Eyes Like Stars (26 page)

Ariel’s voice reached around her; cool and seductive, it was just the sort of voice that would convince reluctant patrons of the arts to venture to her performance on so little notice. “Trust in me.”

“I’d rather stick a hot poker somewhere vital.”

“As delightful as that sounds, you know that I’m the only one who can travel on the wind, the only one who can reach every house in time.”

“I don’t question that you can do it, Ariel. I question that you’ll come back.” Bertie’s real fear slipped out before she could stop it.

“Why would you worry about that?”

She turned around and searched his eyes for some hint he was lying, any excuse to deny him, but the scrimshaw showed her the truth: The collar had restrained his winds but not killed them. They uncoiled from behind the shadows,
ready to surround her, to lift her up, to carry her away with only Ariel’s silk-clad arms wrapped about her to keep her from falling.

Spirare,
they whispered to her like an incantation.
Breathe us in.

Bertie didn’t mean to, but she inhaled, and everything inside her was a spring morning, a rose opening its petals to the sun, the light coming through the wavering glass of an old, diamond-paned window.

Tendrils of wind reached for Bertie with a coaxing hand.
Release him, and he will love you.

“Bertie,” he said.

If Ariel says he loves me, I might just die. Right here, right now . . .

“I told you it would come to this.”

Her relief almost matched her disappointment, and she swallowed. “I know.”

Ariel tilted his head. His hair, stirred by a hint of wind, fell to one side so she could see the collar, smooth and cold against his skin.

Bertie reached out before she could change her mind. She touched the circlet, and the two halves of the collar hit the stage with hollow, metallic pings that echoed in the silence. She stepped over them to reach The Book and turned to the page where Ariel made his first entrance. Looking at him as she did so, she ripped the page out.

Ariel’s winds returned full force to gust around her, carrying
the thousands of envelopes he’d promised to deliver. Caught in the eye of the storm, she thought for certain that he’d leave without so much as saying good-bye, but then Ariel’s lips were on hers.

“Thank you,” he said against her mouth.

She pulled back to look into his eyes, and there it was: the unspoken promise that he would be back.

“Thank you,” Ariel said again before he leapt into the winds and rode the storm away from her. The two butter-flies deserted Bertie’s hair to give chase, the announcements swooping after them like so many fallen leaves.

When he returns, it will be for me.

Despite her misgivings, she felt a dark thrill that it was she who’d been his savior at last.

E
xhausted, Bertie
curled up in an auditorium chair only to have Ophelia appear like a genie, bearing a dome-covered silver platter big enough to hold a Christmas goose.

“What on earth do you have in there?” Bertie asked, startled.

“Food,” Ophelia said. “The Green Room’s repaired itself, and you haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

Bertie’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.

“Proper?” Moth asked, appearing as though summoned.

“Meal?” Mustardseed joined them.

Ophelia took the cover off the tray. “Turkey, cranberries, mashed potatoes . . .”

“Gravy!” Cobweb said, swooning.

“Marshmallows!” Peaseblossom said with a happy squeak.

“What’s the orange stuff underneath the marshmallows?” Moth asked. “It’s not a vegetable, is it?”

“Yams are a starch, I think,” Ophelia said.

The scent of it was intoxicating, so Bertie didn’t even protest when the water-maiden tucked a napkin into her shirt like she was a child of three. Bertie started to eat as Ophelia fixed a stern gaze on the fairies.

“If you want food, go get your own. I won’t have you running through Bertie’s plate and eating all the pie.”

“There’s pie!” They disappeared with explosions of glitter, screams of excitement, and cries of “Dibs on the pecan!”

Bertie looked up from the mound of food. “You have to help me with all this.”

Ophelia shook her head. “Oh, no, I never eat before a performance. Drowning is bad enough without doing it on a full stomach.”

Bertie couldn’t argue with that, so she ate instead. Within minutes, she’d practically licked the tray clean.

“I’ll take the plates back to the Green Room and get you a cup of coffee,” the water-maiden said. “You look as though you’re about to fall asleep.”

Bertie undid the top button on her jeans with a groan, thinking the food might as well have been laced with Juliet’s sleeping draught. “I’m going to rest my eyes until you get back.”

