“What have you done to yourself?”
I should have known the man who wears a raccoon’s mask would notice something amiss!
She tried to sidestep him, but the sneak-thief was dexterous beyond her imagining, and he blocked her at every turn.
“You smell of herbs and intrigue.” He sniffed at her again, nose quivering with such enthusiasm that he finally sneezed. Disturbed by the blast, Pip Pip and Cheerio tumbled out of his pockets and clambered onto his shoulders, their tiny black eyes glittering in the half-light from the torches. They sassed Bertie with chitters and squeaks, unintelligibly remonstrating her as Waschbär listened with great intensity, until she was quite certain he knew all about her visit to Serefina, seeking protection from Sedna, and trading her mask.
Bertie glowered at the tattling vermin. “That’s hardly polite. And I’d like to know who told you!”
“I won’t say anything,” Waschbär assured her in an undertone. “Go and make your farewells so we can be on our way.”
All the Innamorati performers had turned out for the troupe’s sudden departure: the giraffe-girl standing alongside Salt and Sauce, the Pachyderm Professors; aerial acrobats with icicles still a-dangle from their clothes and hair; dozens of specialty performers, their faces thick with white paint and skin encrusted with sequins. Eye-blinding in her frilly gold Columbine skirts, the woman portraying the Sun sniffed into a handkerchief the size of a pillowcase. Her partner, the Harlequin Moon, turned lethargic cartwheels that somehow managed to convey his desolation over their exodus.
Valentijn towered over the assembled crowd. The Keeper of the Costumes looked the sternest Bertie had ever seen him. He carried a battered leather portmanteau, and for one terrifying moment, Bertie thought he might be running away—who runs away from the circus?—and wanted to come with them.
But he only pushed the bit of luggage at her. “Several changes of clothes for you, all recently washed and tailored to your measurements. Thankfully, I believe most of them will match your new coloring.”
“Thank you, Valentijn.” Bertie accepted the proffered suitcase and nearly staggered under its weight. She wouldn’t find it the least bit surprising if he had untold powers of packing, with the inside of the portmanteau larger than the outside and containing enough poet-sleeved shirts to costume a dozen wayward playwrights.
“Let me take that, lass.” Nate disappeared around the side of the caravan without straining any of his muscles, though he discharged his burden with a grunt and an “oomph.”
All the while, the Keeper of the Costumes peered at Bertie, his narrow gaze as piercing as one of his mending needles. “I see more change written upon you than just your hair, young Beatrice. Have you need of more costuming than what I’ve provided?”
“Considering the weight of that suitcase,” she said, “I doubt it.”
“Are you certain?” Valentijn pressed her. “A fan, maybe? Or … a mask?”
Bertie couldn’t prevent the scowl she felt twist up her mouth and forehead. “It’s irritating to be read like words upon the page.”
“It’s my profession to notice details. The skin of your face glows like candlelit silk, and your every thought is a bit of bloodred embroidery stitched upon it.” Valentijn pursed his lips in consideration. “What about a veil? I have seven stowed away in the costuming car.”
Bertie shook her head. “I would accept your kind offer if I were to remain in the Caravanserai, but such things take time, and I’m afraid we’ve tarried long enough.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on either cheek, as was the Innamorati way. “I promise this isn’t the last you’ve seen of me.”
“Of course it isn’t,” he said with a sudden and valiant sniff. “As soon as we are ready, we shall bring the production to the Distant Castle for the Queen’s pleasure. After that, perhaps that theater of yours would hire us for a turn.”
Bertie had no answer to that, save a small part of her brain exploding with glee over the idea of the Stage Manager forced to deal with three dozen noisy acrobats, pie-flinging august clowns, and Chef Toroidal and his team of Gourmet Gastronomes. She could not prevent the smile that split her face from side to side, nor the snicker of amusement that escaped. “I’ll speak to the Management, as I would dearly love to see such a thing come to pass.”
“I shall see that it is so,” Valentijn said, kissing her once more atop her silver head as the rest of the performers scattered in search of their lodgings, a late-night meal, and other revelries only hinted at by their hand gestures and foreign-tongued exhortations.
Once the last cartwheel-turning acrobat was out of earshot, Aleksandr said, “I would give you use of the Innamorati’s train, but since our arrival, we discovered the locomotive’s engine appears to have warped.” The ringmaster flapped his hands a bit, as though he wished sleight of hand could fix matters. “It seems quite an impossibility for a beast of steel and iron, but who am I to question the engineer about such things?”
Though she tried to school her features, Bertie still cringed. She hoped it hadn’t been her opportune skipping of the story—and train—forward through the landscape that had ravaged the Innamorati’s primary means of transportation. “I hope it can be easily fixed.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” he assured her. “And when it is repaired, we shall travel with all due haste to attend upon Her Gracious Majesty, though we are most thankful for the extra time to rehearse, I must tell you.” Here, he leaned in to whisper, “Take care with your own performance, good Mistress of Revels. The last storyteller who displeased the Queen was silenced in a most unpleasant fashion—”
“Pardon th’ interruption, but I’m afraid we need t’ be off now.” Lacing his fingers together, Nate made a cradle of his hands. “Up wi’ you.”
It was a more graceful way to ascend than scrambling or being heaved skyward by Waschbär, so Bertie allowed him to give her a foot up. Right behind her, Nate settled into the seat, the reins resting easy in his hand.
“An’ anyone else aboard who’s comin’ wi’ us.”
The sneak-thief fit himself between the various bits of the luggage before Nate had even finished the sentence, deftly rearranging boxes and bags so he could see and be seen. The fairies rushed to Bertie’s shoulders, all four of them deciding the hood hanging down her back was the warmest and most secure place to sit. Thinking she could pull the strings and effectively seal them in there, should they start to wear on her nerves, Bertie let them be. After a moment’s pause and a final round of waving to Aleksandr and Valentijn, the caravan began to roll forward. Wheels dipping in and out of the ruts between the cobblestones, the conveyance marked their departure with merry jingling.
Trying to ignore the clamor of it, Bertie leaned forward to examine the map that spanned the length of the driver’s seat. The curious brass-and-gold frame had frozen solid in a snowstorm but appeared to be in working order now. “Did you fix this?”
“Aye, a bit of oil an’ polish did th’ trick. A good thing, too. It’s better than any nautical chart I’ve ever seen.” He tapped the tiny silver caravan that yet marked their position, moving through the delicately rendered sand castle that was the Caravanserai.
Barely touching the parchment, Bertie traced the sepia-painted waves of the ocean to the west, the brushstrokes representing the White Cliffs. The map noted the location of the Scrimshander’s Aerie, but the silver bird that would have indicated her father’s whereabouts was absent.
He had flown too far, too fast.
There wasn’t a marker for Ariel, either. Biting down hard upon her lip, Bertie concentrated on the horses, the narrow roads, the ruts between the cobblestones, anything that would distract her from his absence. Though it seemed like hours passed, it could not have been more than fifteen painful minutes before the exit portal loomed before them. Waschbär kissed his fingertips and reached high enough to tap them against the stone arch as the caravan passed under it.
“Did you find what you were seeking here?
” he asked Bertie with a good-natured wink.
Did I?
Bertie had arrived there seeking Nate, her father, and answers to questions she’d asked her whole life. They’d managed to rescue the pirate. She’d met her father, who’d given her answers, none of which had been satisfying. The troupe was departing the Caravanserai without the Scrimshander, bound for the Distant Castle rather than the Théâtre Illuminata, and Ariel had abandoned them—yet again—for the sake of elusive freedom. It seemed something of a draw, all things taken into consideration, but to say so aloud would hurt Nate, and he’d been hurt enough these last few days.
How could she word it so her features wouldn’t betray her? “I am thankful beyond measure to have Nate with us again.”
“I found what I was seeking, too,” Moth said, clambering out of Bertie’s hood and diving into the nearest hamper. “Because I was looking for dessert.”
“Hey, what do you have there?” Peaseblossom followed him and resurfaced with a suspiciously moist and delicious-looking lump in her hand. “That chocolate cake was for pudding tonight!”
“Pudding tonight, pudding now,” he grumbled, licking his fingers without apology. “What’s the difference? Only one word!”
“One word can make all the difference,” Bertie said before she could stop herself. Wriggling about on the bench, she tried to get comfortable, but Nate and his muscles took up more than his fair share of room. Where Ariel was lithe and lean as a racing hound, the pirate was the solid oak of a ship’s mast. The moment Bertie relaxed, her thigh came to rest alongside his, her jeans against his leather breeches. Trying not to jolt, she eased her leg away.
His reaction was one of quiet amusement. “If ye try not t’ touch me for th’ duration, things are goin’ t’ be a bit strained, no?”
“I wasn’t touching you. I mean, I wasn’t trying to touch you. It was inadvertent.…” Realizing how that must sound to the passengers in the back, Bertie ordered herself to shut up and calm down. The moment she eased the muscles around her spine, though, she oozed against him.
“I can’t tell ye how nice this is,” he said into her hair.
Up to their eyeballs in cake, the fairies mistook his meaning.
“You could sing that ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’ song, except it’s not morning, and this isn’t a surrey with fringe on the top,” said Peaseblossom, who had yielded to the lure of pudding until ganache decorated her eyelashes.
“What a horrifying suggestion,” Moth said around a mouthful of milk-chocolate cream. “It’s almost like you want him to sing.”
“He is a lovely tenor,” she maintained before she punched Mustardseed in his very model of a modern major general.
“I’m not goin’ t’ sing,” was Nate’s wry observance. “Ariel’s th’ one wi’ th’ enchanted voice.”
Ariel.
Bertie stared at the sky until her eyes watered. This time, the diamond-tears fell before she could stop them.
Nate noticed. “Yer cryin’.”
“Maybe just a little.” Bertie changed the subject, though it sounded like she was making excuses. “I’m tired. And overwrought.”
“Overwrought, my foot.” He reached out to touch her face, then hesitated. “Those aren’t tears, lass.”
“I know.” The damn things hurt when they left her eyes, though it was odder still to watch them tumble along the folds of her sweater and rain, crystalline, down to the wooden floorboards. “Maybe I can cry to impress the Queen. Produce enough sparkles to make a nice tiara.”
Placing a gentle finger to her face, Nate caught one of the curious tears and held it up, squinting into the lantern light. “What are they, exactly?”
“They look like diamonds,” Bertie said, “but it would be just my luck to find out they’re rock salt.”
By chance or by Fortune’s hand, she spoke just as they entered the dark heart of a thicket of elders. In the absence of interfering moonlight, the tiny thing in Nate’s palm glowed, the sort of white that implied every other color in all the world at once.
“That’s a pretty bit of something,” Waschbär said, his shaggy head appearing over the back of the driver’s seat.
Bertie slanted a look at Nate. “If that’s the opinion of a sneak-thief, my guess is it is a diamond.”
Nate handed it over to the expert, and Waschbär examined it in turn, finally concluding with a low whistle, “No, not a diamond. It’s a star.”
“A star?” the fairies chorused.
“Yer cryin’ th’ stars from yer eyes.” Nate’s hands on the reins tightened as he added, “Fer Ariel.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. These can’t be stars, and I’m certainly not shedding them over Ariel’s absence.” But there was no escaping Nate’s gaze, not when only a few inches of driver’s seat separated them. Compounding her discomfort, the Scrimshander’s words echoed in her head.
You have your mother’s eyes.
Bertie couldn’t help the slip-slide of fear trickling down the back of her throat at the idea that she’d not only traded away her mask, but soon her eyes might no longer resemble Ophelia’s. What would be left of her then? Perhaps she was like an hourglass, each tear a grain of sand slipping through the bottleneck, and when they ran out—
Waschbär didn’t let her finish the maudlin thought. With a loud clearing of his throat, he inquired, “To the Distant Castle, yes?”
