When he returns, it will be for me.
Despite her misgivings, she felt a dark thrill that it was she who’d been his savior at last.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I Could a
Tale Unfold
Exhausted, Bertie curled up in an auditorium chair only to have Ophelia appear like a genie, bearing a dome-covered silver platter big enough to hold a Christmas goose.
“What on earth do you have in there?” Bertie asked, startled.
“Food,” Ophelia said. “The Green Room’s repaired itself, and you haven’t had a proper meal in days.”
Bertie’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.
“Proper?” Moth asked, appearing as though summoned.
“Meal?” Mustardseed joined them.
Ophelia took the cover off the tray. “Turkey, cranberries, mashed potatoes . . .”
“Gravy!” Cobweb said, swooning.
“Marshmallows!” Peaseblossom said with a happy squeak.
“What’s the orange stuff underneath the marshmallows?” Moth asked. “It’s not a vegetable, is it?”
“Yams are a starch, I think,” Ophelia said.
The scent of it was intoxicating, so Bertie didn’t even protest when the water-maiden tucked a napkin into her shirt like she was a child of three. Bertie started to eat as Ophelia fixed a stern gaze on the fairies.
“If you want food, go get your own. I won’t have you running through Bertie’s plate and eating all the pie.”
“There’s pie!” They disappeared with explosions of glitter, screams of excitement, and cries of “Dibs on the pecan!”
Bertie looked up from the mound of food. “You have to help me with all this.”
Ophelia shook her head. “Oh, no, I never eat before a performance. Drowning is bad enough without doing it on a full stomach.”
Bertie couldn’t argue with that, so she ate instead. Within minutes, she’d practically licked the tray clean.
“I’ll take the plates back to the Green Room and get you a cup of coffee,” the water-maiden said. “You look as though you’re about to fall asleep.”
Bertie undid the top button on her jeans with a groan, thinking the food might as well have been laced with Juliet’s sleeping draught. “I’m going to rest my eyes until you get back.”
Ophelia laughed. “No one would begrudge you a catnap.”
“A few minutes only,” Bertie protested. “I still have to speak with Mrs. Edith about something very important.” She yawned, jaw cracking.
“Pleasant dreams,” Ophelia said with a smile.
But they weren’t. The moment she closed her eyes, Bertie was caught in the tentacle-grip of a nightmare. The Sea Goddess sat upon a throne of obsidian with Nate at her feet. She laughed as he untangled her seaweed tresses with Ophelia’s ivory comb.
“Look at me, Nate,” Bertie begged him, but when he turned to face her, two mollusk shells had taken the place of his eyes. Bertie scrambled back, screaming, and then there was the sensation of falling from a great height, down, down, down, only to be saved at the very last second by the sound of his voice calling to her.
“Wake up, lass.”
“Nate?” Bertie jerked awake with the scrimshaw humming against her skin.
The auditorium was empty, the house lights only at half, and someone had closed the heavy front curtains to obscure the stage. Bertie sat up, rubbing first at the crusty remnants of sleep that prickled at the corners of her eyes, then the mammoth crick in her neck. Her legs tingled as the blood flow returned to her extremities, denied nourishment for goodness knows how long while she slept wadded up like a ball of dirty laundry. Bertie staggered to her feet, praying the pirate lilt that had woken her had not been a dream.
“Nate?”
The room echoed with her query as Bertie made her way down the carpeted aisle and up the side staircase. The Book sat in front of the proscenium arch, exactly where it belonged and still guarded by two burly Chorus Members. She turned the pages, seeking only one.
But the thinnest filament of darkness served as Nate’s placeholder in the binding, and disappointment stabbed at Bertie’s middle like Juliet’s dagger. With a sigh, she ducked behind the curtain. The stage was preset with all its Egyptian glory for the performance, turquoise light drifting over golden sand and carved stone.
“You’re awake!” A tiny spark of light appeared from behind the central pyramid as Peaseblossom rushed to meet her.
