Waschbär wiggled his toes, paying no heed to Nate’s scowl. “Your Theater Manager wished it well away.”
“This belonged to the Theater Manager?” The unexpected connection left her mouth hanging agape. “But where did he get it?”
Nate looked at it askance. “Perhaps the Properties Department?”
“Easy way to check that,” Bertie said.
“Mr. Hastings’s paperwork,” all three of them said at once.
“Even so, why would he want to get rid of something with so much power?” The wind caught hold of the journal’s pages, riffling through them like a burglar in search of gold coins. Bertie spotted several sheets that were filled edge to edge; some even sported notes in the margin. Phrases caught her eye:
BERTIE
I KNOW I’M SUPPOSED TO BE THE NEW MISTRESS OF REVELS! BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN I HAVE POCKETS FULL OF MUFFINS!
Only a few pages further and she spotted another scene she had not penned but remembered all too well:
(THE WATER BUFFETS BERTIE FROM ALL SIDES WITH CHURNING FOAM AND BUBBLES—)
Not her handwriting at all, but bold, black lettering that carried all the way through the confrontation with the Sea Goddess:
SEDNA
I WILL REMOVE ALL THAT IS YOUR CURSED MOTHER FROM YOU, LIKE CUTTING THE SOFT BRUISES FROM THE FLESH OF AN APPLE.
The journal had recorded their every line, their every cue, arranging it around the bits of narrative Bertie had written. Her handwriting had disappeared, replaced with printed flourishes and curlicues. There was no mystery as to where she’d seen this formal typeface before. She closed her eyes and imagined the stage back at the Théâtre, the heavy red velvet curtains that flanked the proscenium arch, the golden glow emanating from Stage Right.
The journal was transforming into something like The Complete Works of the Stage.
“What’s th’ matter?” Nate leaned closer, but Bertie closed the journal firmly.
“Nothing that can’t wait for another day,” she said, praying she spoke the truth.
“Speaking of another day,” Waschbär said, “Aleksandr also sends word that he’d like you attend rehearsals for the Brand-New Play.”
“Careful now,” Bertie warned, “you almost sound like a manager.”
“Manager, eh?” The sneak-thief paused to consider her words, clapping his hands against his knees. “That’s something to consider. In any case, Aleksandr fears the wedding scene needs some work.”
Ariel returned, handing Bertie a metal plate piled high with bread, cheese, and rough slices of an exotic fruit. “I thought the ending was perfect.”
Nate was immediately suspicious. “Really, an’ why’s that?”
“Because she married me. Bride-clad, with a proper ceremony before a priest.”
“That thing wasn’t a real priest—” Bertie protested, but Nate was already speaking over the top of her.
“She can’t ha’e married ye when she already married me.”
Clenching the plate, she tried to decide which boy to smack first. “Quit circling and snarling at each other like a set of dogs. You”—she pointed at Nate—“I didn’t realize I was marrying, and you”—another poke of the finger for Ariel—“never kissed the bride. Both of you tricked me, and neither ceremony is legal or binding here, so I am not married to anyone.”
“Not yet,” said Ariel, as indefatigable as one of the fairies in pursuit of pie. “All you have to do is pick one of us.”
Nate’s hand clenched into a fist until he glanced at Bertie’s face. Marking the expression she wore, he relaxed a fraction of an inch. “What ye feel is in equal parts, no? That’s why Sedna didn’t send ye back here wi’ one o’ us.”
“That’s the truth of it.” She split a stern look between them. “So you can both relax long enough for us to eat something.”
Waschbär wove a random path, distributing gently steaming pies that he’d warmed over the fire. Pip Pip and Cheerio emerged from his pockets to partake of buttery crust, blinking their little black eyes at the group as he noted, “A troupe needs both stage and coin to get along, especially when it wants feeding as often as this one does. You’d do well to consider Aleksandr’s offer.”
“Are you seeing this to the end, then?” Bertie asked, only half teasing.
The sneak-thief paused to consider the question, looking a bit surprised by the answer he gave next. “I do believe I am. And you?”
