Eyes Like Stars Page 2

  “Sad, isn’t it?” said someone just behind Bertie.

  She turned to find Ophelia trailing flowers and chiffon through the saltwater-and-dye puddles. Like the fairies, she came and went as she pleased, walking the ragged edge of her sanity and drawn to the ocean by some unwritten instinct.

  “What’s sad about it?” Little puffs of sand lifted and settled again as Bertie slogged from one dye splotch to the next.

  “She loved once and lost.” Hair drifting over her shoulders in unseen eddies, Ophelia looked at the Sea Witch’s wavering image projected on the back wall. “You’d think she’d show more mercy.”

  “Whatever you say.” Done with the stage, Bertie still had to deal with the dye on her head. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard the water running.” Ophelia lifted her arms up and smiled into the ghostly, aquamarine lighting. “I thought I’d come and drown myself. I won’t be in the way, will I?”

  “Just watch out for the starfish.” Psycho, Bertie mouthed to the fairies, who made looping finger gestures at their temples behind Ophelia’s back.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing back there,” Ophelia said before she drifted off to do what she did best.

  The fairies, taken aback by the cheerful admonishment, were caught unawares by the smoke machine. Lights tinted the artificial fog the same dark blue as Bertie’s hair, and the scene transitioned into Coming Storm, complete with rattling of the thunder sheet and flashes of brilliant lightning-white. The massive prow of the Persephone soared out of the mist, safeguarded against evil by the gold coin Nate had placed in the hull and the one of silver under the mast.

  Jus’ in case, he’d said when Bertie teased.

  Despite the protective charms on the boat, the Sea Witch attacked with curses and errant waves, just as she did in every performance.

  “Man overboard!” Nate’s only line; he bellowed it with his usual gusto, the words underscored by the creak of the Persephone’s wooden planks and straining ropes. Bertie peered into the flies and caught sight of him leaning over the ship’s railing, tendrils of hair torn free from his braid. Her heart gave a queer little flutter, which she instantly dismissed as both ridiculous and embarrassing.

  Nate pointed at her and mouthed, I’ll be right down. Don’t go anywhere.

  Bertie remembered what a mess she must look and tried to figure out how much time she had to remedy it: One minute until the ship reached Stage Left, another two minutes to see to the rigging, and thirty seconds to disembark added up to hardly enough. With a muffled oath, she shoved her head into the bucket behind the wooden wave. Splash!

  “That’s going to be a lovely shade of blue,” Peaseblossom said, pulling out the bits of foil.

  “Shut up and help me get this stuff off!” Bertie scrubbed at her head with her eyes squeezed shut, wondering how much time she had left.

  “Bertie!”

  None, apparently. She came up streaming water; through the dripping cobalt, she caught a glimpse of clenched muscle under soiled linen and the glint of his earring before Nate wrapped her head in an enormous towel.

  “Yer makin’ a terrible mess,” he observed.

  Bertie flapped her arms, hardly able to hear him through the terry cloth cocoon. “Give me just a second to finish—”

  “Best we get ye off th’ stage as soon as possible, lass.”

  Bertie pulled the towel back so he would be sure to see her dismissive eye roll. “Don’t give me that ‘lass’ stuff. You’re not written that much older than I am.”

  “Years scripted an’ years lived are two diff’rent things,” Nate said. Greasepaint, false sunshine, and fan-machine winds had weathered his face, and though his hair and eyes were dark, lighter threads of copper wove through the plait that snaked down the back of his neck.

  Bertie caught herself gazing up at him like a mooncalf and turned away, twisting the towel into a lopsided turban. “I’ll be fine.”

  “All th’ same, th’ Stage Manager’s in a rare, odd mood.” Nate spat into the corner as a ward against evil. “Ye need t’ mind yer step.”

  “If the spitting thing ever works, let me know. I’ll be sure to spit on the Stage Manager every chance I get.” Bertie thought about how Nate always stepped aboard his ship right foot first and would no sooner utter the word “drowned” than he would “Macbeth”; it was “The Scottish Play” or nothing at all. “You’re such a practical and mercenary soul, but that superstitious streak of yours runs bone deep.”

  “I know ye don’ take it seriously, but ye’ve no need t’ tease,” Nate said.

  “Don’t I?” Bertie pursed her lips.

  “Bertie . . .” he warned.

  “I feel like a little whistle,” she said, retreating with her mouth still puckered up. “Just a small one.”

  Nate came after her. “No whistlin’ onstage, or are ye forgettin’ yesterday?”

  He backed her against the heavy, velvet curtains and clapped a rope-scarred hand across her mouth just as she sucked in a loud breath. For a long moment, they looked at each other, and Bertie was acutely aware of the taste of his fingers: salt and sardines (as befitted a pirate) and chocolate icing (which didn’t seem as appropriate).

  A sudden, trumpeted fanfare sent them leaping apart, the blast of noise preceding the messenger from Act Four of Richard the Third. He entered Stage Right, unrolled a parchment scroll, and cleared his throat. In a strong, sonorous voice, honed to cut through the bedlam at court or merely backstage, he proclaimed, “And now, the bane of your existence, the killer of all joys, the Stage Manager—”

  He was interrupted when the murderers from the same production leapt from the flies and stabbed him repeatedly with big rubber knives. The messenger pulled crimson scarves from holes in his tunic and did a lot of unnecessary groaning before his assassins dragged him offstage by the ankles.

  “What was that all about?” Nate demanded.

  “Early detection system,” Bertie said. “I get advance warning that the Stage Manager is coming, and the messenger gets extra stage time.”

  “Clever,” said Nate as the scene shifted around them.

  “I thought so.” Bertie bit her lip, watching the waves recede backstage, the watery lighting special click off, and the cyclorama fade from blue to white. The Sea Witch gathered her gauzy wraps and disappeared into the dim. Ophelia, drowned to her satisfaction, drifted out with the tide. The seaweed and pearls skittered offstage, and the Stage Manager arrived with a broom and a glare.

  “YOU!” he exclaimed, striding onstage like a bantam rooster.

  Bertie put on her most innocent expression. “Yes?”

  “YOU!” he bellowed, as though that was the only word not sticking in his throat.

  Bertie struggled not to laugh at the image of him squawking at the sunrise with his imaginary feathered crest ruffled up. “What did I do?”

  “Who authorized that scene change? Who gave you permission to touch my headset? Why is it blue?” He wagged it at her until dye dripped off the earpiece. When Bertie started to answer, the Stage Manager yelled, “Never mind! Just go! The stage is for Players only! We’re making an announcement!”

  “I think you’ve used up all your exclamation points for today,” Bertie said. “What’s the announcement about?”

  The Stage Manager smiled, a fearsome thing indeed. He looked mightily pleased about something, which didn’t bode well. “Ah, yes, the announcement.”

  “You might as well tell me what’s going on.” Bertie glared at him. “I’ll know soon enough.”

  “Ah, but you have an important appointment with the Theater Manager, and you shouldn’t be late.” He nodded to Nate. “See her to the stage door, please.”

  Nate took her by the arm. “You’ve been summoned to the Office again?”

  “Yes, but I want to know what’s going on!” Bertie dragged her feet. However, Nate could heave a wooden chest of pirate treasure without thinking twice, and she weighed significantly less
than gold.

  “I’ll find ye afterward an’ tell ye everythin’, I promise,” he said.

  The fairies ducked into the hall with her just before Nate slammed the door shut.

  CHAPTER TWO

  All Players

  to the Stage

  Bertie turned and studied the gilt-framed Call Board as the boys whined about wanting a snack. Normally the cork would be peppered with schedules and notices, appointments for costume fittings and personal missives from one Player to another. All that had been cleared off so that only a single piece of official Théâtre stationery was affixed in the center with a brass tack:

  ALL PLAYERS TO THE STAGE. TEN O’CLOCK.

  Thousands of costumes rustled as the Players answered the summons. Bertie had once asked Nate where he was, when she couldn’t find him onstage or in any of the various departments.