“That’s the plan.” After giving him a look of bottomless thanks for the distraction, Bertie returned her attention to the map. The road they traveled ran alongside the Reine, a decent-size river that assured the troupe would have fresh water for the duration of the journey. Following its thin black line to the farthest right edge of the map, a building appeared. Rendered in greater detail than the Caravanserai, thrice over larger than that massive Thirteenth Outpost of Beyond, the Distant Castle was surrounded by three sets of stone walls labeled THE TRIPLE CROWN. Though they were still too far to make out the smaller structures between the walls, it appeared that each of the rings about the castle contained its own village.
“Three townships, three walls, three gates we must pass through.” Bertie was hardly surprised. Three was a powerful number, be it portents or punch lines.
“We need t’ hurry if we want t’ arrive before they lock th’ gates.” Nate pointed off to the side of the road, where a stone mileage marker smugly noted the vast distance they had yet to travel. “Th’ courier said ’twas a few days’ journey.”
“A single rider on horseback might manage that pace,” Waschbär concurred, “but not this contraption, loaded down as it is with a year’s worth of edibles.”
“Some of us were of the opinion that no calamity could be greater than running out of food.” Peaseblossom shot a significant look at the boys.
“We’ll just have to hurry,” Bertie said, “riding late as we are now, as long as we can stand it, and getting up early. We have to win that wish-come-true.”
“What sort of performance are you planning for Her Gracious Majesty?” Waschbär wanted to know.
Something in Bertie’s midsection twisted up at the thought of writing another play. Her last effort, ostensibly for the Innamorati’s Brand-New Play, had unfortunately manifested in real life during the perilous journey to rescue Nate from Sedna. “If the Queen has heard enough about us to send a messenger to issue an invitation, my guess is Her Gracious Majesty is expecting something more impressive than a village puppet show.”
Moth took offense. “Are you impugning our performance?”
“I’ll impugn you.” Peaseblossom put up her dukes, then added a duchess for good measure. “I’m not performing with you three cannibals again, after what you did to my Henry.” She hadn’t mentioned her marzipan paramour recently, but her ire returned over the untimely ingestion of her boyfriend.
“We can perform without you,” Mustardseed countered. “No one is irreplaceable.”
“Yeah! I can channel Juliet just as well as you.” Cobweb jabbed hi
s chest with a maraschino cherry stem.
“You can’t perform a secondhand show for the Queen,” Waschbär interjected. “You need something prepared in her honor, offering up a reflection of her glory!”
Peaseblossom had even more important things on her mind, it seemed. “What are you going to wear?”
The ruin of the Mistress of Revels’s emerald skirts and embroidered bodice commanded a moment of regretful silence. “When we stop to make camp, we’ll take a quick inventory of the costumes and properties. Surely Valentijn packed me something suitable for an audience with the Queen.”
“You’ve never suited a queen before,” Mustardseed said, his mouth quirking up at the corners. “Or are you forgetting Gertrude?”
Cobweb snickered. “She’s not quite a chop-your-head-off ruler, but almost!”
“Shut up, Cobweb.” Preferring her head remain just where it was, Bertie refused to think of Her Gracious Majesty as anything remotely resembling the Queen of Hearts. Instead, she closed her eyes and made a vow to herself, to her parents.
I’ll win that wish-come-true. For all of us.
CHAPTER SEVEN
If You Do Take a Thief, Let Him Show Himself
Traveling through the night without stopping, by sunrise the troupe caught up with the tail end of a cavalcade headed for the Distant Castle. Wagons and carts ahead were piled high with exotic goods, riders saluted from horseback, and conveyances strange occupied the road: carriages lacquered the shiny red-black of ripened cherries and richly canopied jinrikisha pulled by shirtless servant boys in brilliant blue trousers. Though none of the fantastic parade matched the Innamorati for grandeur, the number of troubadours rehearsing their scales rivaled the melodies of the birds in the trees. Some performed solo while others were accompanied by musicians on fantastical stringed instruments, gongs, drums, and panpipes. They greeted Bertie and company with hand gestures, nods, and calls of “Beautiful weather ahead!” and “Lovely morning for traveling!” followed by “No trouble at all this season with brigands and thieves, praise be to Her Gracious Majesty!”