advances. For once, I am jealous of her.
Jasper plays a merry jig. O’Neill stands, takes my hand, and pulls me to my feet. “Keep playing along, Clara,” he whispers. “For Maren’s sake.” He twirls me about.
And so I imagine we are dancing next to one of Auntie’s bonfires, surrounded by frolicking Llanfair Mountain children. I picture Scarff playing the songs, and Maren dancing with one of the Fischer boys. I focus on O’Neill’s familiar face and pretend that we have not a care in the world. For a few minutes, I dare to let joy bubble up inside me.
After several songs, Jasper asks O’Neill, “Do you play?”
“I do,” he says, bent over with hands on thighs, trying to catch his breath. His limp has all but disappeared but he is still not as strong as he was before the caravan fire.
Jasper hands him the pennywhistle. “Something slow and sweet,” he says. He bows to me, saying, “May I have this dance?”
“I am tired,” I say. “I would like to rest.”
“Nonsense. I just used my best manners, and therefore you must dance with me. Just one song, I promise.” Jasper takes my hand and places his arm about my waist. “Don’t be scared. I am not an ogre.”
O’Neill plays a beautiful tune, and Jasper waltzes me around the fire. When we reach the far side of it, he whispers, “Why do you despise me so, Clara?” His speech is slurred, his breath whiskey-scented.
I turn my head and lean back. I can think of no safe way to answer his question.
He smiles like a hungry fairy-tale wolf. “You are not at all my type. You’re far too sweet and plain. Nothing like my Zara. Yet I am fascinated by you. I dream of you, you know. I dream of us together, traveling the world, performing for royalty. I dream of covering you with jewels and fine dresses, spoiling you with delights.”
“Please do not say such things,” I say. I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.
“Clara,” he whispers, his hot breath on my earlobe, “you have bewitched me.”
The song ends abruptly. “It is late,” O’Neill says, “and we should sleep.”
Jasper releases me. His eyes are glassy with the exact look that boys have after seeing the mermaid. It sends a shiver up my spine.
“We shall camp beneath the stars,” Jasper proclaims. “Fetch the blankets, Clara.”
Inside my pocket, the dagger bumps against my leg as I walk to the wagon. If Jasper does not mind his manners, he may become acquainted with the fearsome weapon.
Hours later, Jasper and O’Neill sleep cocooned in blankets on the opposite side of the fire. I lie beside Maren’s jar and watch the moon inch its way across the spangled cloth of the heavens. I despair of ever falling asleep.
Suddenly, I realize: none of us have drunk our compulsory cup of Beloved Bondage tea tonight.
And I do not crave it at all—nor do I feel the least bit sickly.
Someone has been lying to us.
Dawn’s pink light dyes the clouds above our camp. I stand beside O’Neill’s blanket-wrapped, prostrate body and nudge him awake with my foot.
“Five more minutes,” he says, moaning.
I kneel beside him. “Hush,” I whisper. “Don’t wake Jasper. You must come with me to gather firewood. Now, O’Neill.”
Without further complaint, he untangles himself from his blankets and follows me into a copse of old trees.
Once the camp is out of sight, I stop and lean against a thick oak. “How do you feel?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his thatch of hair. “You want to know how I feel? About what, precisely?”
“Good heavens, O’Neill,” I say a bit too loudly. “I mean physically. Do you feel sick, or dizzy, or weak?”
“Oh.” He yawns. “Despite being rudely awakened, I feel fine. Actually, I feel quite well. And you?”
“Fine. But I am not trying to make polite conversation. I am asking because we did not drink Dr. Phipps’s tea last night. We should be ill by now, stricken with desperate craving, as he said would happen if we missed a dose. But here we stand, unaffected.”
“He lied,” O’Neill says. “The dirty old fiend.”
“I think Jasper lied, too. I think he made up that story about the name tattoos and his wife.”
“Perhaps,” he says. “But it would not be prudent to ask him. Jasper does his best to portray the doctor as wicked and dangerous, but he is ten times worse. He is obsessed with making the Phipps show world renowned, and he believes the mermaid is the key. Every day he warns me, without saying so directly, that he will kill me if I try to take Maren. He thinks you are putting me up to it. That I am under your spell or something.”
“He says those things?”
“When we are alone in our tent, he tells stories. Allegories of a gullible young man in love with an enchantress who persuades him to steal the king’s most treasured possession. The king inevitably catches them and sentences them to violent deaths. Evisceration, twin guillotines, drawing and quartering. Dreadful stuff.”
“He is mad,” I say.
“I am afraid so.” O’Neill’s dear face looks so very grim.
“All the more reason to plan our escape. You must think, O’Neill. Think hard, and I will as well. There must be some way.”
“I’ve thought of little else since the fire,” he says. “Meanwhile, we must prepare. We need to find a smaller vessel for transporting Maren. Something that can be moved without the brute strength of two grown men.”
Behind us, twigs crack and snap beneath someone’s feet.
“Kiss me,” O’Neill says.
“What?”
Before I can object, he pulls me into his arms and presses his mouth to mine. I feel like I am melting, like I am a blazing candle melting into a pool of liquid wax. Time and the universe seem to disappear. There is nothing in the world but O’Neill.
“Ha!” Jasper’s voice interrupts my elation. “I knew it! I knew you two were hiding something. ‘He’s like my brother!’ says Clara. Ha!” He grins, but his tone is bitter. “I should have guessed there was a reason you resisted me last night, you little minx. I should have known your virginal rebukes were nothing but an act.”
I step out of O’Neill’s embrace, my knees trembling and my heart racing.
“Well, you’ve caught us,” O’Neill says boldly. He takes my hand and holds it to his chest. “Clara, darling, it was a delicious secret. But no more.”