Eyes Like Stars: Theatre Illuminata, Act I Page 19

  “Nothing!” Three pages fluttered to the ground, and the girl rushed to pick them up.

  Peaseblossom returned before Bertie could yell and kick things. “Hey, boss lady!”

  “How are we progressing?” Bertie demanded.

  “We can’t find any more Hamlet pages, but I’m pretty sure we read in all the entrance lines.” Peaseblossom pointed at the stage. “All the Players from that show are present and accounted for, at any rate. I checked them off against the cast list twice.”

  Bertie opened The Book. Counting under her breath and then checking again just to be sure, she whispered to Peaseblossom, “All pages from Hamlet are back in. I guess it just takes the entrance lines.”

  “That’s good,” Peaseblossom said, “because there’s something else you need to know.”

  Bertie sighed. “More bad news?”

  “No, no. Not really bad …” Peaseblossom’s voice trailed off.

  “Just tell me what it is.”

  “We’re sorting more pages than just Shakespeare.”

  “What?!”

  “It’s The Complete Works of the Stage, not The Complete Works of the Bard. So it’s not just the Shakespearean plays, it’s—”

  “All the plays ever written.” Bertie’s legs wobbled, or it might have been structural damage to the building that made the floor tremble.

  “Breathe!” Peaseblossom advised. “It will be all right. Really it will. Why don’t we just leave it at Hamlet? Why does it have to be all of them?”

  There was a shudder overhead, another shower of plaster, paint, and frescoed ceiling.

  “That’s why, Pease,” Bertie said, shaking the dust out of her hair. “Besides which, even if the Théâtre weren’t falling apart, what would you propose we do with the pages in the meantime? File them? Cart them off in boxes? Even Mr. Hastings couldn’t handle this mess.”

  “Then the plan is still the same,” the fairy said. “It’s just going to take longer to get it done, is all.”

  “We have to finish before Friday night.” Bertie forced herself to sound calm and firm.

  “That gives us the rest of today, tomorrow, and most of Friday,” Peaseblossom said, trying to sound upbeat. “We need to maximize efficiency, so let’s run multiple plays at the same time.”

  Bertie looked at seat after seat filled with the various scripts. “Finish sorting the pages off the stage, and then have two platforms lowered in, three if we can fit them. I want every available Player acting around the clock until further notice. Is someone still saying Nate’s line?”

  “One of the minor Players,” the fairy said. “It just needs time to work.”

  But Bertie felt the hope, round and gold, slipping away from her like a coin thrown into a wishing fountain. She clung to it with determination.

  “I know you don’t want to consider it,” Peaseblossom said, her voice soft, “but Sedna’s magic may be stronger than the Théâtre’s. She is a goddess, after all.”

  “I don’t care. Keep trying.”

  “Will do!” Peaseblossom said before she darted back toward the stage.

  “Bertie!”

  “What now?” Bertie glowered at the new arrival. “Mustardseed, if you tell me one more thing has gone wrong, I will hurl myself off the second balcony.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Nothing else has gone wrong.”

  She debated leaving it at that, then yielded. “Are you lying?”

  He squirmed a bit and pulled his vest over his face. The next words were muffled by quilting and embroidery. “Depends on how you define the word ‘wrong.’ ”

  “What is it?”

  He peeked at her with an eye as bright as the black button next to it. “Nothing. I mean, I just noticed that Ariel’s … er … gone.”

  Bertie looked around; sure enough, Ariel was nowhere to be seen in the flurry of activity. “I didn’t actually forbid him to leave the immediate vicinity. I should have, but I didn’t.”

  “Do you want me to look for him?” Mustardseed asked.

  “It would be a good idea to find him before he does something stupid, yes,” said Bertie. “Tell him I said to get back in here and that’s an order.”

  “Got it!”

  Bertie sat down on the floor and closed her eyes. For the moment, no one was looking her direction, pulling on her sleeve, or calling her name—

  “Bertie?”

  So much for that.

  “Yes?” She cracked one eye open.

  “You look tired,” Ophelia said.

  “I am tired,” said Bertie. “And there’s really no end in sight, is there?”

