Eyes Like Stars Page 3

  “Are you coming?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Bertie hesitated only a second before falling in step with him, chin up, head high, taking care to look unconcerned about the silence that hung between them like a curtain drawn over their past. Every other sound was amplified: the echo of her footsteps, the low whir of the fairies’ wings, the soft sound of Ariel’s breath passing over his lips, until they reached a tiny door, tucked in a corner like an afterthought. Ariel pointed his fingers at the iron pull, and a breeze tugged the door open. The fairies flew into the darkness with whistles and catcalls.

  “Mind where you put your feet,” Ariel said, steering Bertie into the dimly lit space under the stage.

  Only his hand at the small of her back kept her from falling into the sea of black as her eyes struggled to adjust. She peered at the light that filtered through the cracks in the creaking boards; above them, the Company moved about, their murmurs no more than the rustle of oak boughs in the wind.

  “Everyone’s up there?”

  Ariel stepped onto a platform. “Having second thoughts about sneaking in?”

  Yes. “No.”

  Bertie ignored his outstretched hand and planted her feet. The trapdoor opened and the platform glided up, depositing them at the back of the amassed crowd. Bertie winced as the stage lights assaulted her eyes.

  Ariel stepped into the brilliant pool without even blinking. “I shall leave you to your skulking, then.”

  Not wanting to call attention to herself, Bertie skipped making a rude gesture or telling him where he could stick his skulkery. Instead, she eased around the edge of the nervous chatter, doing her best to blend in while the fairies dogged her like four miniature, incandescent shadows. It was difficult to move at all, much less with stealth; Players filled the stage as well as the aisles, the orchestra pit, and every seat in the auditorium.

  “How about over there?” Moth pointed at the revolutionaries from Les Misérables, who rubbed elbows with the buccaneers from Peter Pan. Jostling each other, they swapped tall tales and periodically brandished their weapons.

  Peaseblossom wrinkled her nose. “The Stage Manager’s going to have a fit. They’re spitting tobacco juice on the floor.”

  “Then watch where you fly. You don’t want to end up a target.” Bertie stood on her tiptoes in time to catch a glimpse of Nate headed in her direction.

  “I should have known ye’d sneak back in,” he said.

  “I don’t take orders from that little Napoleon.”

  Nate didn’t have time to interrogate her further, because the “little Napoleon” had entered Stage Left and climbed atop a box so he could be seen by one and all. Conversation died and movement stilled until silence settled over the auditorium.

  The Stage Manager, aware that, for perhaps the first time in the history of the Théâtre Illuminata, he had the attention of the entire Company, held up his hands and cleared his throat. “The Management extends its thanks for your swift assembly.”

  “We hear there’s to be an announcement.” Bertie pitched her voice in the falsetto used by half the Chorus Girls.

  The Stage Manager glared around the room, eyebrows bristling, but didn’t spot her all the way in the back. The shadows did their job nicely.

  “All in good time, all in good time,” he said.

  Bertie exhaled through her nose. If he took much longer, she’d never be able to explain away her tardiness to the Theater Manager. That long-suffering gentleman had heard all of her excuses before, so “I got lost” or “was that supposed to be this morning?” wasn’t going to work. But Bertie was the self-appointed Queen of Improvisation; no doubt she’d think of something to mollify him. . . .

  The Stage Manager puffed up with self-importance. “Some of you might have been present yesterday when the pyrotechnic cannon was discharged.”

  A few of the Players shuffled their feet, but none hastened to admit they were part of the crowd cheering Bertie on. Her stomach turned over, as though she’d gobbled down a dozen chocolate cupcakes and topped that off with a fizzy orange drink.

  “The damages were considerable,” the Stage Manager continued, “and this is only the most recent in a series of destructive and negligent acts committed by a single person.”

  “Bertie,” the Players said with one voice.