“I thought I heard Nate.”
The fairy shook her head. “He’s still not back.”
Bertie headed to the stage door. “I heard his voice.”
“It was probably a dream.” Peaseblossom alighted on her shoulder.
“Where is everyone?”
“Getting ready. There’s only a few hours until the house opens.”
“Why did you let me crash out in a chair like that?” Bertie demanded. “I have a million and one things to do!”
“You looked so pitiful!” the fairy wailed. “And you hadn’t slept for ages.”
“That’s neither here nor there!” Bertie said.
“Don’t worry, I saw to everything!” Peaseblossom puffed out her chest. “The stage is set, the props arranged backstage, crystal cleaned, brass polished, programmes folded, flowers arranged, the costume tent cleaned up—”
“Mrs. Edith.” Bertie took off at a run, headed for the Wardrobe Department. “I have to ask her about Verena’s skirt!”
A dozen mobcapped apprentice costumers looked up when the door flew open. “Yes?” the tallest inquired, setting aside an enormous steaming wand she was using to coax wrinkles from an emerald evening gown.
“I need to speak with Mrs. Edith,” Bertie said.
“The Theater Manager sent her on a very important errand,” the apprentice answered.
“Only a few hours before we open?” Bertie demanded, immediately suspicious. “What sort of errand was so important?”
“Flowers for the Players’ Dressing Rooms,” the apprentice answered, confirming Bertie’s suspicions that he only wanted to keep the Wardrobe Mistress safely out of the way. “But Mrs. Edith did leave a message for you.”
Bertie tried to not appear too eager. “Yes?”
“She said to remain here until she gets back.”
“And?”
“In the meantime, we’re to do something about your hair.” The apprentice rolled her sleeves up, a determined glint in her eye.
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Bertie demanded.
“You cannot attend an Opening Night with Cobalt Flame tresses. She believes the only color that will cover it properly is Raven’s Wing Black.” The apprentice signaled for reinforcements, and Mrs. Edith’s minions surged forward.
“Hey!” Bertie yelled as they towed her to the dye vat. “Let go of me this instant!”
Not only did they not let go, they forcibly removed her clothes. Bertie screamed fit to do a banshee proud until she realized her destination was a small copper tub filled with hot water sitting just behind the dye bath. Still, it was disconcerting to have two girls apply thick black paste to her head while two more trimmed her fingernails. No doubt another pair would have grabbed her by the feet if she hadn’t protested she was ticklish.
“It’s rather like a spa,” Peaseblossom said, trying to reassure her from the safety of the button box.
Bertie sputtered when they poured cold water over her hair to rinse the dye out. “This is nothing like a spa. I don’t even have enough room to soak all of me at once. Either my chest is freezing or my feet are sticking out.”
After that, there was a blur of vicious towel drying and hair brushing. The moment the apprentices turned their backs on her, Bertie nicked a bottle each of bleach and dye—labeled, appropriately enough, Egyptian Plum—and ran into the corridor. Still towel-clad, she ducked into the nearest dressing room.
By the time they had located her, gone for the key, unlocked the door, and managed to break in past the chair sh
e’d wedged under the doorknob, Bertie had bleached the bottom three inches of her hair and colored it bright purple, much to her delight and their dismay.
Bertie put her hands on her hips, trying to ignore the drips of dye on her towel that uncomfortably reminded her of blood spatters. “What are you going to do about it, eh? It’s my head.”
The lead apprentice clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “There’s no time to correct that now.”
“What time is it?” Bertie asked, disconcerted.
“Nearly seven,” one of them answered. “A half an hour until the house opens.”
“Mrs. Edith won’t be pleased,” another said.
“We’ll just have to do our best on the rest of it,” the first said.
Bertie’s triumph faded. “The rest of what?”
* * *
The boys appeared sometime between the stern application of foundation garments and the hot tongs. They howled protests as they, too, were hustled into soap-filled teacups.
“I just had a Turkish bath!”
“This water smells like flowers!”
