So Silver Bright Page 4

  Her Gracious Majesty

  hereby requests the presence of and a performance by

  Beatrice Shakespeare Smith & Company

  at her Birthday Festival,

  the Grand Occasion commencing Saturday

  “For the Queen’s pleasure,” the courier added, righting his hairpiece, “she has invited performers and minstrels from the four corners of her lands.”

  “To the Distant Castle?” Even though it took him three tries to read the invitation over her shoulder, Mustardseed sounded awed.

  Bertie peered at him. “The what?”

  “The Distant Castle.” When she didn’t respond, the fairy fisted his hands on his hips. “It was in your play … How Bertie Came to the Theater.”

  Before he even finished speaking, the memory already prickled on the back of her throat.

  VERENA

  I am the Mistress of Revels, Rhymer, Singer, and Teller of Tales on my way to a distant castle to perform for the Royal Family.

  Bertie had composed the line as part of her script, and then, dressed as the Mistress of Revels, she’d repeated the words to a farmwife without thinking twice about them, without wondering at their meaning.

  Script in haste, repent at leisure, it seems.

  “Her stronghold sits at the very center of this great country,” the courier said, “and the terrain is easily enough traveled in a few days’ time, but you should consider an immediate departure.”

  On the very long list of Things She Needed to Do Immediately, Bertie had not counted among them dropping everything to travel to the Queen’s stronghold. “I fear I have nothing worthy of performing before Her Gracious Majesty. This invitation would be better delivered to Aleksandr and the Innamorati.”

  “They have already received their summons as well as permission for more rehearsal time,” the Messenger said with a disapproving twitch, though whether it was the circus troupe or their need for an extension that displeased him, Bertie could not be certain. “In any case, the Queen was most specific that the invitation be delivered to you.”

  Bertie could feel the quicksand gathering about her feet that began with an invitation and ended with her clapped in chains in a drippy-dank dungeon for offending Her Gracious Majesty with a Performance Most Heinous. “But—”

  “You would be wise to realize that you cannot gainsay Her Gracious Majesty’s desires or her timing.” The Messenger stowed his trumpet in some unseen pocket.

  “Of course!” Peaseblossom said with a squeak. “We wouldn’t like to insult the Queen by arriving late!”

  “What kind of insulted are we talking about? Lock us in the tower insulted? Hang us by our thumbnails insulted?” It wasn’t immediately clear from Moth’s tone if he were excited by or fearful of such a notion.

  Mustardseed felt compelled to contribute. “Chop-off-our-heads insulted?”

  “Executions are rare this time of year”—the Messenger cleared his throat before adding—“but the Queen has made it quite clear that the gates will be locked two days hence.”

  “Why would she do that,” Bertie wanted to know, “if she wants us there so very badly?”

  “Deadlines are a tradition,” the Messenger deigned to answer. “‘The first morning after marriage’ and midnight carriages turned back into pumpkins. The Queen has chosen tea-time for hers. Performers arriving late will be denied both the pleasure of her patronage and the chance to win a boon to be bestowed upon the artist or troupe with the most pleasing performance.”

  Waschbär stiffened as though a cupid dart had struck him in the posterior. “What sort of boon?”

  “The sort that has not been granted for countless years.” The Messenger gave the sneak-thief a knowing sort of look.

  “I don’t really fancy myself a duchess,” Bertie started to say, but the laugh that had been building in the back of her throat turned to sand the moment Waschbär flashed her a fierce smile.

  “He is not speaking of a paper title, make no mistake.… He means a wish-come-true.” When Bertie started to make a disbelieving noise, he gave her arm a subtle shake. “Think upon the possibilities of such a gift.”

  “A wish-come-true?” Realization scrambled up Bertie’s spine and hit her in the back of the head with a big, rubber mallet. “And if she chooses our performance, the wishing of it would be ours?”

  “To do with what you will.” Waschbär’s words tripped over themselves in their haste to exit his mouth. “With a mere thought, you could summon all the gold and jewels in the realm, a castle of your own—”

  My family reunited. The happily ever after I can’t manage to write.

