I follow close behind Maren and Simon, losing Daniel in the throng. Every resident of the mountain (except Auntie) must be here tonight. And most of them seem extremely anxious to waste their money.
When we reach the tables, Maren points out a pair of embroidered silk gloves. Madame Soraya, now shop mistress, picks them up. “Try them. They will look beautiful with your ivory skin,” she says. “Give me your hands and I will show you.”
As quick as a striking snake, Madame Soraya takes hold of Maren’s hands and pulls off her lace gloves. I gasp, and so does the show woman.
It is too late for my sister to hide her “affliction” from Madame Soraya. I look about, terrified that others might have seen. Auntie has kept our bits of magic (and our pet wyvern) secret all these years. She has warned us of the possible consequences of revealing our uniqueness: the loss of our home, our friends, and perhaps our lives.
To my relief, no one is staring at us. Even Simon seems not to have noticed Maren’s hands. He stands half-turned away from the table, deep in conversation with the village mason.
Madame Soraya says, “I have seen this before. If you will meet me when the show is over, I will take you to Dr. Phipps. I am sure he can help you, child.”
“It’s nothing,” Maren says, escaping Madame Soraya’s grip and hiding her hands behind her back. “Just something that runs in my family, like freckles or large ears.”
“You come and meet us,” Madame Soraya insists. “It is a matter of life and death, child. You know this as well as I.”
Maren turns away from the table. “I want to go home, Simon. They have nothing I want.” Her pretty face is pale and her lower lip trembles.
“I will drive you home in my father’s carriage,” Simon says as he guides us through the crowd. “I could not call myself a gentleman if I allowed you girls to walk two miles up the mountain in the dark.”
“Thank you, Simon,” I say. “We appreciate your kindness.”
Maren is uncharacteristically quiet during the ride home, no matter how hard Simon tries to amuse her. Poor Simon.
Later, safe at home in our shared bed, Maren says, “Perhaps you were right to want to stay home tonight. Perhaps I should try to be more sensible, like you.”
I roll over to face her. “What fun would the world be if everyone was sensible like me?” I say. “What fun would I have if you allowed me to sit about reading all day? You make me live, sister. You keep me from being boring and bored.”
“Thank you,” she says. “Still, I would like to be better. Not always horrifying you and Auntie with my bad manners.”
“Go to sleep, dear,” I say, yawning. “You may reform in the morning—if you still wish to.”
She is quiet for a moment, and then whispers, “I will stay home from now on, although I will most certainly hate it. I do not want to scare the boys with my scales and fins; I would rather remember them thinking me pretty.” She rolls away from me and takes my share of the blankets with her. “Good night, Clara.”
“Good night,” I say.
Truth be told, I do wish we had stayed home. And I wish the medicine show woman had not caught a glimpse of Maren’s webbed fingers. I hope Maren’s careless revelation is quickly forgotten and does not bring consequences upon our little family.
My most fervent wish tonight, the last wish I will allow myself before surrendering to sleep, is for Madame Soraya and the dreadful medicine show to leave Llanfair Mountain before dawn and never return.
CHAPTER FIVE
August melts into September. Auntie and I harvest our crops of beans, potatoes, carrots, and beets. We gather herbs and hang them to dry in the attic. We pick grapes, pears, and apples. Every apple I pick reminds me of O’Neill, the apple tree child. I can no longer tell myself that I think of him only as my brother. I love him, and when he returns, I . . . I will most certainly not tell him.
Here on Llanfair Mountain (too many miles from wherever O’Neill may be), even the nosiest gossip fails to mention Maren’s odd hands being revealed by the medicine show woman. For that, I am exceedingly grateful.
Maren is changing. Osbert follows her about, hanging his head and whimpering.
While Auntie and I work, Maren sits in the shallow end of the Wishing Pool if the weather is fine, or on a chair with her feet soaking in the washtub if there is a chill in the air. She must always be touching water now, as being completely dry causes her anxiety and discomfort.
She is losing her voice. Her loudest words come out as a whisper.
And the fishlike scales no longer hide beneath her skin’s surface. Cool to the touch, they adorn her sides in silvery-green layers.
She hobbles on feet that are closer to fins.
When the pain of her body’s transformation causes her to weep, tiny pearls fall from her eyes. She catches them in a bowl and buries them in the garden when she thinks Auntie and I are not looking. The garden is full of little mounds, as if an army of very industrious moles has taken up residence there.
I am glad we live two miles uphill from the village and rarely receive callers this time of year. But what if someone were to arrive and catch Maren unawares? She could not run to safety on her unwieldy fin-feet. She could not fight off even a salamander in her weakened state.
In a few weeks, Maren and I will be seventeen. I desire no gift more than the return of Scarff and O’Neill. Their presence would lift our spirits and distract Maren from her sufferings better than any medicine. And with any luck, O’Neill will bring some potion, pill, or enchantment to heal her, as he has sworn to do.
Day after day, I listen for the sound of clanging pots and pans and the music of Scarff’s fantastic collection of wind chimes. I dream of it, and awake disappointed.
CHAPTER SIX
Christmas is next week. Auntie is stirring a pot of spiced apples on the wood-burning cookstove. The kitchen air is warm and when I breathe in, I can almost taste the cinnamon, cloves, and fruit. I knit clumsily, my stitches uneven and lumpy, while Maren dozes in the rocker at the hearthside. Her feet, which no longer look human at all, are soaking in a bucket of warm water. Bits of silver on her cheeks and brow catch the firelight. She looks beautiful and tragic, ill yet perfect.
Osbert bays like a hound and hurls himself into the cellar just before the pounding begins on the kitchen door. I throw a blanket over Maren, covering her from her neck to the floor as the visitor lets himself in, uninvited.
“A happy Christmas to you,” says Simon Shumsky. He presses a wooden crate into Auntie’s hands and then removes his hat. “Mother sent you a fruitcake, a jug of elderberry wine, and her greetings.” His attention quickly turns to the shawl-covered girl. “Is she feeling poorly, Mrs. Amsell?”
Maren opens her eyes. “Oh, hello, Simon,” she whispers.
“Well, thank you for stopping,” I say. I grab his elbow and attempt to steer him toward the door, but he is built like an ox. And this ox is bent on getting closer to Maren.