Bertie thought of the play, of being trapped in that hellish nightmare with Ariel, and the equally horrifying idea of watching it unfold every night onstage. “I’m contemplating early retirement.”
“Stop talking nonsense and have a pastry,” Moth said.
“I’ll share my chocolate with you, Bertie!”
“Have a bit of marshmallow.”
That the fairies were so eager to share their sugar with her warmed Bertie better than the ginger drink. They gathered around, shoveling bits of sweet stuff in her mouth, patting her cheeks with sticky fingers, playing hide-and-seek in her hair until it was a right mess.
Perhaps there’s a real Turkish Bath in the Caravanserai.
“You’ve rescued your friend,” Waschbär said with a nod to Nate. “Would you rather get back to the Théâtre?”
Bertie glanced up at the Aerie, thinking of her promise to Ophelia. “Not quite yet.”
“So we stay with the Innamorati?” Moth asked with a bounce.
“For a bit,” Bertie agreed.
For as long as it takes to persuade the Scrimshander to come back with us.
“I think it’s a good plan.” Peaseblossom clasped her hands. “Perhaps Chef Toroidal can make me another Henry.”
“I’d like him to make me a Henrietta,” Moth said.
“Yeah, what could be better than an edible girlfriend?”
“Two edible girlfriends?”
Bertie knew better, but said nothing, instead breaking apart a small fruit pie as she took inventory: fairies, furry friend, father. Both boys, neither bleeding for the moment. A truce called.
“Yer thinkin’ hard about something.” Nate’s eyes crinkled with a laugh that caused her heart to squeeze in her chest, this time in a wholly welcome fashion.
“It’s a lucky soul who can greet the morning surrounded by smiling faces,” Bertie said, returning the grin. “Now which of you wants to slog back to the Caravanserai to get me a cup of coffee?”
CURTAIN
Acknowledgments
The Management at the Théâtre Illuminata would like to express its gratitude to the following Patrons:
My family, who offers the nonstop stream of love, support, hugs, coffee, and baked goods required to produce a finished manuscript. And all my love to Teddy Bear, the first family dog. Our hairy miscreants are my real-life fairies, and she was the Peaseblossom of the group. Princess, you are missed.
My publisher, Jean Feiwel, and my editor, Rebecca Davis, as well as the entire team at Feiwel and Friends; they are the stage ninjas, working behind the scenes to ensure the production is flawless.
Jason Chan, for his captivating artwork.
Friends first, beta-readers afterward: Sunil Sebastian, for knowing the difference between the nib and the barrel; Tiffany Trent, for the conversation about cutlasses and cuirasses; Glenn Dallas, for his keen eye and all the great vocabulary words I ended up stamping on the Innamorati’s luggage; Stephanie Burgis, for encouraging me through the earliest of drafts; Jenna Waterford, for asking if she should just wait for the newest revision; Michelle Zink, for acting in all ways like my writerly twin; target audience members Noel Furniss, Michelle Joseph, and Cheryl Joseph, for their enthusiasm and typo catches.
Daniel Erickson, for inspiring Valentijn, the Strong Man and Keeper of the Costumes.
All the wonderful librarians, booksellers, bloggers, and readers who demonstrated such incredible enthusiasm and love for Eyes Like Stars.
A special round of applause to Cirque de Soleil and Lucent Dossier Vaudeville Cirque
, whose costumes and various acrobatic acts inspired the Innamorati. The Wheel of Death performance from Cirque de Soleil’s Kooza was particularly important to this book.
The legend of how Sedna became a Sea Goddess is told in various forms by the native peoples of the Arctic Circle. I wish to particularly thank Mr. Zachary Jones of the SHI Special Collections Research Center for his information about this story and other tribal matters. For more information about the Tlingit, Haida, and Tsimshian people of Southeast Alaska, please visit the Special Collections homepage at: http://www.sealaskaheritage.org/collection/index.htm.
Also, special thanks to Maria Williams, author of How Raven Stole the Sun, for her graciousness and time taken to answer my questions.
Lisa Mantchev, Perchance to Dream
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