  The water-maiden’s smile was rueful. “I did try to warn you. About The Book, that is.”

  “Yes, you did.” Bertie motioned to the place next to her. “You can join me, if you don’t mind sitting on the ground.”

  Ophelia settled herself with a graceful folding of limbs and arrangement of skirts. “I wanted to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For all this. I might have done better, explaining the dangers, but clarity sometimes eludes me. It’s like a silver fish swimming through the water.” She caught hold of Bertie’s hand, quicker than any of the asps could have struck. “Sometimes I catch it! And sometimes it slips out of reach.”

  Bertie frowned. “It’s all right. You did your best for—”

  “A crazy girl?” Ophelia suggested, letting go of Bertie’s hand.

  “You’re not crazy.”

  “No,” Ophelia agreed. “Not today. Today, I have the fish firmly in hand.”

  Good grief. Bertie would have made her excuses and ducked off to supervise the bedlam, but curiosity pricked at her. “When you tore your page out, where did you go?”

  Ophelia looked at the wall opposite, but seemed to see something much farther away than the water-stained velvet wallpaper and sagging moldings. “On a vacation by the seaside. When all this is done, you should do the same.”

  “If I go on vacation, it won’t be to the seaside,” Bertie said.

  “Oh, but it was lovely.” Ophelia took an ivory comb out of her pocket and began to plait her hair, weaving in flowers and shells with thoughtless dexterity. “What I remember of it, that is.”

  Feeling suddenly unkempt, Bertie attempted to tidy her wayward blue snarls with her fingers. “What do you remember?”

  Ophelia finished the braid with a loop of gilt ribbon and a tidy knot instead of the fussy bow Bertie had expected. “The calls of the seagulls. Endless blue water.”

  “Don’t you get enough of the water here?”

  Ophelia held up her comb. “May I?” When Bertie nodded, the other girl teased through the mess with ivory tines, untangling the knots and twisting curls about her fingers.

  Bertie closed her eyes. Mrs. Edith often combed her hair, an efficient pass with a brush accompanied by a good-natured smack on the head when Bertie didn’t hold still enough for her taste. But this was soothing. Hypnotic.

  Another ten strokes and I’d bark like a dog if she asked me to.

  Ophelia broke the spell by repositioning the butterfly barrettes and patting Bertie on the shoulder. “There you are. I see Ariel headed this way, so if you’ll excuse me?”

  “Of course.”

  Ophelia’s skirts fluttered as she walked down the aisle, and flower petals drifted in her wake to mingle with the pages.

  “She’s a thing of loveliness.” Ariel lowered himself to the floor.

  “I didn’t give you permission to leave,” Bertie said.

  “Ah! But you didn’t tell me that I couldn’t.”

  “Enough with your double negatives, miscreant. Where did you go?”

  “To refill this, O tyrannical one.” He handed her another paper coffee cup. “I figured I might earn my way back into your good graces by keeping you in quad-shot cappuccinos until you are awash in caffeine.”

  “Ah. Good.” Bertie nodded, feeling stupid. “Thanks.”

  “Where did you think I went? Galliva
nting, perhaps? Persuading an unsuspecting damsel to remove my shackles?”

  “I didn’t have much time to think about it, to be quite honest.” Bertie sipped the foam off the top of the coffee. “But it made me nervous all the same.”

  “Would you like me to stay in your line of sight at all times?” His dark eyes regarded her. “Ask and ye shall receive, Milady.”

  “No, I think I’ll just have Mustardseed shadow you,” Bertie said.

  “Have you so little faith in your word-spell?”

  “It’s the first time I’ve condemned someone to eternal servitude,” Bertie snapped. “Stop questioning me.”

  “Questioning you? I wouldn’t dream of it.” Ariel made a great show of squirming around to get comfortable. “So what did Ophelia want?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I harbor certain concerns about her, the least of which is that she’s a few bricks short of a cartload.”

  “That’s singularly unkind,” Bertie said. “And you’re hardly the person I would ask to judge rational behavior.”

