“Nothing a little tea won’t cure,” Fenek told her, backing away. “Her Gracious Majesty bade them come here. I will return to show them to their apartment when it is ready.”
“Of course. Please come in.” The attendant gave a quick nod, a beautiful bow, and led the troupe into the tea room.
Bertie caught quick glances of paper screens, elegant, stark calligraphy scrolls, and the elaborate knot of fabric at the back of the woman’s kimono. The Wardrobe Department had an enormous hutch that housed over a hundred folded kimonos and obis, in brilliant shades of chrysanthemum-stitched orange and plum blossoms painted on lavender. There was one in particular, white butterflies flitting across slate gray, that had always reminded her of Ariel. But none of them compared to the ensemble worn by the hostess. The silk itself was a muted celadon, the threads forming embroidered tea leaves so finely matched that they almost disappeared into the fabric each time she took another sandal-shod step.
The woman slid open a door to a small chamber, empty save for wall paintings and tatami mats upon the floor. When she indicated they should enter, Nate nodded and ducked his head, but Ariel remained with her, speaking in a language that was, Bertie finally realized, the hostess’s native tongue.
Nate poured Bertie onto a woven straw mat and settled on his heels beside her. “Ye look like a lit firework, about ready t’ explode. That was quite th’ tale.” He reached out and brushed her hair from her face, trying to peer into her eyes. “Toward th’ end, ye were as pale as a ghost an’ goin’ sharp around th’ edges, like a knife honed.” Both hands found her jawline, his thumbs tracing over her cheeks. “Fer a moment, I thought ye might be lost t’ th’ story.”
“I didn’t feel lost at all.” Unable to kneel as he did, Bertie lolled against the nearest wall and hoped she wouldn’t fall through it. She recalled the way the words had filled her, as if she were a cup overflowing. “I could have gone on for ages, I think. Stopping was a bit like shoving a cork into a fizzing champagne bottle.”
Nate scowled at the idea. “An’ now yer twice as limp as a wrung-out rag. Whate’er ye might think, th’ tellin’ cost ye somethin’…” He trailed off when Ariel entered, carrying a lacquered box and an iron pot. “I thought ye were orderin’ tea.”
The air elemental gave him a withering glance. “I did. Normally this set would be used outside in the gardens, but our hostess was most understanding about both the young lady’s incapacity and the need for a privately administered restorative.” After arranging a variety of implements in a pattern that pleased him, Ariel began an elaborate ceremony of measuring, pouring, whisking. It was the most beautiful and graceful series of movements Bertie had ever seen, though it went unappreciated by the fairies.
“That’s a lot of trouble for a cup of tea!” Moth observed, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he diligently folded a bit of silk. A few seconds later, he triumphantly donned the repurposed table linen, now a miniature origami robe.
Bertie narrowed her eyes at him but couldn’t halt their mischief, and soon Mustardseed and Cobweb were similarly attired. Thus costumed, they performed a rousing rendition of “Three Little Maids From School Are We,” and when they got to the line “pert as a schoolgirl well can be,” Moth honked Mustardseed somewhere highly inappropriate, and the three of them went down in a tangle of limbs and napkin-improvised obis.
Peaseblossom fixed her gaze upon the ceiling, her cheeks as pink as her moniker implied. “I can’t take you three anywhere.”
Ariel merely shook his head and offered Bertie a beautiful vessel filled with steaming green liquid. Breathing in the scent of it, she regained use of her arms and reached for the cup with both hands. A single sip restored her, the tea pouring down her throat like rainwater on parched plants. She felt their roots take hold in her center, pushing new growth out through her arms and legs. Nate made a disconcerted noise, but Bertie managed, “I’m fine,” without it sounding like falsehood.
The forest is where I’m strongest. I would do well to remember that.
Ariel sat back, trying not to look pleased with himself and failing utterly. “Normally, you should pass the cup to the second guest, but I think you need that more than anyone else here.”
“Aye, it seems t’ be working,” was the pirate’s grudging admission.
