A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK
An Imprint of Macmillan
PERCHANCE TO DREAM. Copyright © 2010 by Lisa Mantchev.
All rights reserved. Printed in April 2010 in the United States of America by
R. R. Donnelley & Sons Company, Harrisonburg, Virginia. For information,
address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
ISBN: 978-0-312-38097-7
Book design by April Ward
Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto
First Edition: 2010
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
www.feiwelandfriends.com
For my husband, who not only
learned the tango, but the waltz, the
fox-trot, and the West Coast Swing
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1 - Beginning in the Middle; Starting Thence Away
Chapter 2 - A Sudden and More Strange Return
Chapter 3 - To Be Acquainted with This Stranger
Chapter 4 - Darkness Like a Dream
Chapter 5 - Our Valour Is to Chase What Flies
Chapter 6 - To Preserve Mine Honour, I’ll Perform
Chapter 7 - You Should Be as Your Mother Was
Chapter 8 - Till of This Flat a Mountain You Have Made
Chapter 9 - Snow upon a Raven’s Back
Chapter 10 - Garments of Changeable Taffeta
Chapter 11 - Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On
Chapter 12 - Of His Bones Are Coral Made
Chapter 13 - The Memory Be Green
Chapter 14 - This Green Plot Shall Be Our Stage
Chapter 15 - A Mote Will Turn the Balance
Chapter 16 - Hold Fast the Mortal Sword
Chapter 17 - The Sea, All Water
Chapter 18 - A Tangled Chain, All Disordered
Acknowledgments
CAST LIST
MEMBERS OF BEATRICE SHAKESPEARE SMITH & CO.
Beatrice (Bertie) Shakespeare Smith, a seventeen-year-old girl
Ariel, an airy spirit from The Tempest
IN THE OUTSIDE WORLD
Nate, a kidnapped pirate from The Little Mermaid
Waschbär, a sneak-thief
The Scrimshander
Sedna, the Sea Goddess
AT THE THÉTRE ILLUMINATA
Ophelia, daughter of Polonius in Hamlet, and Bertie’s mother
The Theater Manager
The Stage Manager
Mrs. Edith, the Wardrobe Mistress
Mr. Hastings, the Properties Manager
Mr. Tibbs, the Scenic Manager
CHAPTER ONE
Beginning in the Middle; Starting Thence Away
It is a truth universally acknowledged,” Mustardseed said, flying in lazy loops like an intoxicated bumblebee, “that a fairy in possession of a good appetite must be in want of pie.”
“Yes, indeed,” Cobweb said over the rattle of the caravan, “though I awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, I found myself transformed in my bed into a gigantic pie.”
“It was the best of pie, it was the worst of pie,” was Moth’s contribution as he hovered near the gently swaying lanterns.
In the following lull, the mechanical horses snorted tiny silver-scented clouds and the wagon wheels creaked like an old woman’s stays. There was no way of knowing how much time had passed since they’d departed the Théâtre Illuminata. A thin sliver of a moon had risen, recalling the gleam of the Cheshire Cat’s smile, while the hours had slipped by them as steadily as the sullen, secretive landscape. Exhausted to her toes, Beatrice Shakespeare Smith leaned against Ariel’s tuxedo-clad shoulder, barely marking the continued whinging of the fairies. Drifting along the hemline of sleep, she heard a voice call to her, like the fading remnant of color at the edge of darkness.
Lass.
Bertie jolted as though Mrs. Edith had jabbed her backside with a pin, knowing that it was only a cruel trick her mind played upon her but unable to stop her eyes from scanning the edges of the lanterns’ light for Nate.
“We should have had a prologue,” Peaseblossom fretted. “Not all this nattering about pie.” She paused, but no one offered up any introductory words, so the fairy took a ponderous breath.
PEASEBLOSSOM
A gloaming peace this evening with it brings
In the countryside where we lay our scene.