  “All that imagery with the flowers is unnerving,” he said. “White carnations symbolize innocence, faithfulness. And pure love. Ardent love. You’ve seen how she feels about Hamlet.”

  “It’s less than ardent,” Bertie admitted. “But her flower obsession isn’t a reason to cart her off to the loony bin.”

  “There you are!” Mustardseed careened overhead and landed with a splash in the middle of Bertie’s coffee.

  With an exclamation of annoyance, she fished him out before he could drown. “Watch where you land, please. I was drinking that!”

  Mustardseed sputtered foamed milk and pointed an accusing finger at Ariel. “I searched everywhere for you!”

  “I’m always in the last place you look,” Ariel said.

  “Don’t change the subject.” Mustardseed shook like a tiny dog, throwing droplets of cappuccino all over Bertie’s jeans.

  “I wasn’t attempting to change the subject, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll shut up,” Ariel offered. “I’ve had a lot of practice at it today.”

  Mustardseed, who’d no doubt been working up to a good “shut up,” wrung out his shirt and stomped off to join Cobweb.

  “Explain something to me?” Ariel said, his voice low.

  Bertie picked up her coffee cup, considered the questionable content of the now-murky depths, and put it back down. “What?”

  “Your admirer. The daring swashbuckler.” Ariel slanted a look at her. “You said he was stolen away. How did that come to pass?”

  “I am not having this conversation with you.” Bertie scrambled to her feet and fled, but Ariel kept pace with her.

  “Indulge my idle curiosity,” he coaxed.

  Bertie flinched when she thought of her tears hitting the scrimshaw, the auditorium instantly ocean-filled. She slammed through the door and into the deserted hallway. “He was kidnapped.”

  “Ah.” Ariel said only the one word, but it was more than enough. “He’s being held against his will somewhere?”

  Bertie pressed her back to the Call Board and her fists to her eyes. She didn’t want to imagine the lair of the Sea Goddess, nor Nate in shackles. “Yes.”

  Ariel grasped her hands with his own and pulled them away from her face. “It’s not your fault, Bertie.”

  She kept her eyes on the floor, refusing to meet his gaze. “It is. I summoned her.”

  Ariel put a finger under her chin and coaxed her to look up. “You would free him if you could.”

  “Yes.” The word was more than a promise.

  Ariel’s smile was all things wounded and rueful. “Yet you won’t do the same for me.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” Bertie whispered.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t trust you, Ariel.”

  He pulled her close. “Someday, I will win your trust, and you will be the one to set me free. I know it.”

  “I won’t.” Bertie recoiled from both him and the assertion she would do such a thing. “Not ever.”

  Ariel made no move to touch her again, though his words were a caress. “Don’t make promises you won’t be able to keep.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  But a Walking

  Shadow

  Bertie didn’t let him corner her alone again. For the next forty-eight hours, she positioned herself in the center of the noise and chaos, well guarded by the fairies, constantly surrounded by unwitting chaperones. Even now, the morning of the performance, a stream of minions carried props backstage while carpenters smashed bits of scenery in and out of place. Mrs. Edith and a horde of fluttering assistants seemed to be everywhere at once as they pinned, trimmed, and hemstitched costumes.

  The Players kept at their lines, and every page acted back into The Book repaired a bit of the Théâtre. The healing was as noisy as the destruction had been. Dust swirled and coalesced to reconstruct plaster statues and moldings. Gilt paint spread like gossip. Rents in both fabric and wood knit themselves back together. Bertie led the cast of Hamlet through rehearsal after rehearsal, and with each run-through, the Players coped better with the decorative changes. But Bertie still fretted over every dropped cue, every misstep. If the play was a failure, she could blame the lack of time to prepare compounded by the constant stream of interruptions and the shouting that threatened to deafen them all.

  “Get out of the way!”

  “Line! Someone give me my line!”

  And always, the never-ending litany of “Bertie! Bertie!”

  “The next person who calls my name gets a boot to the head,” she told Peaseblossom just before a scenic flat came crashing down on Oberon and Titania.

  “Bertie!”

  “That’s my cue.” She ran for the stage and arrived just as Mr. Tibbs and the Stage Manager levered the fallen pyramid off the fairy king and queen. “I know the acting was bad, but attempted murder is a bit much.”