Bertie continued to sip at her tea, cupping the delicate porcelain bowl with both hands to better absorb the heat and the scent. Fortified, she turned her attention to the available forest: paintings on rice-paper screens, cherry and plum trees that waved flowered fingertips at her. Like servants with heads bowed, the trees approached when beckoned, transforming the room into a glorious orchard. Padded chairs sprouted underneath Bertie and the others like mushrooms, and twisted branches grew together to form a long, low table covered with almond blossoms. The crockery Ariel had unpacked from the lacquered box multiplied, some of the kettles burgeoning beyond the size of Bertie’s head, others no larger than Peaseblossom’s thumbnail. Instead of staid biscuit-and-sandwich fare, the tea table treated them to intricate desserts wrought to look like dragonflies on water and tiny pink-nosed rats.
“Here’s a place I haven’t seen fer a while.” The end of Nate’s nose had gone pink as well, fuzzy whiskers growing until a veritable March Hare sat alongside Bertie. “Though th’ trees were a bit different that time, an’ I think I was more myself then.” He reached up to scratch at one long ear, still pierced through with a gold hoop earring.
“‘Something curious, being strange,’” Bertie said, her gaze drifting down the table to the others. Now dressed in the slate-gray ceremonial kimono embroidered with butterflies, Ariel had passed the second preparation to Varvara. Though the fire-dancer took the offering, she did not immediately drink. Cradled in her hands, the contents of the cup came to a slow simmer, bubbles breaking the surface. Only when it achieved a roiling boil did she deign to lift it to her lips. The fairies, meanwhile, had gone to investigate the nearest plate of sweets.
“What are these things?” Moth didn’t wait for an answer, stuffing one in its entirety into his mouth. “Mmm!”
Cobweb investigated the contents of his compatriot’s gaping maw. “Looks like sweet bean paste to me.”
“For goodness’ sake, Moth, chew with your mouth closed,” Peaseblossom admonished, nibbling delicately the edge of a thick jellied sweet that wobbled when she glared at him. “Remember your promise to the Queen!”
“I need somethin’ less cloyin’ myself.” Nate extracted a leather-wrapped flask from his pants pocket and poured a dollop of caramel-smooth liquor into an otherwise empty cup.
“Clean cup, move down,” Ariel murmured, and he was suddenly sitting next to Bertie. “Do you feel any better?”
She nodded, setting her bowl upon the table. “I do.”
“That is most excellent news,” Fenek said, popping up before them like a rabbit out of a hole. Almost at once, the fruit trees returned to their proper place upon the rice-paper screens, and the forest scene disappeared into the steaming fog originating from the single teapot sitting on the rush floor mat.
Bertie blinked, hardly able to fathom the rapidity and thoroughness of the scene change, but Fenek had already backed into the hall with a nervous twitch of his nose. The servitor bowed thrice to the hostess, who returned the gesture with graceful aplomb.
“Follow me?” He didn’t wait for them to answer, already halfway down the adjacent hallway by the time Bertie found her feet and staggered to the door. “Your rooms are prepared at last, thank the mirrors, with hot baths and supper delivered. Also, clothing and supplies to replace what was stolen from you.”
“Would that everything could be replaced,” Bertie said, her thoughts turning to the journal and to Waschbär. Only now, with the command performance well behind her, did the terror of the brigands’ attack return to haunt her. “The thieves took more than our supplies.”
“Yeah, what about our peace of mind?” Despite carrying the significant weight of a p
urloined dumpling atop his head, Mustardseed kept pace with them as Fenek began to climb a set of massive curving stairs.
“And our dignity!” added Cobweb.
“What dignity?!” Moth wanted to know.
“Shhh,” Cobweb said with a well-timed jab of the elbow, “we might be able to get some dignity out of this, if we play our cards right.”
After another two interminable flights, Bertie almost asked Nate to carry her piggyback. Only pride and Ariel’s presence, like a silver-trimmed shadow behind them, prevented her. Ahead of them, Fenek opened a door with a twist and a flourish.
“I hope these will do.”
One cursory glance at the grand accommodations, boasting multiple bedrooms, a central parlor, enormous windows set into the walls, and mirrors—always mirrors—and Bertie indicated her approval by sinking onto the nearest chaise. “It certainly will.”
“Look at the dinner!” Peaseblossom cried. A vast table was already set with delicacies both hearty and dainty, and within seconds, the fairy was happily knee-deep in what appeared to be honey custard.
“You have to try some of this!” Mustardseed had crawled up the back end of a roast chicken, head popping out the departed bird’s neck hole, his cheeks bedecked with rosemary, lemon twists, and buttery smears.
“Who needs fowl most foul when there’s cake?” Moth and Cobweb had located a dozen varieties, each frosted and decorated within an inch of their sugary lives.
Fenek spared them a quiet look of horror before turning to Bertie. “I will return for you in the morning. Please do be ready … you don’t ever want to keep Her Gracious Majesty waiting.” Bowing and scraping, the servitor backed himself out of the room and closed the door behind him with a click.
“Ye need to rest.” Nate managed to get in the first word with lightning rapidity.
“It’s nothing some food and a hot bath won’t fix.” Bertie strived to sound cavalier and almost managed it. Another thin skimming of protection surfaced upon her face, but it wasn’t enough for her taste, not with Nate and Ariel both eyeing her like the fairies would a chocolate-coated caramel. She longed to bury herself in the bedclothes and sleep until her features were obscured by a mask as thick as painted papier-mâché.
Food first.
Piling cheese and fruit atop a plate the size of her head, she added an obscenely large chunk of chocolate cake just as the bell next to the door rang. Nate opened it to reveal servitors bearing cauldrons of scented, steaming bathwater. Plate in hand, Bertie followed the bucket brigade into the largest of the bedrooms. The moment the servants departed, she disrobed, climbed into the copper tub, and consumed her take-away meal while sitting up to her chin in blessedly hot water. Peaseblossom and the boys were already asleep upon her pillow by the time the bath had gone cold, their hands and faces wiped mostly clean with the corner of a towel and their tummies tubbed out with food.
After wrestling on a nightdress dripping waterfalls of lace, Bertie clambered onto the boat of a bed and touched each of them in turn with a gentle fingertip. She lingered over Peaseblossom, who snored loudest of them all, and then pulled the coverlet up. A breeze from the open window carried the scent of glass-fragile flowers and moonlight, the occasional trill of a night-wary bird, the burble of the river that snaked its way past Her Gracious Majesty’s abode with deference. Despite bone-shattering fatigue, Bertie’s thoughts strayed to Nate and Ariel.
Her hands told the story: The boys were abed, the air elemental sleeping in the chamber on her right, and the pirate in the room on the left. Her arms extended of their own volition in either direction under the crisp, cool sheets, each of the handfasting scars aligned with the man who’d made it. Though both wounds had healed, Bertie’s palms stung with the memories of two weddings, one forest-bound, the other an impossibly cold ice ceremony in the underground lair of the Sea Goddess.
Nothing save marriage, she reflected before tumbling into a dreamless sleep, could have ruined two friendships more thoroughly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Her Acts Being Seven Ages
Upon the morrow, Bertie woke with a start. Unable to remember where she was for several long minutes, she stared without comprehension at the grand appointments of the room. The pale-blue silk bedding was piled about her like wrapping paper torn off a gift, and what little she could see of the floor was lushly carpeted. Grasping the coverlet, Bertie wrapped it about her shoulders and slid from the bed, trying to banish the chill in her bones. Only coals glowed in the hearth now, like lions’ eyes peering through jungle leaves, and the fairies had deserted her.
“A good mornin’ t’ ye, lass,” said a voice from the doorway. “I thought I heard th’ dulcet sounds o’ ye wakin’ … an’ by that, I mean th’ snorin’ stopped.”
“Snoring?” Bertie turned and couldn’t help but smile at the picture Nate made in her doorway, filling it almost edge to edge. He’d exchanged his soiled shirt for one of immaculate white and polished his boots until the leather gleamed, though he’d yet to shave. Behind him, sunlight streamed in the windows, gold-catching his earring. He wore a new cutlass at his waist, peace-tied, Bertie noticed, but present nevertheless. “That’s hardly a gentlemanly observation.”
“Neither are th’ other observations I’m entertainin’ at th’ moment.” Uncrossing his arms, he stepped into the room.
