“Duty calls,” he says. “Jasper needs me to check the horses’ shoes. And you need to change your clothes.” He gives me one last crooked smile and walks away.
He takes my silly heart with him. I have lost all control of the blasted thing.
Rain patters on the roof of the wagon like the dancing feet of a hundred happy elves. A rumble of thunder vibrates the floor beneath my thin pallet. I roll over and wonder if Jasper and O’Neill’s tent is keeping the rain out. I am glad that Soraya has insisted that I sleep in the wagon with her and the doctor.
“To safeguard your virtue,” she said after my first night of performing as magician’s assistant. “The men of the town must not have an easy path to you. Sleeping alone in a tent offers you no protection at all.” I think that even she finds my costume vulgar—yet she does not offer me a different one.
Through the tiny gaps in the window shutters, I watch lightning flicker. I count the seconds between the bursts of illumination and the thunderclaps. And finally, sleep overtakes me.
A huge stork leads me through the sky. Up and down, with elegant slowness, his wings move through the warm air. I follow him on weaker, smaller wings. My neck aches from the weight of its burden. I look down and see, dangling from a length of pink ribbon, an enormous conch shell. As I watch, it grows larger and larger until its weight pulls me into a rapid downward spiral toward the boiling sea. I open my beak to scream, but no sound escapes before I plunge into the churning waters.
With a gasp, I awaken. The storm has passed, and the early birds are twittering gaily just outside the wagon. I lift one arm to examine it. No feathers have sprouted. Not this morning. That dream will not come true today.
I push my blankets aside and dress in my work clothes. While buttoning my shoe, I glance toward Soraya’s cot. She is gone. On the couch, the doctor snores lightly.
Heart pounding, I hurry to the cupboard where Soraya stores her prized spices. My hand trembles as I examine jars and packets; Soraya has forbidden me to touch these precious seasonings, and she could appear at any moment.
Finally, I spy a thumb-sized vial of crimson dust. It is unmarked, so I uncork it and hold it to my nose. Its earthy scent and unusual color give me reason enough to believe that I have found the scarlet truffle powder I need for my potion.
Dr. Phipps stirs, and I look his way. He stares at me blankly, like a sleepwalker. Although I do not think he truly sees me, I smile at him and close the cupboard as if I am only doing my regular chores.
My smile is genuine, for I hold in my hand the key to our escape.
I need only the chance to boil the ingredients over the fire, and then the draught will be ready.
I wonder how Soraya and Jasper will like my special tea.
Before I go to make breakfast, I duck into the gallery tent to check on Maren. Her color is more gray than pearly, and her cheeks have hollows that were not there yesterday. Her eyes are closed.
I think she may be dead.
My heart sinks and beats wildly at the same time. But then she flicks the end of her dull-scaled tail, giving evidence that she is still alive.
The apprehension I feel for my sister is more disturbing than any nightmare.
Maren is alive, but she is dying, and we cannot afford to wait any longer to take her home.
“Without the sleeping draught, it is too risky,” O’Neill says when I tell him we must leave immediately. I follow him into the wagon and watch as he kneels and rifles through a box of supplies labeled “horse treatments.” He chooses a well-used-looking tin of something and then stands, facing me. “Once you finish preparing it properly, we will go without delay.”
“When will I get the chance to cook it? It could be days. A week. Maren is dying, O’Neill. How many times have you promised to rescue her? And now, when she is at her most desperate, you will not try? Well, I will save her myself.” My panic is leaking out in bitter accusations, but I can no longer control myself. I cannot stop the racing of my pulse or the feeling that I am about to suffocate, nor can I stem the flow of words I will likely be sorry for later.
He takes me by the shoulders. His fingers pinch my collarbones uncomfortably.
“Let go, O’Neill,” I demand. “You are a coward and a liar. Let me go!”
“Not until you promise to wait. Just a little longer, please, Clara. You would risk three lives and lose them all if you acted now. Jasper suspects we are plotting and he is keeping a close eye on me—and the horses. We would not get half a mile on foot before he’d track us down and kill us. Except for Maren, of course. He would take her back and let her finish dying inside that jar, getting all the glory he could from her, for as long as she lasted.”
“We could ask Osbert to attack him.”
“Jasper is wearing a pistol. Osbert is not bulletproof.”
“Speak to the horses, then. Or your bird friends. Surely they could help.”
“They are simple creatures, Clara. They can fetch and carry, but they’re not able to understand complex plans. And they don’t deserve to be put in danger any more than Osbert does. Besides, their laws do not permit them to commit murder at any humans’ behest.”
“Then she will die. And I will die with her, or forever regret not trying to save her.”
“You will not die. You’ll wait, and we will save her together.”
Tears blur my vision. “We will not save her. The truth is, it is too late. All our plans are foolish and futile. We have failed her. I have failed her by wishing when I ought to have been doing.”
Before I can stop myself, I am weeping on O’Neill’s shoulder, clutching his shirt with both hands. He pats my back gently. “Clara, Clara,” he soothes. “Please do not give up. Remember what Auntie always says? We must let hope carry us when our hearts’ legs fail us. Or something like that.”
Through my tears, I laugh at his clumsy misquotation.
He wipes my face with his fingertips. “You see how we take turns despairing and then encouraging one another? Neither of us could have come this far alone.”
He has that look in his eyes, the boy-stupefied-by-mermaid look. But he is looking at me.
“O’Neill!” Jasper shouts from the far side of the camp. “Are you bringing the liniment for the horse or not? I haven’t got all day!”
“Coming,” O’Neill says. He kisses my forehead in a most brotherly, most comforting way. “Hope, Clara. And be patient for just a little longer.”
He leaves me with a hundred questions whirling in my mind.
I wish I could answer even a handful of them, and that the answers would be good and pleasing and peaceful. I wish that wishing would bring the best ending to us all, with the least amount of suffering.
Soraya calls me to the wagon and I hasten to serve her. Very soon, I will no longer be her servant. I will give O’Neill one or two more days, and then I must act—with or without him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX