“Ow,” came the tiny protest from Moth.
Again, the Queen’s voice rang out. “Approach, so that we might look upon you.”
Swallowing hard, Bertie rose and stepped closer to the dais. Well-meaning streamers of wind teased about the grubby edge of her sweater, tugged at the hasty arrangement of her silver hair. Bertie had yet to look upon Her Gracious Majesty’s face, though she could feel the Queen’s gaze upon her, at least as sharp as Mrs. Edith’s.
“For pity’s sake, child, what is so interesting about the floor?”
“Nothing, Your Gracious Majesty, my apologies.” Bertie raised her eyes to the person occupying the throne. The Queen was a woman in her middle years, magnificently upholstered in silk taffeta, the fabric embroidered with the unicorn-and-lioness motif. The crown atop her head was thickly jeweled, and Bertie could well imagine seven dwarfs toiling their entire lifetimes to ornament it. For all the grandeur of her trappings, the Queen’s regal appearance went far deeper than her clothes. Her Gracious Majesty was, in some indescribable way, entirely different from the other queens Bertie had known at the theater, perhaps merely because the quality of her silence was more impressive than the loudest of Gertrude’s shouts.
“Is she a relation of yours, Ariel?” the Queen asked after a long moment. “There is the faintest of resemblances.”
He gave her a ghost of a smile. “A relation of sorts, Your Highness. Once upon a time, she was my wife.”
Bertie nearly choked. She wanted to protest but swiftly decided that would only make her look the greater idiot.
“Was your wife, but is no longer?” The Queen’s interest was piqued. There was the unmistakable rustle of her skirts as she sat up straighter in her chair. “What curious circumstances brought about your separation?”
Though the air elemental looked properly somber, the sharp brightness of his eyes gave every indication he was enjoying himself hugely at Bertie’s expense. “At the time I took her to wife, she was already wed to the mariner kneeling before you, Your Gracious Majesty.”
A scandalized murmur spread around the edges of the hall. Bertie’s cheeks blazed with mortification when she caught bits of whispers that included the words “the little harlot” and “that’s a deed most foul!” Behind her, Nate exhaled slowly, his low, water-serpent’s hiss filling the air. Though he’d told Bertie Ariel wasn’t his enemy, his hackles were raised as he stepped forward to take his place at her side. Bertie’s hand immediately sought his, the scars from their handfasting meeting once more.
Don’t do anything stupid.
Though she didn’t dare speak the words aloud, he must have understood. Shoulders shaking with the effort, Nate forced himself to relax.
Lifting one finger on her right hand, the Queen wrung silence from her subjects. Bertie wished she had similar powers, though she would have taken pleasure in using all ten of her digits to choke the words from Ariel’s throat. She turned pleading eyes upon the Queen—
Ask me what really happened. Ask me for the truth of it.
—but Bertie was greatly disappointed when Her Gracious Majesty raised her voice only to note, “She hardly appears woman enough for one man, much less two.”
This time, the courtiers responded without fear of repercussion, so their laughter was the roaring of lions and the gentle whickering of one-horned horses. The fairies vibrated with barely concealed temper. Nate’s expression suggested the awful things he planned to do to the air elemental, and Bertie wondered through the haze of her humiliation if Ariel would survive to see another dawn.
The Queen marked none of them, her gaze still upon Ariel. “Would you wish that she was still your wife?”
His respectful mask slipped a bit. “I will admit my heart still suffers the wounds of a man denied, but I’m afraid she has parts aplenty to play without also assuming the role of wife, Your Gracious Majesty: the Mistress of Revels, Rhymer, Singer, Teller of Tales, Emissary of the Théâtre Illuminata.” He rolled Bertie’s many titles about his mouth like marbles before adding, “Forest Queen.”
Here, the Queen’s penciled eyebrows nearly skidded off her face. “And just who crowned you such a thing, Beatrice Shakespeare Smith?”
The truth spoke itself. “I was born to it. I am a daughter of the earth.”
“Yet you presume to call yourself a queen, as well as a handful of other titles that sound altogether very impressive but mean relatively little.”