  “Ye know,” he’d answered, “I couldn’t really say. ‘Twould be like tryin’ t’ describe th’ place ye go t’ when ye sleep.”

  But no one slumbered now. Fools and martyrs, companions and consorts, the damsels, dilettantes, and Don Juans all crowded the hallway, queuing up to file through the door that led backstage. They whispered behind hands, masks, and feathered fans, trading speculations like an invisible currency.

  “You’re going to be late,” Peaseblossom fretted, tugging Bertie’s clothes into some semblance of tidiness.

  “The Theater Manager’s lecture can wait,” Bertie said. “I want to know what the announcement is all about. Now where did the boys go?”

  Peaseblossom jerked her thumb at the door adjacent to the Call Board. “To get something to eat.”

  Bertie often thought that if she had a grandmother, and that grandmother had a parlor, and that parlor perpetually awaited the vicar’s arrival for tea, it would be just like the Green Room. Spikes of painted iris grew up the wallpaper, and the sofa’s moss-velvet was rubbed so thin in places as to be nearly gray and kitten-soft. The mica window set into the petite cast-iron stove revealed the cheerful glow of burning coals. Tiny, unexpected posies bloomed in forgotten corners, while an enormous clock tick-tick-ticked away the seconds until showtime.

  The refreshment selection varied wildly according to the Théâtre’s whims, with cucumber sandwiches curling up their crustless edges in mortification one day while the next the table might boast flaming Christmas pudding and treacle roly-poly.

  “Come on,” Bertie hissed at the boys. “Your behavior can’t possibly benefit from a massive intake of sugar, grease, or caffeine right now.”

  “Says you!” Cobweb protested. “Here! Have a doughnut!”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be upstairs?” Moth dove head-first into one of the cupcakes.

  The horn speaker clicked on, its translucent bell trembling as it announced, “All Players to the stage, please. Repeat, all Players to the stage.”

  “I’m coming with you guys,” Bertie said. “You can’t ignore a call, so let’s go.”

  “We shall resist until we have sated our appetites and slaked our thirst!” Mustardseed wriggled down the neck of a tall, glass bottle to guzzle fizzy orange drink.

  “Stay here to stuff your faces, then!” Bertie ducked into the corridor, threaded her way through the Ladies’ Chorus, turned a corner, and set off down the empty hallway at a half-run.

  “Why are we going this way?” Moth licked the frosting off his arms as he caught up.

  “I have to find another way in,” Bertie said. “The Stage Manager’s sure to be standing guard at the other door, but he won’t think to check the catwalks.”

  “Hey, Mustardseed took a bag of jelly beans!” Cobweb whined, far less concerned about access to the stage than stolen snacks.

  “You can have the black one.”

  “But I wanted the red one!”

  A muffled noise, then, “Now it’s up my nose. Still want it?” followed by a very sulky “No!”

  “That’s why I don’t eat the green ones.” Bertie turned another corner only to collide with Ariel.

  “Beatrice.” The word was molten magic poured from his mouth. Today, his voice was smoke in the breeze, banners caught by the wind. “Do mind where you’re going, please.”

  Bertie flapped her hand at the butterfly familiars that followed him everywhere. “I’ll do that if you take care of the bug infestation.”

  Ariel snapped his fingers, and the tiny creatures flocked to his hair. Their red and yellow wings winked at Bertie, opening and closing in time with the pulse at the hollow of his throat. When he swallowed, they disappeared under the white silken neckline of his shirt, summoned within.

  Some of the Chorus Girls would love to follow those butterflies, Bertie knew. She’d heard them whispering in the dressing rooms, cooing over Ariel’s fair complexion and the silver hair that tumbled over his shoulders. Never mind that he was also tall and lean, with high-cut cheekbones and not a superfluous ounce of flesh on him anywhere. . . .

  Bertie was about to sigh like a lovelorn schoolgirl when she realized that he was using his powers of persuasion on her and stiffened. “Save it for the stage, Ariel.”