  Nate shivered. Bertie had never seen a pirate covered in gooseflesh and didn’t take it as a good omen. Someone must have cued the orchestra; violins began to play with dark harmonics from the brass. The melody tickled at the back of Bertie’s throat, and she shuddered as the music added layer upon layer of tension to the room. The surrounding lights dimmed until the only thing that existed in their universe was the Stage Manager.

  “We have done all we could to raise her since she arrived here, a foundling child with neither family nor friends.” The Stage Manager put a hand to his heart, as though it pained him to say this, though his mouth quirked with ill-concealed glee. “But the time has come for a change.”

  The air crackled with electricity. Overhead, in the flies, someone shook the thunder sheet.

  The Stage Manager’s voice crawled out of the storm, like a god’s pronouncement from the heavens. “It is with deepest regret that I convey this news to you all: The Theater Manager is in his Office at this very moment, telling Beatrice Shakespeare Smith she must leave the theater.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  What Will

  Become of You?

  Static crackled in Bertie’s ears, like the time the technicians had roused her from sleep by running a sound check. She barely heard the fairies’ wail of protest or Nate’s reassuring words that it must be a misunderstanding as panic and disbelief hit her, twin punches to the gut.

  “Say nothin’ here, lass,” Nate said. “We’ll get ye upstairs an’ ask for an explanation. . . .”

  Stage whispers broke out all over the theater, echoing one another:

  “He’s asking her to leave?”

  “Where will she—”

  “What will she—”

  “How can they do this?”

  “It is my hope,” the Stage Manager said, raising his voice to be heard, “that she will be gone within the day, although it’s not for me to say how long the Theater Manager will give her to gather her things and say good-bye—”

  Bertie shoved her way to the front of the crowd. “You’re lying.”

  The Stage Manager paled at the sight of her. “You’re supposed to be in the Theater Manager’s Office!”

  “Surprise!” She sang the word like the last note in a musical number and waved jazz hands in his face. “I’m here!”

  “I should have known!” he said, eyebrows bristling. “And I should have hog-tied you and delivered you upstairs myself—”

  “What you should have done is not told lies about me!” Bertie countered. “Leaving the theater? What a load of rubbish!”

  “Not rubbish this time, my girl,” the Stage Manager said with toadlike satisfaction. “Your shenanigans yesterday finally exceeded the limits of even the Theater Manager’s endurance!”

  Bertie would have leapt at him, except Nate shoved his way between them and pointed a finger at the Stage Manager. “Keep yer hair on, featherleg, an’ remember yer manners.” The perpetual sandpaper stubble on Nate’s chin contributed to an already menacing demeanor.

  As the Stage Manager sputtered, the door in the back of the auditorium slammed open. Everyone jumped, startled by the echoing boom, and turned to see who’d entered.

  The Theater Manager was the fun house mirror reflection of the Stage Manager; tall, where the other was short; cultured and refined, where the Stage Manager was rumpled and red. Today, however, something had disturbed his usually calm expression. “Beatrice Shakespeare Smith?”

  The use of all three of her names sent Bertie running to meet him at the front of the stage. “Sir—”

  The Theater Manager pulled a pocket watch out of his vest pocket and checked it as everything, even time, s
plintered around Bertie and crashed to the red-carpeted floor. “You were supposed to be in my Office fifteen minutes ago, Beatrice.”

  “I know that, sir, and I’m very sorry—”

  He held up his hand for silence. “This is not something I wished to discuss before the entire Company, but missing our meeting and sneaking in here only confirms your lack of respect for the theater’s procedures.”

  Bertie twisted her fingers together, startled by how cold they were. “If this is about the cannon—”

  “That’s just one instance in a long line of infractions,” he said, his expression stern and unyielding. “The Stage Manager has complained for years, but time and again I let you go with just a reprimand or some minor punishment.”

  “Give me a bigger punishment. I’ll clean the theater from top to bottom, fold the programs, polish the chandeliers, whatever you want. I can behave myself, truly I can. I’ll be quiet as anything! You won’t even know I’m here.”