One couldn’t exactly be rude to royalty without fear of head choppery, so Bertie only nodded and replied, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The Queen settled back into her throne. “You may tell me how all this came to be.” When Bertie hesitated, Her Gracious Majesty smacked her hand against the arm of the throne, causing everyone else in the hall to start as though she’d slapped each of them personally. “Well? What are you waiting for?”
Though it was difficult to manage in jeans, Bertie curtsied again, because it gave her time to sort out her words. “I am afraid we haven’t yet had time to prepare a performance, Your Gracious Majesty, and I need to apologize for a mishap at the lower gates—”
“Never mind that now, I’m asking for your story, Teller of Tales.” The finality of her tone gave no room for importuning. “Begin at the beginning, go on until you come to the end, then stop.”
Bertie swallowed hard and nodded her assent as she knew she must. “Of course, Your Majesty.” It was only as she backed away from the dais that she permitted herself to exchange an agonized expression with Nate, that she entertained thoughts of kicking Ariel quite hard in his shins, that she motioned to the fairies to clear the space around her with a smile that didn’t reassure anyone.
To stand ill-dressed and even more ill-prepared before an audience was an actor’s worst nightmare, really, recalling the velvet-curtain and spot-lit dreams Bertie had experienced as a small child in which she was thrust onstage in a costume not hers to recite lines she didn’t know before an audience armed with rotten fruit and moldering tomatoes. It had taken repeated lavender-scented reassurances from Mrs. Edith that such a travesty would never come to pass, that Bertie was a little girl and not a Player, that no one expected her to ever tread the boards.
She was mistaken about that.
At least I’m not naked.
Small consolation, but a steadying one nevertheless. Bertie took a deep breath, caught hold of the audience’s attention like ribbon-reins in her hands, and began. “It starts with a meeting most curious.”
A dim shape appeared alongside her to suggest Ophelia’s water-soaked chiffon and flowers, then the Scrimshander’s winged arms bore that young woman to a cavern in the cliffs. In delicate detail, Bertie described the ivory rafters of the Aerie, its scrimmed whale ribs coalescing overhead for everyone to see. The courtiers gasped and clutched one another when the tentacled shadow of Sedna towered over Bertie’s parents and flooded the cavern with the suggestion of water. In great gushes, the imagined ocean swirled about the Queen’s Great Hall, snaked under the seating, and sluiced across the marble.
The room wasn’t the only thing transformed by the telling. Each word Bertie spoke added a flounce upon a dress not there, a bit of embroidery, an inch of lace, a jewel to her hair, throat, fingers, wrists until she stood before the Queen and her court, not in rags, but properly attired as the Mistress of Revels. Power filled Bertie with wildfire. Excitement poured through her veins, rouging her cheeks brilliant pink as she shifted the scenery about them, breaking their hearts as Ophelia’s had broken upon her return to the Théâtre Illuminata.
The Mistress of Revels conjured its velvet-and-gilt grandeur for Her Gracious Majesty’s pleasure. Moving among ghostly Players, the years skimmed around Bertie, her childhood passing in a sentence or two. The events of the past month spun out like spiderwebs, threads crisscrossing; some—like Ariel’s and Nate’s—were stickier than others, trickier for the storyteller to traverse without unbalancing herself. Easier to manage were the mechanical horses, the rollicki
ng caravan, the sandstone of the Caravanserai, the terrible glory of Sedna’s Hall, their escape from a watery tomb, a journey toward a distant silver spire, the attack by the band of brigands. Peaseblossom’s death brought the audience to tears; as the courtiers wept, Bertie wondered how best to bring the performance to a close.
It had to end with Varvara, she decided. Bertie placed a finger to her lips and waited for the utter silence that followed.
“If the fire took her from us, the fire can give her back,” she promised them.
About Varvara, Bertie built a massive opal, smooth surfaced and gleaming. All the ethereal lights of the aurora borealis shimmered around the fire-dancer, painting her costume and pointe shoes with sky-burning blues and greens and golds. When she emerged from her jewel cocoon, Peaseblossom clung to her bodice, face puckered with the effort of glowing orange-gold.