Toad-ballad accompan’d, crickets sing,
and cupcake crumbs make fairy hands unclean.
An indignant Moth squeaked, “There were cupcakes?!”
Mustardseed, however, was most impressed. “You just pulled iambic pentameter out of your—”
PEASEBLOSSOM
(hastening to add)
Lights up: a caravan incredible.
Nature’s moonlit mirror reflects these six:
Four fae, depriv’d of chocolate edibles;
Ariel, winds attending and transfix’d;
And the playwright, named for the Beatrice fair,
Hair purpl’d where it had been Cobalt Flame,
Her many-hued hopes tinged with sad despair
O’er the stolen pirate she would reclaim—
“THAT,” Bertie announced loudly, before the fairy could discourse further upon their Sea Goddess–kidnapped comrade, “will be enough of that, thank you kindly.”
Under the pretense of driving, Ariel kept his gaze on the horses. Like a maladjusted shopping trolley, they had a tendency to veer slightly to the left toward the open field. On the right, unidentifiable but towering trees kept their own counsel, secrets bark-wrapped and leaf-shuttered.
“This is the first moment we’ve had alone since I returned from your delivery errand.” Ariel’s voice coaxed tendrils of enchanted quicksilver from the air.
With one ear trained upon the renewed demands for pie, Bertie tried to brush off his words as easily as she would a wayward firefly. “We are no more alone than Titania was in her bower.”
And I refuse to act the part of the ass.
The moon passed behind a cloud, and the swinging lanterns on the Mistress of Revels’s caravan flickered; in the ensuing darkness, the world spread out before Bertie in every direction at once. Accustomed as she was to only being able to go as far as the theater’s walls, the limitless possibilities should have terrified her.
Instead, she held out her hands in welcome. Their exit page, torn from The Complete Works of the Stage, crinkled inside her bodice, just over her thudding heart.
“Perhaps I can appeal, then, to the romantic nature of our situation.” Without moving, everything about Ariel reached for her. “The open road, the veil of night drawn over the world, us living as vagabonds.”
Usually Peaseblossom played the part of Bertie’s tiny little conscience, but this time, she issued the requisite Dire Warning to herself:
Don’t think about how close he is, or the fact that all you’d have to do to kiss him is tilt your head. Think of Nate. . . .
“If you’re done with whatever fierce internal argument is creasing your forehead—” Ariel’s low laugh undid the knot she had tied on her resolve. A bit of his wind pushed her nearly into his lap, and their lips met.
Bertie’s brain fogged over until the fairies’ collective noises of disgust recalled her to her senses. Pulling away, she muttered, “Vagabonds don’t wear crinolines.”
“No doubt you would feel more at home in a pair of men’s trousers.” Every word was a caress. “Something with rips at the knees and a splash of paint across the seat.”
“I will have you know that despite the layers in this skirt, I’m freezing an
d likely to catch my death of cold.” She tried to look as though she might perish at any second.
“You’re as sturdy as a pony and too stubborn to die of something as minor as a cold.” Nevertheless, Ariel let her go long enough to shrug out of his jacket and drape it over her shoulders.
“A pony?” Bertie tried not to revel in either the gesture or the vestiges of warmth and failed miserably. Turning her nose against the ivory lining, she breathed in the scents of wind-ruffled water and moonlight on pearls. Never one to let an opportunity pass him by, Ariel devoted his attention to the cascade of disheveled black-and-purple curls that tumbled alongside her neck. Though Bertie did her best to ignore the gentle tickling, she couldn’t help the resultant goose bumps. “Pay attention to the road, please. You’re going to drive us into a ditch.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“Really?” Bertie wasn’t thinking of his role as chauffeur when she added, “Not all of our history is good. Why should I trust you?”
“If anyone should hold a grudge, milady, it’s me.” The muscles in his throat clenched in protest. “When I swallow, I can still feel that damn iron circlet around my neck.”
The chill of his winds seeped into Bertie’s bones, and she fought the cold with hot temper. “Then I suggest you behave yourself.”