  Bertie dared not utter the longing aloud; it was like a birthday-candle wish that, once vocalized, might never come true.

  Cobweb spared her from saying anything by crowing, “So it’s like winning a wish from a genie in a bottle!”

  “No one better expect me to rub an old lamp,” Mustardseed muttered. “Mr. Hastings tricked me into polishing most of the brass in the Properties Department once, using that line.”

  “You’re missing the point!” Moth cavorted in the air nearest Bertie’s left ear. “We could make it rain cupcakes from the sky! Raspberry-jam pies would grow on trees, and chocolate rabbits would poop chocolate buttons!”

  “Bertie can do all that without using a wish-come-true,” Peaseblossom said. “Never mind we don’t need you chasing after rabbits for their droppings!”

  It was true; all Bertie required was a carefully written sentence or two to conjure anything she liked.

  I never thought of writing a wish-come-true.

  She pulled the silk-wrapped journal from Waschbär’s pack, but the sneak-thief wouldn’t be pickpocketed.

  “This is neither the time nor the place for such magics,” he cautioned.

  A double-edged truth: Not only would she make a spectacle of herself before the Queen’s emissary, but an ill-chosen word could inadvertently set her friends on fire—again—or create a Harrowing Journey they’d be forced to undertake.

  “I must make haste. I have delayed the Queen’s business too long.” The Messenger proffered a gold-hinged box of modest size and significant weight. Nestled inside like eggs in the velvet lining of a very odd nest sat four pairs of gold-tooled binoculars; further examination revealed another four pairs, rendered in miniature, the perfect size for the fairies. “Glasses for you and the members of your party, good Mistress of Revels. You’ll need them to find your way.”

  “Of course,” Bertie said, trying to resign herself to the unexpected journey. “Magic spectacles are commonplace on a venture such as this.”

  “We need t’ leave right away, if ye don’t want t’ break th’ horses t’ get there,” Nate said.

  A preparatory checklist clattered into place inside Bertie’s head, lengthening by the moment and a welcome diversion from renewed concern about Ariel. She couldn’t help but recall how deftly he’d handled both horses and wagon during the previous leg of their journey; traitorous eyes skimmed the sky as she wondered if he’d left without saying farewell. “Nate, where did you park the caravan?”

  “Th’ Performers’ Alcove next t’ th’ amphitheater.”

  Bertie had seen it in passing, just inside the Caravanserai’s inner wall, the one separating the giant stone structure from the shoreline and a brisk walk of at least thirty minutes. Glancing down at her bare feet, she scowled mightily, then set off, carefully watching for broken glass and anything else that might injure or maim.

  “D’ye want me t’ carry ye?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “What happened t’ yer shoes?”

  “Ruined by salt water. We were right.… Sedna is already coalescing.”

  The fairies squeaked and clutched one another. Nate sucked in a breath as though she’d punched him.

  “Did ye see her?”

  “Only the water, but I heard several whispered threats.”

  “All th’ more reason t’ clear out o’ here.” He
snagged the shoulder of a passing rickshaw driver, nearly unseating the poor fellow. With an efficient toss, he put Bertie inside and clambered in after her, giving directions as she leaned out and issued orders of her own.

  “Waschbär, find Aleksandr, please? Tell him what’s happened and that we leave within the hour.”

  “It will be done with all due haste, I assure you! There’s a wish-come-true to win!” The sneak-thief ducked into the crowd and was out of sight in seconds.

  Bertie turned to her fairy companions. “Peaseblossom, you need to go back to the bathhouse and collect my things. Take a coin from the Mistress of Revels’s belt and buy provisions. The responsibility for the next week’s meals in is your hands, and that means food groups other than sugar, sugar, and yet more sugar. Is that understood?”

  “Aye, Captain!” As they departed, Peaseblossom and the boys started making plans to gather the necessary supplies, which included chocolate-dipped caramel marshmallow pillows, which might or might not be slept upon.