As Varvara began a series of pirouettes around her, Bertie caught hold of Peaseblossom and held her aloft. Marigold sparks cascaded over the entire room, pouring from the chandeliers, the mirrors, the very ceiling. Careful not to squish her friend, Bertie brought her hands together with a thunderclap, and when Peaseblossom emerged from an explosion of glitter, the audience leapt to its feet with a collective gasp, bursting into applause for her resurrection.
Such theatrics would have done nicely for a finale, except Ariel exhaled a breath he must have been holding for some time. Varvara immediately flared up with the sort of blast that explodes from a fire-eater’s mouth, her skirts and shoes once more the shade of blood on rubies. The enormous mirrors around the hall vibrated, humming in twelve-part harmony until they shattered. Shards rained down toward the marble floor, the courtiers, and the Queen herself.
By some shared instinct, wordsmith and fire-dancer flung out their hands and transformed the lethal needles, separating all that was silvered glass into sand and flames. Varvara called the fire to her and wrapped it about her in an ember-glowing cape, while tiny bits of stone collected in drifts upon the floor around Bertie’s feet.
“Only one way to prevent seven years of bad luck,” she whispered to Varvara.
The fire-dancer grasped her meaning; with a noise like white thunder, they restored the mirrors as they had the front gates. The silvered surfaces rippled in their frames like waves upon the ocean before solidifying, reflecting countless panting and wild-eyed Berties and just as many silver-haired, impossibly aged Queens.
Breath catching in her throat, Bertie turned to the dais. When the Queen pursed her lips, her face blossomed with countless wrinkles. When she finally spoke, the single word rasped as though dust had settled in the back of her throat.
“Interesting.”
It was as though the many years in Bertie’s story had all manifested upon Her Gracious Majesty’s features at once. Bertie hazarded a glance about the room, but none of the courtiers or servitors seemed to think anything was amiss with the Queen’s appearance. Hoping it wouldn’t cause offense, she scrubbed at her own eyes, wondering if it was some trick of the light or the result of the countless broken mirrors, but no.
Her surprise banished all that was word-conjured. The massive opal faded. The Mistress of Revels’s grand costume fell apart, unraveled thread by thread by the silence. Standing alone before the dais, unmasked once more, Bertie was devoid of words, unable to do more than look up at the regal monarch and wait for what would come next.
“You have pleased me,” the Queen finally said. Only then was Bertie able to draw a breath, to relax enough to be able to feel her fingers and toes once more. Her Gracious Majesty stretched out her arm. Thinking she would be allowed to kiss the Royal Hand, Bertie approached. The Queen’s fingers unfurled, and a gleaming broach of rose gold lay in her pale, wrinkled palm. “A token of my esteem.”
Bertie stared at it blankly for a moment, realizing it was the same as the bit of jewelry she’d seen pinned to Mrs. Edith’s various shirtwaists every day of her growing up.
A gift from the Queen, that’s what she always said.
Bertie took the offering and her legs bent of their own accord. “My most humble thanks, and I would humbly beg your forgiveness for what occurred at the front gate.”
For a moment, Bertie thought the Queen might take back her broach and her good will, but Her Gracious Majesty only barked a laugh and waved a hand to indicate such things were of little importance to her. “You are forgiven.”
Bertie felt her knees go wobbly. “My thanks, Your Gracious Majesty.”
The Queen crooked a finger at Bertie, beckoning her closer. “Just what would you do with a wish-come-true, I’d like to know.”
The boon. Bertie hadn’t even spit enough to lick her lips. “My family, Your Gracious Majesty. I would see us reunited.”
After a long moment, the Queen consulted a small, mirrored timepiece that dangled from her taffeta dress, perhaps to see just how many minutes an impertinent snippet of a girl had wasted. “You will have breakfast with me on the morrow in my private chambers, Beatrice Shakespeare Smith.” She reached for a walking stick resting upon the side of her throne, then spared a glance for the rest of the Company, all wearing various looks of astonishment except Moth, who was picking his nose. “While we dine, your retinue is free to enjoy the grounds. That will be more peaceful, I think.”
Realizing she ought to say something, Bertie gave another deep curtsy and murmured, “Of course, Your Gracious Majesty,” even as the fairies muttered about how they always got left out of the fun. Thankfully Nate’s low admonishment of “Shut yer mouth!” was lost to the sudden shuffle of feet, the shifting of silk skirts and brocade surcoats as the entire assemblage bowed and curtsied to the Queen when she rose.