“Misbehavior is part of my charm.”
“Tearing nearly every page from The Book was hardly what I’d call charming—”
“I paid my debt to the theater, didn’t I?” Catching her by the coat sleeve, Ariel pushed the fabric up to kiss her knuckles. “And though you freed me, I am verily still trapped in a prison, for what else is love?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Bertie flapped her hands until they were protected again.
“There is nothing wrong,” he said, “with a little romance.”
“Sure there is. Look where ‘a little romance’ got Ophelia.” The discovery that waterlogged, oftentimes cryptic Ophelia of Hamlet fame was her mother still hovered on the surface of Bertie’s skin, beads of moisture yet to sink in.
“You have to respect her nerve, do you not?”
“I do!” Moth said with a tilt of his little head. “The respect inside me is so big there’s no room for my guts.” He made horrible groaning noises and doubled over. “I respect her so much, I burst. Oh, help! I’m dying!”
The others looked at one another and dropped to their knees with rousing cries of “oh, my innards” and “my spleen!,” which led to “my gizzard!” and “no, spleen was funnier.”
“What about the man she ran away with?” Cobweb paused to ask.
“The Mysterious Stranger!” Mustardseed frowned and picked his nose, which made it difficult to tell if he was confounded by the matter at hand or the contents of his right nostril.
“As soon as we rescue Nate, we’ll find my father and bring him back to Ophelia.” But Bertie knew her promise would be difficult if not impossible to fulfill, with no clues to his identity and only the knowledge that he and Ophelia had run away to the seaside.
The sea, Bertie realized, the direction in which they’d already turned their noses to search for Nate.
But stage directions are better than happenstance.
“We need a script,” she said without preamble.
“I beg your pardon?” The moment Ariel took his eyes off the road, the caravan hit a pothole.
Wincing at the jolt, Bertie pulled out their exit page.
“Be careful with that,” Peaseblossom fretted.
“I am!” Bertie smoothed the softly glowing sheet from The Complete Works of the Stage. Back at the Théâtre, before tearing it free, she’d inscribed the page with
Following Her Stars: In Which Beatrice (& Company) Take Their Act on the Road
and paused, long enough for a blot of ink to appear before adding
Enter BERTIE, ARIEL, PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH, and MUSTARDSEED.
Bertie splayed her fingers over the words and took a deep breath. “If I want to rescue Nate and find my father, I really will have to become the Mistress of Revels, especially the Teller of Tales bit of the job description.” She turned to Ariel. “Do you have a pen?”
Catching sight of the page, every line of Ariel’s body shifted, resettling into something distinctly uneasy. “Why, yes. I carry a lovely quill and inkpot in my trouser pocket.”
“I’ll take that as a no then.”
With bit of arguing that topped off the lemon pie discussion with meringue, Peaseblossom turned to tug at Bertie’s elaborate coiffure. “The Theater Manager’s fountain pen, remember? You purloined it.”
Reaching up, Bertie found that she had indeed tucked it into her curls.
“You can use blood for ink!” Cobweb suggested. “By the pricking of your thumbs and all that rubbish.”
Bertie tapped the tip of the pen against the page. “Thankfully, there’s still ink in it, and I won’t have to open a vein.”
“Pity,” Moth said. “There’s magic in blood.”
Her hand sought out the scrimshaw medallion hanging about her neck. Thinking of its bone-magic, Bertie scowled. “I’d like to get away from using magic that requires body parts.” She spread the paper across her jacket-clad knees.
Ariel leaned over, his breath tickling her ear. “What are you going to do?”
“I … I’m not quite sure.” She stared at the paper, willing it to whisper some hint as to what she should write.
“Aren’t we going to stop for the night?” Cobweb wanted to know. “I fancy a nice campfire—”
“And a meal or three!” added Mustardseed.
Bertie shook her head. “Absolutely not! We have to keep going.”