Ophelia laughed. “No one would begrudge you a catnap.”

“A few minutes only,” Bertie protested. “I still have to speak with Mrs. Edith about something very important.” She yawned, jaw cracking.

“Pleasant dreams,” Ophelia said with a smile.

But they weren’t. The moment she closed her eyes, Bertie was caught in the tentacle-grip of a nightmare. The Sea Goddess sat upon a throne of obsidian with Nate at her feet. She laughed as he untangled her seaweed tresses with Ophelia’s ivory comb.

“Look at me, Nate,” Bertie begged him, but when he turned to face her, two mollusk shells had taken the place of his eyes. Bertie scrambled back, screaming, and then there was the sensation of falling from a great height, down, down, down, only to be saved at the very last second by the sound of his voice calling to her.

“Wake up, lass.”

“Nate?” Bertie jerked awake with the scrimshaw humming against her skin.

The auditorium was empty, the house lights only at half, and someone had closed the heavy front curtains to obscure the stage. Bertie sat up, rubbing first at the crusty remnants of sleep that prickled at the corners of her eyes, then the mammoth crick in her neck. Her legs tingled as the blood
flow returned to her extremities, denied nourishment for goodness knows how long while she slept wadded up like a ball of dirty laundry. Bertie staggered to her feet, praying the pirate lilt that had woken her had not been a dream.

“Nate?”

The room echoed with her query as Bertie made her way down the carpeted aisle and up the side staircase. The Book sat in front of the proscenium arch, exactly where it belonged and still guarded by two burly Chorus Members. She turned the pages, seeking only one.

But the thinnest filament of darkness served as Nate’s placeholder in the binding, and disappointment stabbed at Bertie’s middle like Juliet’s dagger. With a sigh, she ducked behind the curtain. The stage was preset with all its Egyptian glory for the performance, turquoise light drifting over golden sand and carved stone.

“You’re awake!” A tiny spark of light appeared from behind the central pyramid as Peaseblossom rushed to meet her.

“I thought I heard Nate.”

The fairy shook her head. “He’s still not back.”

Bertie headed to the stage door. “I heard his voice.”

“It was probably a dream.” Peaseblossom alighted on her shoulder.

“Where is everyone?”

“Getting ready. There’s only a few hours until the house opens.”

“Why did you let me crash out in a chair like that?” Bertie demanded. “I have a million and one things to do!”

“You looked so pitiful!” the fairy wailed. “And you hadn’t slept for ages.”

“That’s neither here nor there!” Bertie said.

“Don’t worry, I saw to everything!” Peaseblossom puffed out her chest. “The stage is set, the props arranged backstage, crystal cleaned, brass polished, programmes folded, flowers arranged, the costume tent cleaned up—”

“Mrs. Edith.” Bertie took off at a run, headed for the Wardrobe Department. “I have to ask her about Verena’s skirt!”

A dozen mobcapped apprentice costumers looked up when the door flew open. “Yes?” the tallest inquired, setting aside an enormous steaming wand she was using to coax wrinkles from an emerald evening gown.

“I need to speak with Mrs. Edith,” Bertie said.

“The Theater Manager sent her on a very important errand,” the apprentice answered.

“Only a few hours before we open?” Bertie demanded, immediately suspicious. “What sort of errand was so important?”

“Flowers for the Players’ Dressing Rooms,” the apprentice answered, confirming Bertie’s suspicions that he only wanted to keep the Wardrobe Mistress safely out of the way. “But Mrs. Edith did leave a message for you.”

Bertie tried to not appear too eager. “Yes?”

“She said to remain here until she gets back.”

“And?”

“In the meantime, we’re to do something about your hair.” The apprentice rolled her sleeves up, a determined glint in her eye.

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Bertie demanded.

“You cannot attend an Opening Night with Cobalt Flame tresses. She believes the only color that will cover it properly is Raven’s Wing Black.” The apprentice signaled for reinforcements, and Mrs. Edith’s minions surged forward.

“Hey!” Bertie yelled as they towed her to the dye vat. “Let go of me this instant!”