Her Gracious Majesty paused by Fenek long enough to say, “Take them to the Imperial Tea Room whilst their accommodations are prepared. The girl looks as though she could use a cup to steady her nerves.”
“At once,” Fenek said with a low bow and a sidelong glance at Bertie.
Only then did “the girl” realize she vibrated with post-performance energy, much as the mirrors had before breaking. Her nerves jangled with every flicker of light from the chandelier, every reflection upon the marble floor, every whisper of the departing courtiers.
Perhaps I’ll shatter as well.
Bertie fisted her hands and bit her lip, trying to get the shaking under control, but that only resulted in half-moons dug into her palms until she nearly bled.
“Does the Tea Room serve food, too?” Mustardseed demanded, pulling out a change purse that should not have fit in his pants. “I saved my coins from the Caravanserai, and I’m starving!”
“You’re always starving!” Peaseblossom protested.
“If you know that, you ought to have fed me by now!”
The Queen shook her head. “Partake of my hospitality, no payment is necessary”—here she paused to consider the Fearsome Foursome for a long moment—“save the cost of good table manners.”
“I’d rather pay coins and gobble any way I please,” Moth said quite truthfully before adding a belated, “Your Majesty.”
“Just as I suspected,” the Queen answered with a wry smile. “All the same, I will have your manners, or your heads.”
The fairies paled and muttered promises about chewing with their mouths shut and refraining from belching at the table. By the time Cobweb included a rash vow about the employment of a napkin, the Queen had disappeared, trailed by two dozen ladies-in-waiting.
In their absence, Ariel moved toward Bertie, hair crackling with static electricity, the silk of his sleeves snapping and billowing. Without realizing it, his fingers sought out the pale flesh at the base of his throat, the place where Bertie’s iron collar had settled on his skin when she’d imprisoned him at the theater. “What were you thinking, to summon Fire and trap it within mortal flesh?”
“Varvara isn’t trapped in mortal flesh, Ariel. The opal ring was her prison, and I freed her.” When he started to interrupt, Bertie fixed him with a killing look.
“Why must you think the very worst of me?”
Taken aback by her vehemence, Ariel paused a moment to restrain his winds and compose himself. “My apologies, then. I shouldn’t have accused you of such a thing.”
“Our unguarded reactions are the most honest ones.” Bertie wished she could shrug it off, but only now did she realize the sense of hurt and betrayal she carried in place of the journal.
“Ne’er mind that now.” Nate broke between them and steered her toward the nearest exit. “We need t’ get ye clear o’ th’ crowd.”
“This way!” Fenek said with a jerk of his head and a hippity-hop gait.
Indeed, the courtiers already called to Bertie, catching hold of her sleeves and shaking her by the limp hand, seeking to curry favor with the newcomer. Fenek didn’t slow down or mark their attentions. Just behind him, Nate used his imposing stature and his dark expression to clear a path like a ship cutting through the water. Escorted by Ariel, Varvara kept pace with a telltale tapping of her toe shoes upon the marble floor. The fairies struggled to keep up, dodging ladies-in-waiting and gentlemen attendants, finally soaring overhead to avoid the press of bodies.
When Fenek gestured at last to a door, Moth clapped his hands with glee. “I smell cherry pie!”
“Cherry blossoms,” Peaseblossom corrected. “They smell nothing alike, really.”
The sign overhead was in Japanese, but the ornamented door and the impressive amount of gilt paint left no doubt in their minds this was the Imperial Tea Room. By now, Bertie’s right eye had begun to twitch in a most disconcerting fashion, and she couldn’t stop herself from shivering as though doused in ice water. Upon answering the door, the hostess of the establishment looked askance at her, unpainted lips rounding into an O of surprise. A long moment passed during which the woman glanced from Nate and Ariel, to the four fairies muttering about death by either seppuku or starvation, to the fire-dancer still balanced upon her toes, back to definitively vibrating Bertie.
“Is she well?” was the polite query when, by rights, she could have ordered them back out the door.