“In the dark?” Moth said, each word more incredulous than the last.
“In the cold?” Cobweb continued to climb the scale.
“Without supper?” Mustardseed tried valiantly to continue the ascent, but his little voice cracked on “supper” and so did the pane of glass in the caravan window.
“Nice going.” Peaseblossom applied her knuckle to the back of his head.
“What do you mean, ‘without supper?’” Bertie asked. “Isn’t there any food in this thing?”
“Afraid not,” Peaseblossom said, scuffing her little toe against the air. “I checked every cupboard and drawer when the boys were lighting the lamps.”
Bertie suffered a swift pang of regret that she’d not properly appreciated the Green Room’s continuous and bountiful offerings back at the theater. “I suppose we’ll have to buy some tomorrow.”
“Did you bring any money?” came the cheerful query from Ariel.
Mouth falling open, Bertie sputtered a bit. “I … I … didn’t think about it. I guess I assumed the Theater Manager would … er … provide us with ways and means.”
Peaseblossom was quick to point out, “But you’re the Mistress—”
“I know I’m supposed to be the new Mistress of Revels!” Bertie interrupted her, feeling a myriad of fresh obligations piled about her, like invisible baggage atop the caravan. “But that doesn’t mean I have pockets full of muffins!”
“With the title comes great responsibility,” Moth said.
“The responsibility of meals at regular intervals!” Mustardseed added.
“We could sing for our suppers, I suppose,” Peaseblossom ventured. “Come on, Bertie, let’s hear your singing voice.”
“Yes, Bertie,” Ariel said. “A rousing chorus of ‘What Will Become of You?’ feels particularly appropriate at this juncture.”
“You shut your mouth,” Bertie told him. “No singing, no jazz flourishes, and especially no lifts. You keep your hands away from my backside.”
He leaned back on one elbow, his laughter low and teasing. “Then cue the pirouetting angel food cakes.”
Bertie heard the voice echo again.
Lass.
“Not cake.” Though the fairies immediately protested, Bertie barely heard them over the crackling in her ears. “I
’m going to save Nate.” Possibilities put down roots, each idea a bloom on an unexpected but welcome vine. “I’m such an idiot! All that time wasted having the Players say his line, hoping his page would be acted back into the book … I never thought to write him back.”
“You did have other things on your mind at the time.” If Ariel was striving to sound nonchalant, he almost managed it. “You might try something small and manageable before attempting to drag the man out of the clutches of the Sea Goddess.”
“Careful there, you almost sound concerned.” Slanting a look at him, Bertie added, “Two seconds ago you didn’t lodge a protest over the idea of dancing cake. In fact, you were the one to suggest it.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“I hate to side with Ariel,” Peaseblossom said, her face a study in fretful agitation, “but if you write Nate back, what’s to keep Sedna from following? You could put us a thousand leagues underwater in seconds.”
Bertie shoved the unwelcome idea away before it could grasp her with tentacle-arms. “That won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that,” Ariel said.
“No more than I am certain of anything,” she retorted as she penned the stage direction,
Enter NATE..
CHAPTER TWO
A Sudden and More Strange Return
A hushed moment passed, then a thousand leagues’ worth of ghostwater rushed around them, tipping over the cart and horses. Currents of air and time cushioned the fall; Ariel and the fairies drifted free of the wreckage, trapped within a wraithlike riptide in which they appeared as though frozen.
Bertie alone was able to move, and so she scrambled to her feet. Twisting in a desperate circle, she spotted Nate standing in the road. The trouble was, she could see through him to the vague outline of the trees and waving tufts of grass.
Her fingers clenched the page and the pen as she moved toward him. “Nate?”
“Lass …” When he reached for her, the touch of the pirate’s translucent hand was no more than a kiss of salt on her skin.
Bertie peered up at him, simultaneously thrilled and perplexed. “It’s like you’re the Ghost of Hamlet’s Father, come to haunt me.”