  “I beg your pardon!” Oberon struggled to his feet and still managed to look haughty with a scrape down his cheek. “There wasn’t a single thing wrong with my performance.”

  Bertie corrected him. “Certainly you’re the ultimate personification of the Bard’s vision for the fairy king, but I’ve noticed a few changes for the worse since you started reading entrance lines.”

  “Such as?” Titania righted herself and sulked as hard as someone covered in glitter and flower petals was capable of sulking.

  “Overacting, posing and posturing, giving in to inherent ego, hogging the limelight, upstaging one another… . Shall I continue?”

  Titania didn’t look the least bit abashed. “Perhaps we wouldn’t have to overact if you could do something about these people running amok.”

  “The people running amok are loading the scenery for the performance scheduled to take place tonight.”

  “The scenery normally moves of its own accord—”

  “Yes, but normally Hamlet doesn’t take place in Egypt, does it? The show must go on, but that’s contingent upon your ability to move your royal backsides and finish reading the entrance lines you were assigned.”

  “The impudence!” said Titania.

  “The rudeness!” said Oberon.

  “The schedule!” Bertie repressed the urge—for the hundred millionth time that day—to run everyone through the nearest wood chipper.

  Surely they have one in the Scenic Dock? I can be the Demon Director of Whatever Street the Théâtre is on. Double bonus points if the Stage Manager has a heart attack when he sees the resultant mess.

  Bertie’s homicidal thoughts must have showed on her face, because Peaseblossom spoke out of the side of her mouth, “You can’t kill them. You need them.”

  “For now,” Bertie added in an undertone before she raised her voice. “I’m sorry that pyramid landed on your head, but it’s not like someone yoinked your brain out through your nose.”

  “Did someone call for mummification?” Moth appeared, armed with a butt
onhook. “We’ll prepare you for eternal slumber, internal organs removed and body wrapped in gauze, for one low, low price!”

  “But wait!” Cobweb added. “If you act in the next five minutes—”

  Bertie shooed them offstage and let the Fairy Court go back to swaggering. “Don’t I have enough to worry about, without the two of you contributing to the commotion?”

  The door to the auditorium opened to admit the latest recaptured character. Bertie whirled around, only to suffer fresh disappointment.

  Come on, Nate. You’ve had time to crawl back from the ends of the earth. What’s she done to you?

  “Bertie!”

  She turned to find Mr. Tibbs’s cigar in her face. “Yes?”

  “You tell that little shrimp-tail of a Properties Manager that the necropolis is part of the scenery, and I’ll thank him to leave it alone!”

  “Necropolis?” Maybe she needed more coffee, but she’d already had four, and her entire body was starting to vibrate.

  “You know! The necropolis! ‘Alas, poor Yorick.’ The Graveyard scene?” Mr. Tibbs returned her blank gaze with impatience. “Are you playing the fool, or have your brains turned into pudding?”

  “The Graveyard scene. The necropolis.” Bertie nodded and did her best to look knowledgeable. “I remember now. My apologies, it’s just that I’ve had more than enough of bones lately.”

  “Enough bones or not, you tell Hastings to keep his sticky fingers to himself!” Mr. Tibbs stomped off Stage Left.

  Peaseblossom appeared. “Bertie!”

  “Yes?”

  “We have a little problem,” the fairy said. “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are in the middle of a violent argument with the Properties Manager in regard to their daggers.”

  Before she could ask, Mr. Hastings shoved a handful of paperwork under Bertie’s nose.

  “I will not put up with this nincompoopery!” he proclaimed, so angry that he was purple in the face. He stood ramrod straight for once, three full inches taller than usual. “Forms should have been filled out in triplicate, but these miscreants showed up at the Properties Department and started pulling weapons off the shelves without so much as a by-your-leave. I want them all returned immediately!”

  “Mr. Hastings, I’m so sorry. I must have missed the daggers on the requisitions list. It’s completely my fault.” Bertie put her hand on his arm, turning on every bit of her charm. “Surely there is something we can do about this.”