  The Theater Manager’s voice regained a bit of gentleness, which was somehow worse than his temper. “You’re not the sort of girl who fades into the background. I had hoped you’d find your place with us, your niche, but I see now you must follow your stars elsewhere.”

  “But I belong here!” The last word came out a squeak. Fearing she’d cry in front of everyone, Bertie dug her black-painted fingernails into her palms.

  “That’s just the trouble, Bertie,” he said. “You don’t belong here. You’re not a Player, you’re not part of the crew—”

  “You’re a menace,” the Stage Manager added, glowing with triumph.

  “We’ve tolerated your exuberance,” the Theater Manager continued, “in the expectation that you might contribute something valuable to the Company—”

  Bertie leapt upon that tiny bit of hope. “If I could find a way to . . . to contribute, could I stay?”

  The Theater Manager looked around at the countless shocked faces of the Players: Nate, Ariel, the fairies. Even Ophelia, standing in her puddle, looked vaguely dismayed. “No, my dear, it’s best if you go now without a fuss.”

  “But you said it’s because I’m troublesome, and that I don’t contribute,” Bertie persisted, chasing his logic as though it were a golden thread disappearing down a bottomless black hole. She caught it in her hand, wrapped her desperate, silver hopes around the metallic filament, and clung to it like a life-line. “What if I change that?”

  “You’ve had countless chances over the years,” the Theater Manager said.

  Bertie could hear her pulse in her ears, like the slamming of doors. “I can change. I swear it, in front of all these witnesses.”

  The Players murmured variations of “that poor girl” and “he should give her a chance.” Their whispers wrapped around Bertie’s thread of hope and tugged at it.

  They weren’t the only ones on Bertie’s tug-of-war team. Nate stepped forward, every muscle a threat. “If she goes, I go.”

  “Us, too!” Peaseblossom said as the boys chimed in their agreements. The idea, perhaps never before entertained by the majority of the Players, sparked a wildfire.

  “You can’t do that,” the Theater Manager snapped, trying to douse the notion with cold water, but too late. “The Players can’t leave the theater. It’s impossible—”

  Vicious wind rushed around Bertie, carrying with it the thousands of speculative—and in some cases, rebellious—whispers of the Company. The word-hurricane twisted about the Theater Manager, tugged at his coat, mussed his hair.

  “I might be persuaded,” he yelled into the onslaught, “to reconsider an immediate departure.” As the winds and the whispers faded, the Theater Manager looked at the Players, then back to Bertie. The reluctance in his tone might as well have been a neon sign. “If you can find an invaluable way to contribute, I suppose you may stay.” His inflections on the words “invaluable way” gave every indication that he didn’t think for a moment that she could manage such a thing.

  Bertie tossed aside his lack of confidence in her. “Do you promise?”

  After a very long moment, he nodded. “I give you my word.”

  The walls of the theater trembled in acknowledgment of the promise.

  Bertie felt similarly shaky. “Thank you.”

  The Theater Manager checked his pocket watch again and closed it with a determined snap! “You have until eight P.M. tonight to decide what you will do. Please come to my Office at that time.” Face half-lost to the shadows of the auditorium, he added, “I would strongly advise you to be on time, Beatrice.”

  “Understood,” Bertie said.

  The Theater Manager departed, and the whispers of the Players resumed, building to a crescendo. The Stage Manager tried to recapture everyone’s attention.

  “Quiet, please!” he shouted through his cupped hands. “Cue ‘What Will Become of You’!” As the footlights flared to life, he brushed past Bertie with a smirk. “I’ve waited years to call this song in.”

  Wispy, gray gauze panels unfurled from the flies while the members of the Choruses arranged themselves in a tableau of plaintive misery: crouched, hands lifted in appeal. The orchestra launched into a dirge, and Bertie’s chest vibrated with the pull of cello strings.

  Then the Choruses started to sing:

  What will become of you?

  The shadows are closing in,

  The velvet curtain’s falling,

  Much to your chagrin,

  There is nothing you can do.

