Soraya rests her head against the wall and resumes the fluttering of her feathered fan. “I have heard you say that your aunt is a healer. Tell me about her.”
To pass the time and to distract myself from the unbearable heat, I decide to answer her. “Auntie Verity is kindness itself,” I say. “She is very old and very wise. Her hair is as gray as ashes, and she wears it in a knot, speared with a pencil in case she needs to jot down a note or receipt. She is never without an apron. Her favorite is printed with tiny violets, and it has been mended so many times that it is practically quilted.” I smile, picturing her using the edge of that apron to wipe batter from the corner of my four-year-old mouth.
“Go on,” Soraya says. She takes a tasseled pillow from the floor and places it behind her back.
“Auntie has beautiful hands. Long, tapered fingers with elegant nails, each with a perfect crescent moon at its base, each as pink as the inside of a seashell—despite her endless gardening and yarn dyeing. They are not young-looking hands, but they are lovely. They have led me through forests, soothed me when I was hurt or afraid, and kneaded the bread for our table. They have picked plants and herbs that saved many a life, and they have delivered so many babies that Auntie has lost count.”
I am thinking of Maren as I speak, and of all the things Auntie has done for both of us. But I will not tell Maren’s story to Soraya. I would never entrust her with the tale of the seashell, the stork, and the apple tree. That tale is as sacred to me as Soraya’s fickle gods are to her.
“You left her behind,” Soraya says. “In my culture, we do not abandon our elders.”
“Auntie knows I had to leave to save Maren’s life,” I say. “She knows I will return to her as soon as I can. I would be home now if your husband had not interfered with our journey.”
She opens her eyes and scowls. “Speak carefully, Clara. My husband is my king, and I will not have you speak ill of him.”
“I beg your pardon,” I say—to pacify her, not because I regret what I said.
“Tell me of your sister,” she says, her voice calm again.
“She loves water. She always has. And one day, she began to change into a mermaid.” I stop, unwilling to share the intimate details of my sister’s story with someone who has taken advantage of her.
“How did this happen? Did your aunt put a spell on her? Did someone else curse her?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps she angered the water sprites of our mountain springs. Perhaps they were jealous of her beauty. They are hideous little creatures, the Llanfair spring sprites.” There. I can spin a yarn as well as Scarff if I try.
“Ah,” Soraya says. “The water spirits of my country are also vain creatures, and dangerous.”
“You understand, then,” I say.
“Magical creatures are not to be toyed with,” she says. She yawns daintily and closes her eyes.
I stare at her, puzzled and a little angry. Is this what she truly believes? How dare she say such a thing, when she herself toys with Maren’s life? Or does she only do what the doctor decrees, whether she thinks it right or wrong? I want to shake her, to make her understand the incongruity of her words and actions. To make her consider the consequence of her “toying with” my mermaid sister.
But she has fallen asleep, and now Dr. Phipps is staring at me with vacant eyes.
I get up and move out of his line of sight. He does not attempt to follow me with his eerie gaze. For that, I am thankful.
As soon as Soraya’s snoring commences, I hasten to the cabinet that houses her medicinal herbs. Fortunately, it stands behind the doctor’s couch—were Soraya to awaken, she might not see me right away.
I slide open the drawers and pull out little bottles, looking for the proper labels. White pennythorn leaf, root of flameweed, dried doe’s milk, petals of chamomile. I drop the bottles into my skirt’s pockets. But although I search every drawer, I do not find the scarlet truffle powder necessary to complete the concoction.
Dr. Phipps cries out in his sleep and Soraya stirs. I return to my place on the floor before she opens her eyes.
I will wait for another chance to continue my pilfering.
Of course, more waiting is not at all what I would wish for.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The patrons chatter excitedly as they leave the showground. They have seen a fire juggler, listened to a captivating songstress, watched a magician make a scandalously dressed girl disappear into thin air, and danced to the music of a devilishly handsome violinist. They have purchased cures for stomach ailments, women’s troubles, gout, and consumption. They have bought balms to treat baby rashes and bug bites. They have stared in wonder at the jarred eyes of Egyptian pharaohs and a braid of Saint Catherine’s hair (strands of corn silk woven together three days ago by a bored Jasper). And they have visited a real, live mermaid.
If they had seen the wyvern lurking in the top of a nearby hemlock tree, they would not be quite so jolly.
Outside the gallery tent, I wave to Osbert, knowing his keen eyes will see me even in the pale, flickering light of the torches outlining the camp. Tonight, there is no moon.
A blanket falls over my shoulders. “If Auntie saw that gown, she’d faint,” O’Neill says.
I gather the blanket around myself like a cape. “If I saw myself in this gown, I’d likely faint,” I say. “I have made every effort to avoid mirrors and reflective surfaces.”
“All those poor farm lads will have indecent thoughts for weeks because of you.”
I scowl. “I do not find that especially amusing, O’Neill,” I say. “I already feel guilty for wearing such a revealing dress. You know it was not my choice.”
A look of genuine repentance appears on his face. “I am sorry, Clara. I only meant to tease you a little. I forgot how ladylike you are. How Scarff always remarked upon your perfect manners.”
“I will forgive you since you brought me this blanket to make up for my lack of fabric.” I smile at him, and he repays me in kind.
“You do look beautiful in that ruby color, though.”
“Thank you,” I say, wishing the butterflies in my stomach would cease their fluttering. The memory of O’Neill’s kiss makes my knees weak. Why are his eyes so blue? Why must he stand so close?
I look about us to make sure we are alone before changing the subject. “I have all but one ingredient for the draught,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says. “The horses are ready, and I have set aside a large tin bucket with a lid for Maren. It will have to do.”
“Yes,” I say. “She is fading fast. Whatever Soraya put in her water is no longer working to keep her well. We must get her to the ocean quickly.”
“Trust me,” O’Neill says. “I will get us away from this show and save Maren. I have promised, and I promise again.”
“I hope so,” I say. “With all my strength.”
From across the camp, Jasper shouts for O’Neill.