  The rickshaw lurched forward as Nate posed a question that was a different sort of sticky. “Where’s Ariel?”

  “When last I saw him, he was trying to decide whether or not to remain with the troupe.” Their cramped conveyance swung around a sudden corner, throwing Bertie against her companion’s broad chest.

  “Oh, aye?” Only two words, softly spoken into her hair, but Nate’s expression said far more.

  Struggling to right herself, Bertie tried to sound authoritative, dignified, anything other than equal parts fearful and harassed. “I wouldn’t have anyone remain who doesn’t wish to be here.”

  In answer to her unspoken question, he nodded. “When we get to the Performers’ Alcove, I’ll see t’ th’ packing an’ th’ caravan. We’ll be able t’ depart wi’in th’ hour.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  They spent the rest of their mercifully brief trip in silence, each keeping their own counsel as wooden wheels clattered over the cobblestones. The driver braked to a sudden but welcome stop between two massive stone columns, and Nate removed his shoes to extract the copper pennies long ago placed in each of the toes for luck. Just beyond the archway, the caravan sat bathed in soft amber light that slanted over the cart, the horses …

  And the Scrimshander. Standing stiff and silent, he resembled a creature out of the Innamorati’s new play, the black glint of his gaze and the sharp angles of his arms and legs more bird than human tonight. His thickly muscled chest heaved under a thin cotton shirt; the awkward way it draped his shoulders and the shortness of the sleeves indicated he most likely pulled it off an untended laundry line.

  Hope surged through Bertie’s chest as though the gold chain of blood and bone yet connected them, tugging her toward him.

  He changed his mind.

  After a single step she halted.

  Or he’s come to say a final good-bye.

  She didn’t want to hear those words. Like a child, she wanted to clap her hands over her ears and flee. Years ago, she would have crawled under the main stage, into the dark and narrow place under the floorboards where she was safe in her solitude. She could sit, arms wrapped about her knees and mouth filled to bulging with purloined butter-toffee candies and hazelnut chocolates. She could render the candy a bit salty with tears that dribbled, unheeded, down her nose and cheeks and chin. There, she was queen, with no one to gainsay her.

  Just now she was neither child nor queen, neither Mistress of Revels nor wordsmith, only Bertie, very much afraid her father might abandon her yet again. Taking an inadvertent step forward, she shoved her trepidation down. “Nate, I’ll be right back.”

  Nate’s sharp glance immediately took in both her expression and the Scrimshander waiting for her within the alcove. “D’ye want me t’ come wi’ ye?”

  “I’ll be all right.” She gave his arm an appreciative squeeze and turned, quickly bridging the space that separated her from her father. Deciding to be preemptive, Bertie opened the dialogue with “I owe you an apology.”

  The Scrimshander jerked with surprise, perhaps expecting remonstrations rather than olive branches. “You do?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve seen the Aerie?…”

  “Yes, the Aerie. I did wonder what happened there—”

  The hollow clang of an unseen bell interrupted the Scrimshander, and the alcove filled with members of the Innamorati taking a break from the evening rehearsal. Their laughter was raucous and their gestures flamboyant. The performers greeted Bertie with small cries and affected cheek kissing, creating as much noise as a flock of pigeons crowded about a bit of bread. The Scrimshander shuddered when careless passersby grazed his unseen wings. The moment a space cleared around Bertie, he stepped into it and dipped his mouth nearer her ear.

  “Might we find somewhere more conducive to private conversation?” He indicated a restaurant across the street.

  Bertie nodded, extricated herself from the crowd, and followed him. Everything she wanted to say clogged her throat at once as they crossed a small patio crowded with diners, their glittering evening attire tempered by the fire- and candlelight. Her father didn’t pause at any of the tables, instead making his way up a long, narrow staircase, threading through servitors who moved in a saffron-tinted dance of shadows. Their whispers were no louder than the gentle breeze that brought the scent of salt to the verandah where the Scrimshander turned to her.

  “Beatrice.” Her name on his lips contained a lifetime of defeat, echoed by the angle of his head and the slump of his powerful upper body.