“I’m going to catch my death of cold!”
They appealed to Bertie, who was in no position to help them, dressed as she was in the emerald gown the apprentice had been ironing when she first arrived. Mrs. Edith’s minions had coaxed her newly black-and-purple hair into dozens of ringlets, and the entire arrangement was so stiff with hair spray that Bertie knew she’d have to soak her head in a bucket to get it all out. “Sorry, guys. If I have to clean up, then so do you.”
They balked again when they were introduced to their formal wear for the evening.
“I’m going to look like a monkey!” Cobweb protested.
“Dummy,” Mustardseed said, “when’s the last time you saw a monkey in a tuxedo?”
But Peaseblossom’s appearance silenced them for a moment. The tiny sequins on her gown sparkled in the brilliant fluorescent light, and the boys stared at her.
“You look like a girl!” Mustardseed accused.
“I am a girl!” Peaseblossom managed to stamp her foot even while hovering.
“Good thing, too!” Moth said. “That dress would look really stupid on one of us.”
“Shut up,” said Cobweb. “I could wear that dress.”
“You could not,” said Mustardseed. “You don’t have the—” he gestured to his chest, “for it.”
Before there was a brawl over Cobweb’s nonexistent chest, Bertie raised her voice to say, “That’s fine. Either wear a dress like Pease’s, or get in your monkey suit.”
Mrs. Edith still hadn’t returned from the Theater Manager’s “errand” by the time Bertie exited the Wardrobe Department and walked down the deserted hall backstage. Everything smelled of sweat and taffeta and face powder. An expectant hush had fallen over the Dressing Rooms where the Players sat before mirrors framed with electric lights, coloring their lips crimson and smearing their skin with greasepaint.
Bertie tried to look competent and reassuring, which was difficult to do while hyperventilating. “Has anyone ever actually died of nerves?”
“Not that I can recall,” said Moth. “But there’s always a first time!”
“That’s comforting!” Bertie moaned. “No one is going to come. I’ll be homeless by midnight. I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Put your head between your knees!” said Moth.
“Use a paper bag!” said Cobweb.
“Put your head between your knees while breathing into a paper bag,” said Mustardseed.
“I don’t think that’s physically possible, even if I had a paper bag.” Adrenaline poured into her system. “Someone do me a favor and go peek outside.”
The fairies raced to a tiny, circular window set high into the wall, jockeying for space behind the glass.
“Get out of the way, you!”
“I was here first.”
Moth crowed with laughter. “There are carriages lined up for miles!”
Bertie peered up at them, straining her neck and wishing she had wings and could fly, too. “There are?”
Peaseblossom clapped her tiny hands. “You need to get out front to glad-hand the ticket-holders.”
“People are coming?” Bertie asked, hardly daring to believe it.
“People are here. And not just people, but People.” Peaseblossom shook her head. “Kings and queens and a duke—”
Bertie smoothed a hand over her hips. “How do I look, really?”
“Not bad, even though it’s a stupid evening dress,” said Moth.
Cobweb sucker punched him. “Tell her she looks nice.” Moth rubbed the back of his head. “You look nice, Bertie.”
“The diamonds in your hair show up really well against the purple!” Mustardseed said, not wanting to risk a blow to his noggin.
“Enough nattering on about clothes and hair,” Cobweb said, massaging Bertie’s shoulders as if she were a prize fighter. “We need to get you out there.”
“You need to check the ticket sales,” said Moth.
“Work the crowd!”
“Assure that standing ovation—”
“I got it!” Bertie took a deep, steadying breath, turned on her smile, and opened the door to the lobby.
The world she entered was one of silk gowns and diamond dog collars, old money and those rich in enthusiasm, if not cash. Nearly all the names engraved on the announcements were congregated before her: season subscribers, as well as titled patrons like the Baron Von Hedelburg, the Marquis and Marchioness of Glouglow, and the Viscount de Mewe. Bertie moved about the foyer, murmuring her greetings and checking every detail. Fresh flowers bloomed in the wall niches, the chandeliers glittered, and stacks of gilt-edged programmes sat on pedestals. Members of the Chorus were dressed in the theater’s black-and-gold livery and stationed at the doors.