Not only did they not let go, they forcibly removed her clothes. Bertie screamed fit to do a banshee proud until she realized her destination was a small copper tub filled with hot water sitting just behind the dye bath. Still, it was disconcerting to have two girls apply thick black paste to her head while two more trimmed her fingernails. No doubt another pair would have grabbed her by the feet if she hadn’t protested she was ticklish.

“It’s rather like a spa,” Peaseblossom said, trying to reassure her from the safety of the button box.

Bertie sputtered when they poured cold water over her hair to rinse the dye out. “This is nothing like a spa. I don’t
even have enough room to soak all of me at once. Either my chest is freezing or my feet are sticking out.”

After that, there was a blur of vicious towel drying and hair brushing. The moment the apprentices turned their backs on her, Bertie nicked a bottle each of bleach and dye—labeled, appropriately enough, Egyptian Plum—and ran into the corridor. Still towel-clad, she ducked into the nearest dressing room.

By the time they had located her, gone for the key, unlocked the door, and managed to break in past the chair she’d wedged under the doorknob, Bertie had bleached the bottom three inches of her hair and colored it bright purple, much to her delight and their dismay.

Bertie put her hands on her hips, trying to ignore the drips of dye on her towel that uncomfortably reminded her of blood spatters. “What are you going to do about it, eh? It’s my head.”

The lead apprentice clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “There’s no time to correct that now.”

“What time
is
it?” Bertie asked, disconcerted.

“Nearly seven,” one of them answered. “A half an hour until the house opens.”

“Mrs. Edith won’t be pleased,” another said.

“We’ll just have to do our best on the rest of it,” the first said.

Bertie’s triumph faded. “The rest of what?”

*  *  *

The boys appeared sometime between the stern application of foundation garments and the hot tongs. They howled protests as they, too, were hustled into soap-filled teacups.

“I just had a Turkish bath!”

“This water smells like flowers!”

“I’m going to catch my death of cold!”

They appealed to Bertie, who was in no position to help them, dressed as she was in the emerald gown the apprentice had been ironing when she first arrived. Mrs. Edith’s minions had coaxed her newly black-and-purple hair into dozens of ringlets, and the entire arrangement was so stiff with hair spray that Bertie knew she’d have to soak her head in a bucket to get it all out. “Sorry, guys. If I have to clean up, then so do you.”

They balked again when they were introduced to their formal wear for the evening.

“I’m going to look like a monkey!” Cobweb protested.

“Dummy,” Mustardseed said, “when’s the last time you saw a monkey in a tuxedo?”

But Peaseblossom’s appearance silenced them for a moment. The tiny sequins on her gown sparkled in the brilliant fluorescent light, and the boys stared at her.

“You look like a
girl
!” Mustardseed accused.

“I
am
a girl!” Peaseblossom managed to stamp her foot even while hovering.

“Good thing, too!” Moth said. “That dress would look really stupid on one of us.”

“Shut up,” said Cobweb. “I could wear that dress.”

“You could not,” said Mustardseed. “You don’t have the—” he gestured to his chest, “for it.”

Before there was a brawl over Cobweb’s nonexistent chest, Bertie raised her voice to say, “That’s fine. Either wear a dress like Pease’s, or get in your monkey suit.”

Mrs. Edith still hadn’t returned from the Theater Manager’s “errand” by the time Bertie exited the Wardrobe Department and walked down the deserted hall backstage. Everything smelled of sweat and taffeta and face powder. An expectant hush had fallen over the Dressing Rooms where the Players sat before mirrors framed with electric lights, coloring their lips crimson and smearing their skin with greasepaint.

Bertie tried to look competent and reassuring, which was difficult to do while hyperventilating. “Has anyone ever actually died of nerves?”

“Not that I can recall,” said Moth. “But there’s always a first time!”

“That’s comforting!” Bertie moaned. “No one is going to come. I’ll be homeless by midnight. I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Put your head between your knees!” said Moth.

“Use a paper bag!” said Cobweb.

“Put your head between your knees while breathing into a paper bag,” said Mustardseed.

“I don’t think that’s physically possible, even if I had a paper bag.” Adrenaline poured into her system. “Someone do me a favor and go peek outside.”

The fairies raced to a tiny, circular window set high into the wall, jockeying for space behind the glass.