  He blinked, unaccustomed to such a reaction, but when Bertie went to sidestep him, he blocked her way with one arm. Although the fairies hissed a warning, he didn’t relax his gaze upon her. “I was looking for you.”

  “And you found me. Now if you would be so kind as to get out of my way—”

  “Why must you be difficult?” His sigh raised the hair on her arms.

  Bertie rubbed at them and scowled. “Why are you even speaking to me, Ariel? Won’t the Theater Manager be displeased if someone sees us together?”

  Never mind Mrs. Edith.

  The Wardrobe Mistress had made her thoughts about Ariel very clear years ago.

  MRS. EDITH

  (entering the Wardrobe Department with a swish of heavy skirts)

  Bertie, dear. Put that tiara down this instant and come here.

  BERTIE, AGE 10

  I wasn’t hurting it.

  MRS. EDITH

  I told you to polish it, not try it on and prance about the Wardrobe.

  (She stands with uncharacteristic stillness, gathering the threads of Bertie’s attention until her ward cannot look away.)

  The Theater Manager just called me to his Office to tell me that you’ve been seen consorting with Ariel again. I thought we had an understanding.

  BERTIE

  (studying the pattern on the floor with great interest)

  We only played on the panpipes together. (defiantly) He has a very nice singing voice.

  MRS. EDITH

  Yes, but what did we discuss? Do you remember?

  (BERTIE sighs loudly and refuses to answer. MRS. EDITH lifts BERTIE’s chin with her thin fingers and fixes her with a martinet’s gaze.)

  Ariel is difficult, dear, difficult to understand, difficult to control. And the more time he spends with you, the more headstrong and willful he becomes. The Theater Manager’s orders were clear. You are to keep your distance from Ariel. Do you understand me?

  BERTIE

  (with tears in her eyes)

  Yes, ma’am.

  Until Management intervened, Ariel had been her boon companion and the King of All Games. It was he who’d taught her to fly in a harness for the first time and bore the brunt of the Stage Manager’s anger over letting a seven-year-old into the catwalks.

  Bertie had pleaded with him not to yield to Management’s decree.

  BERTIE, AGE 10

  (grasping his sleeve)

  No one ever needs to know. We’ll have clandestine meetings, like robbers in a cave by the sea.

  ARIEL

  (His voice lowers to a soft breeze through her hair.)

  What did Mrs. Edith say, exactly?

  BERTIE

  (balling her hands into fists)

  Stupid stuff.

  ARIEL

  Don’t fret, little one.

  (He bends forward to place a gentle kiss on her cheek,
no more than the brush of one of his butterflies’ wings.)

  I doubt you’ll even miss me.

  He’d been wrong about that. The desertion had cut deep, and Bertie still hated him for it seven years later. “Would you kindly get out of my way?”

  “I suppose you’re trying to find an alternate route into the auditorium?” When she didn’t answer, Ariel bowed. “I can aid thee in thy efforts, Mademoiselle.”

  “I don’t need your help.” Bertie pulled a clove cigarette out of her pocket and lit it with the silver lighter she’d also lifted from the Properties Department.

  One languid movement flicked the smoke out of his eyes. “The Stage Manager’s blocked off access to the catwalks and the balconies.”

  A curse slipped out before Bertie could stop it.

  “Follow me. You can use my trapdoor. But first . . .” Ariel plucked the cigarette from Bertie’s hand and closed his fingers around it. When his hand opened, only a plume of wildflower-scented smoke remained.

  Bertie scowled. “What did you do that for?”

  “It’s a fire hazard and disgusting besides.” He peered at her head. “What have you done to your hair?”

  Heat crept across Bertie’s cheeks. “Just colored it.”

  “Blue?” The word climbed an entire scale without visible effort.

  Bertie bristled. “I like it.”

  “Not a surprise, considering your abominable taste. Hold still.” When Ariel exhaled, gentle currents straightened her clothes and finished drying her hair.

  Bertie closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of sunrise and spring. Something darkly tempting and longing-filled bloomed under the sun-warmed grass and damp earth. She opened her eyes, wanting to ask a question she didn’t yet know, but before she could find the words, Ariel turned away.