“And just who are you, young lady?” Baron Von Hedelburg demanded.
Bertie curtsied, something she’d never practiced but managed to pull off with reasonable panache. “Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, my lord. I directed this evening’s production.”
“You don’t say?” He adjusted his monocle to squint at her.
The scrutiny was disconcerting, but Bertie refused to squirm. The bodice of her dress was reinforced with steel boning that girded up her spine; although not quite a corset, it served the same purpose. “I do, and if I may be so bold, you have quite a presence.”
“I do?”
“Yes, my lord. There is an air of authority and command about you.” Bertie tucked her gloved hand under his elbow, the better to stroll the lobby. Persiflage and badinage. Perhaps a wealthy Benefactor would appease the Theater Manager if the performance didn’t manage to achieve a standing ovation. “I was wondering . . .”
The Baron was pink around the edges from all the attention. “Yes, my dear?”
From “young lady” to “my dear” in less than sixty seconds.
Bertie leaned closer, until the emerald feather tucked in her ringlets tickled his ear. “We’re always hoping to secure new patrons for the Théâtre. Have you ever considered financing the arts?”
A thoughtful expression wrinkled the Baron’s high forehead. “I might have entertained a notion or two along those lines.”
“That’s wonderful to hear.” Bertie patted his arm. “We’ll speak again at intermission.”
“Is this the young lady responsible for this evening?” a general boomed through a bristling silver beard. When Bertie nodded, he pumped her hand up and down as though trying to draw water from her arm. “It’s capital what you’ve done with the place.”
“Thank you, sir!” Bertie only just stopped herself from snapping to attention and saluting him. “Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, at your ser vice.”
The carriages and limousines continued to arrive, their occupants streaming steadily into the foyer. The fairies sat in one of the chandeliers overhead and whispered encouragements every time she paused for breath.
; “Keep going!”
“Yeah, the old guy thinks you’re cute!”
“Quick, before you lose momentum!”
“Oh, Bertie, look who just came through the door!”
She turned in time to see the Countess of Tlön approach. The noblewoman gave Bertie’s face a vicious pinch.
“Such rosy cheeks. You’re certain you’re not rouged? I can’t abide girls that rouge.”
“No, Madame, I assure you my coloring is entirely natural.” Bertie did her best not to flinch as the Countess gave her another pinch for good measure. “I’m pleased you could make it on such short notice.”
“I hear tell of great things happening in this place.” The Countess tucked her arm in Bertie’s and marched to the curving Grand Staircase. “Take me to my seat, there’s a girl.”
With a longing glance at the Box Office through the glass revolving door, Bertie turned and struggled to keep up with the spry dowager, getting a stitch in her side by the tenth step. “I hope you’ll enjoy the changes we’ve made to the production.”
The Countess’s ivory walking stick marked her cadence like a drum major’s baton. “Word spread so quickly about your ambitious project!”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. After the announcement arrived by courier this afternoon—and such a charismatic courier at that!—people could speak of little else.” The Countess paused at the top to allow Bertie to catch her breath, but strangely enough, air was in short supply.
Ariel. She’s talking about Ariel.
Bertie opened the door to Box Five. “This is yours, I believe. If you’ll excuse me, Madame, there are others I should greet.”
“Of course.” The Countess plonked herself down in her seat and reached for her opera glasses.
Escaping, Bertie headed for the Box Office door, intending to check on ticket sales, but the lights in the foyer dimmed, then returned to normal. A voice crackled over the hidden loudspeakers.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention, please. The performance will begin in fifteen minutes.”
The fairies converged upon Bertie and herded her through the crowd.
“Come on! You need to get backstage!” Peaseblossom grabbed Bertie’s earlobe and steered her through the nearest door.