  Afraid of what he might say, Bertie leapt in with “We’ve been summoned to the Distant Castle to perform for Her Gracious Majesty. Though I wish it were not so, we must leave as soon we can make the caravan ready for the journey.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, a jerking bob of the head that reminded her of a bird dipping down to drink.

  Bertie took a step toward him and shuddered, wishing he’d picked some other venue, someplace more secluded, with a less breathtaking view than the gracious sandstone balcony overlooking the sea. She could hardly bring herself to go any nearer the water, father or no.

  “I want you to come with us.” The invitation gushed out of her mouth with the burble of warm froth that comes just before drowning. “We’ll pay our respects to the Queen, and then we’ll go back to the theater. I promised…” Desperate, Bertie managed to gasp in enough air to finish, “I promised Ophelia I would bring you back to her.”

  The Scrimshander reached out a hand and traced the shape of her face with rough fingertips, as though to memorize the look of her. Work-scarred, his skin told the story of his struggle to remain human in the face of his wild-bird instincts. The world around them—the ocean view, the scream of the gulls, a bit of distant laughter—filled Bertie’s head so that she could hardly make out his next words.

  “I will not go back to that place again.”

  They were softly uttered, featherlight, but disappointment lanced through Bertie like a glass blade cutting across her middle, the pain of it tempered only by the sudden and immediate flare of her anger.

  “Why the hell not?” She shoved his hand away, feeling as though he’d slapped her. Indeed, the blood surged to her face like the sap in a spring-awakened tree, and she could feel red-rose livid spots of color blooming on her cheeks.

  “Not that I won’t, but that I cannot.”

  “Of course you can! All I ask for is a short journey, a single meeting, a few minutes’ pleasantries with the woman you once loved!”

  “Beatrice—” he tried to interrupt, but she shouted over the top of him.

  “I’ve asked nothing at all of you for seventeen years!”

  “Beatrice—”

  “And the moment I make a request, you deny me—”

  He broke in again to say, “I was just there, Beatrice. At your Théâtre Illuminata.”

  That brought her to a sputtering halt, the words of her tirade jerked out of her mouth like fish from the ocean. �
�You were?” The word-fish gaped, trying to suck in water, drowning in the air about them. “But when … how?”

  He turned toward the sea, shoulders hunched. Fingertips curved into talons, they gripped the balcony railing and gouged it in ten places. “I flew hard soon after leaving you upon the beach, and the winds were in my favor. I left you a note, although perhaps you did not have the chance to read it before the destruction of the Aerie.”

  I have gone to fetch her.

  “Not Sedna?” Bertie’s tongue felt thick and rum addled, except she’d had nothing to drink. “I thought you meant you were going to be with her.”

  “With the Sea Goddess who nearly killed you?” Her father’s face tightened, a sailor’s knot tied in his forehead and others appearing in the corded muscles of his neck. “Do you really think me capable of such a thing?”

  “Do I know you at all?” Her temper flared to match his. “You’re no more than a stranger to me, and you gave me no word of farewell, only a cryptic note I might just as easily have overlooked as misunderstood!”

  Her father twitched as though she’d ruffled every one of his feathers. “Then let me hasten to reassure you that I did not go to seek out Sedna.” When he paused, the silence filled with everything that had ever gone unsaid between them, crowding Bertie back against the railing until the stone dug unmercifully into her back. She didn’t think it possible, but his next words made her thankful it was there to hold her up. “I went to fetch your mother.”

  Bertie’s head filled with a roar similar to the thunderous applause during a standing ovation. “Where is she?”

  He shook his head. “There was nothing for me there.”

  And all that was hope and joy burst like a soap bubble against a needle. “Did you not seek her out? Wouldn’t she come with you?” Bertie suddenly understood the terror of a winged creature, batting at the bars of a cage too small.

  “Forgive me.… The words do not come naturally when I am so recently changed back into this form.” One hand clutched his ill-fitting shirt, the other curled into a fist at his side. “The theater was closed to me—”