It would be childish to scarper, to flee with a squeak like a mouse pursed by a ruggedly handsome cat, and so she stood her ground. “I haven’t time for wordplay this morning. I’ve an audience with the Queen, remember?”
“Ye look fine.” Another step taken to close the space between them.
“Then you’ve gone quite blind as well as daft.” The words, far more lighthearted and teasing than she’d intended, formed another layer of her new mask, one that sought to safeguard not only the thoughts in her head but the feelings of her heart.
Nate must have heard the new tone in her voice; though he didn’t touch her, his next statement reached for her just the same. “Now that Ariel’s back, yer havin’ second thoughts about us.”
She struggled to lift the mask, to give him the honesty he deserved. “I haven’t had time to breathe, much less contemplate you, or me, or the idea of an ‘us’ in any sort of detail.”
“Fair enough, I suppose, but I won’t let ye push me away fer long. An’ let me be clear after witnessin’ that display in th’ trees: Th’ only one I want ye t’ kiss is me.” Now he did reach out, hands finding her waist even under her bulky coverlet, drawing her against him so he could cover her mouth with his. When Bertie glanced at the open bedroom door, he added, “Ariel’s taken yer fire-dancer t’ th’ gardens, neither o’ them wantin’ food.”
Twitching at the tickle of his as-yet-unshaved face against her neck, she issued the halfhearted protest, “Stop making a meal of me and have some breakfast.”
“I’d rather have somethin’ else.”
“Will you make explanations and apologies to Her Gracious Majesty if I am late?” Not a question Bertie could pose every day, and she wasn’t altogether sure she was grateful for it now.
Nate gave her a narrow look that said more than the words he swallowed, then led the way into the main parlor. There, the fairies sat upon a round table inlaid with a chessboard that was hardly visible for the plates and cups and trays heaped upon its gleaming surface.
“There’s bacon!” Moth piped up.
“Not as much as there was a minute ago,” Mustardseed said quite truthfully, “but we can call for more!”
“Look! Croissants!”
“They are like soft, buttery pillows!”
Thinking their duty done in alerting Bertie to the offerings, they resumed shoveling in pastry and coddled eggs as fast as their little hands could go.
“Yer goin’ t’ choke, if ye keep at it like that.” Nate sat down and removed temptation in the form of a stack of toast from the fairies’ reach.
Unable to resist to the lure of croissants, Bertie took the ot
her chair. “One won’t take up much room, and then I’ll still be able to eat with the Queen.”
A steady stream of servitors appeared after that, delivering hot water for washing up and more food for the fairies, who had a seemingly endless appetite for a certain cherry tart that was a specialty of the Queen’s kitchen. A soft knock at the door marked Fenek’s arrival, and he entered bearing a grand bit of attire on a crooked finger: a near reproduction of the Mistress of Revels’s costume.
“It was thought you required something appropriate to wear for an audience with Her Gracious Majesty.”
Dropping the rest of her pastry, much to Mustardseed’s and Moth’s delight, Bertie wiped fruit from her fingers. “My thanks. I wasn’t relishing the idea of appearing in my nightdress.”
“Perish the very thought,” Fenek said. “The Queen’s Dressmaker worked upon this all night to re-create your magic-summoned garments from yesterday. I hope they are to your liking.”
Bertie managed a dignified “A multitude of thanks,” and an inclination of her head. It wasn’t until she ducked into the safety and relative quiet of her room that she permitted herself a happy chortle as she dressed. The Royal Dressmaker had thoroughly outdone herself, employing countless yards of rich green fabric that shimmered with the gray luster of a costly pearl. Perhaps to show off a bit, she’d also added lace frills to the underskirts and tiny silver flowers embroidered along the hemline.
As a final touch, Bertie pinned the rose-gold broach to the bodice. Stepping before the mirror to admire the rich gleam of the metal, she discovered toiletries set out for her use on the dressing table alongside Waschbär’s knapsack. Her fingers traced over the pots and tins, selecting colors and brushes with care, realizing the pink-glitter shadow and rouge, kohl pencil and eyelash paint formed another sort of mask. Arranging her hair as best she could with the comb and the hot tongs, Bertie took a deep breath, and studied her image in the mirror for a long moment.