  The run you’ve had is through.

  A pause in the lyrics permitted the men and women to pair off, one movement flowing into another, like raindrops sliding down a window. Muscles strained as they dipped and spun, but their faces wore only mournful grace. The backdrop fluttered in a cold wind, and the end of Bertie’s nose went numb to match her fingers. She shivered as their voices lifted again.

  What will become of you

  When the lights go down?

  What will become of you

  When there’s darkness all around?

  The doors open to your future

  But this curtain call’s your last.

  What, what will become of you?

  Your time with us has passed!

  They ended, as they’d begun, on the floor in various importuning poses. Bertie would rather drink gasoline and shove a lit match up her nose than applaud, but the Stage Manager didn’t share her sour sentiments.

  “Bravo!” he called, clapping with unfeigned enthusiasm. “Well done, indeed!”

  The Players, wearing expressions that varied from uneasy to sympathetic, coughed and made their excuses before shuffling off Stage Left.

  Bertie glared at the Stage Manager, wishing he’d spontaneously combust or at least get knocked unconscious by a wayward sandbag. “Where did you dig up that awful number?”

  “An obscure little ditty, but so apropos to the moment,” he said, cupping a hand over his headset. “Strike the set!”

  The gray flats disappeared into the flies with a muted whirring noise, and the house lights came up. When the Stage Manager sailed away like a full-rigged ship, Bertie wished she could kick him in the mizzenmast.

  “I have the chance to stay,” she shouted, “and I’m going to make the most of it!”

  “Nyaaaaaah!” added the fairies, making terrible faces at his retreating backside.

  But the Stage Manager only laughed, a hearty chuckle that taunted her as he exited.

  “I have the chance to stay,” Bertie said again, this time to convince herself.

  “Fool.” Ariel crossed the stage, blazing bright with hunger. “You have the chance to leave, to see the world!”

  “I don’t want to see the world!” She backed away, trying to escape his voice—his beautiful, horrible voice—that tangled around her with streamers of excitement.

  “Think of the places outside these walls, where the buildings aren’t made of cardboard and the sunshine isn’t electric.” Ariel’s words pulled Bertie closer. “You must wa
nt to see it, Bertie: the London that doesn’t appear in Peter Pan, the Venice that exists outside of Merchant.”

  His eyes . . . his eyes! Bertie had never seen them glow so, alight with possibilities.

  I could almost believe his every word when I look into them. . . .

  “You could take me with you,” he said, utterly beguiling.

  Bertie looked up at Ariel, and her next words came with reluctance, for she only wanted to tell him yes, to give him everything he asked of her. “You heard the Theater Manager. That’s not possible.”

  “I heard him.” Ariel’s too-beautiful mouth worked as darkness filled his eyes from corner to corner. Bertie could see her face reflected in their liquid black depths. “I also heard the panic in his voice when the Players began to whisper amongst themselves. I heard a man struggling against words, winds, desires, instincts. He’s very much afraid of something, Bertie, and I think it’s you. You’re smarter than all the Managers put together. You could find a way to free me.”

  “Why should I find a way to free you?” Bertie, struggling against the spell of his eyes and his words, managed to take a step back. “You walked away from me a long time ago. You made it clear that I meant nothing to you!”

  “The more time I spent with you, the more I dreamed of leaving.” The butterflies’ wings turned black as the air around them shifted. The muscles in Ariel’s jaw flexed; each time he gritted his teeth, the lights flickered. He was three inches off the floor now, without the aid of wires, without the use of smoke and mirrors. “Now I know why: You’re the key to my freedom, the one who can open the door.”

  Bertie choked on the accusation. “That’s ridiculous!”

  Still rising in the air, he looked at her as he had all those years ago, his face soft with yearning. “I watched you grow, like the flowers I’ve never seen—” But then it tightened again. “If you ever cared for me at all, you’ll leave this wretched place and take me with you.”