Eyes Like Stars (27 page)

“Get out of the way, you!”

“I was here first.”

Moth crowed with laughter. “There are carriages lined up for miles!”

Bertie peered up at them, straining her neck and wishing she had wings and could fly, too. “There are?”

Peaseblossom clapped her tiny hands. “You need to get out front to glad-hand the ticket-holders.”

“People are coming?” Bertie asked, hardly daring to believe it.

“People are
here
. And not just people, but People.” Peaseblossom shook her head. “Kings and queens and a duke—”

Bertie smoothed a hand over her hips. “How do I look, really?”

“Not bad, even though it’s a stupid evening dress,” said Moth.

Cobweb sucker punched him. “Tell her she looks nice.” Moth rubbed the back of his head. “You look nice, Bertie.”

“The diamonds in your hair show up really well against the purple!” Mustardseed said, not wanting to risk a blow to his noggin.

“Enough nattering on about clothes and hair,” Cobweb said, massaging Bertie’s shoulders as if she were a prize fighter. “We need to get you out there.”

“You need to check the ticket sales,” said Moth.

“Work the crowd!”

“Assure that standing ovation—”

“I got it!” Bertie took a deep, steadying breath, turned on her smile, and opened the door to the lobby.

The world she entered was one of silk gowns and diamond dog collars, old money and those rich in enthusiasm, if not cash. Nearly all the names engraved on the announcements were congregated before her: season subscribers, as well as titled patrons like the Baron Von Hedelburg, the Marquis and Marchioness of Glouglow, and the Viscount de Mewe. Bertie moved about the foyer, murmuring her greetings and checking every detail. Fresh flowers bloomed in the wall niches, the chandeliers glittered, and stacks of gilt-edged programmes sat on pedestals. Members of the Chorus were dressed in the theater’s black-and-gold livery and stationed at the doors.

“And just who are you, young lady?” Baron Von Hedelburg demanded.

Bertie curtsied, something she’d never practiced but managed to pull off with reasonable panache. “Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, my lord. I directed this evening’s production.”

“You don’t say?” He adjusted his monocle to squint at her.

The scrutiny was disconcerting, but Bertie refused to squirm. The bodice of her dress was reinforced with steel boning that girded up her spine; although not quite a corset, it served the same purpose. “I do, and if I may be so bold, you have quite a presence.”

“I do?”

“Yes, my lord. There is an air of authority and command about you.” Bertie tucked her gloved hand under his elbow, the better to stroll the lobby.
Persiflage and badinage
. Perhaps a wealthy Benefactor would appease the Theater Manager if the performance didn’t manage to achieve a standing ovation. “I was wondering . . .”

The Baron was pink around the edges from all the attention. “Yes, my dear?”

From “young lady” to “my dear” in less than sixty seconds
.

Bertie leaned closer, until the emerald feather tucked in her ringlets tickled his ear. “We’re always hoping to secure new patrons for the Théâtre. Have you ever considered financing the arts?”

A thoughtful expression wrinkled the Baron’s high
forehead. “I might have entertained a notion or two along those lines.”

“That’s wonderful to hear.” Bertie patted his arm. “We’ll speak again at intermission.”

“Is this the young lady responsible for this evening?” a general boomed through a bristling silver beard. When Bertie nodded, he pumped her hand up and down as though trying to draw water from her arm. “It’s capital what you’ve done with the place.”

“Thank you, sir!” Bertie only just stopped herself from snapping to attention and saluting him. “Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, at your ser vice.”

The carriages and limousines continued to arrive, their occupants streaming steadily into the foyer. The fairies sat in one of the chandeliers overhead and whispered encouragements every time she paused for breath.

“Keep going!”

“Yeah, the old guy thinks you’re cute!”

“Quick, before you lose momentum!”

“Oh, Bertie, look who just came through the door!”

She turned in time to see the Countess of Tlön approach. The noblewoman gave Bertie’s face a vicious pinch.

“Such rosy cheeks. You’re certain you’re not rouged? I can’t abide girls that rouge.”

“No, Madame, I assure you my coloring is entirely natural.” Bertie did her best not to flinch as the Countess gave
her another pinch for good measure. “I’m pleased you could make it on such short notice.”

“I hear tell of great things happening in this place.” The Countess tucked her arm in Bertie’s and marched to the curving Grand Staircase. “Take me to my seat, there’s a girl.”

With a longing glance at the Box Office through the glass revolving door, Bertie turned and struggled to keep up with the spry dowager, getting a stitch in her side by the tenth step. “I hope you’ll enjoy the changes we’ve made to the production.”

The Countess’s ivory walking stick marked her cadence like a drum major’s baton. “Word spread so quickly about your ambitious project!”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. After the announcement arrived by courier this afternoon—and such a charismatic courier at that!—people could speak of little else.” The Countess paused at the top to allow Bertie to catch her breath, but strangely enough, air was in short supply.

Ariel. She’s talking about Ariel
.

Bertie opened the door to Box Five. “This is yours, I believe. If you’ll excuse me, Madame, there are others I should greet.”

“Of course.” The Countess plonked herself down in her seat and reached for her opera glasses.

Escaping, Bertie headed for the Box Office door,
intending to check on ticket sales, but the lights in the foyer dimmed, then returned to normal. A voice crackled over the hidden loudspeakers.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention, please. The performance will begin in fifteen minutes.”

The fairies converged upon Bertie and herded her through the crowd.

“Come on! You need to get backstage!” Peaseblossom grabbed Bertie’s earlobe and steered her through the nearest door.

“Are you going to be all right?” Moth asked.

“Ask me again after the show,” Bertie said, leaning against the wall for support. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

Even as she fanned her face with an extra programme, the temperature in the corridor dropped. Bertie’s breath formed ice crystals in air that carried with it the perfume of the aurora borealis.

“You would do better to leave the stage fright to the Players, Beatrice.” Ariel was dressed all in black silk again; even his familiars had wings of onyx and black pearl tonight. The butterflies, perched on his cuff links, moved with the winds that preceded him down the corridor.

Bertie’s programme fluttered to the floor. “You came back.”

Ariel laughed. “I did.”

She took a step toward him. “But you had your freedom.”

“I had something more important waiting for me here.” His winds encircled Bertie and coaxed her into his arms. “You chose me, Milady, and I choose you in return.”

“Chose you?”

“As your own,” he specified, his smile as compelling as it was fierce. “Why else would you have given me the one thing I thought I wanted?”

“That big stack of announcements had quite a lot to do with it.” Bertie tried to shove away her memories of the tango, of what had happened afterward.

That has nothing to do with anything, besides which I don’t have time for my insides to melt into gooey puddles right now
.

“In case you’re curious,” Ariel added, his beautiful mouth forming the magical words, “the performance is sold out.”

The tattered remnants of Bertie’s restraint drifted away. Before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around Ariel’s neck and kissed him, hearing the fairies’ protest only as distant mosquito buzzing until one of them bit her on the back of the neck. With a half-muffled yelp, she fell away from Ariel, giddy and stunned, but not the least bit sorry for her indiscretion.

“Pleased with the news?” he asked.

“As if you couldn’t tell,” she said, a flush creeping up her neck. “That leaves one flaming hoop left to jump through. I wish Mrs. Edith was here, so I could consult her bones about the chances for a standing ovation.”

“Speaking of costuming . . .” Ariel looked from her gloved hand clasped in his to her ringlets, the diamond earrings, the satin column of her dress. “You look lovely this evening. I like what you’ve done with your hair.”

“Thank you, kind sir.” Bertie repeated the oft-practiced curtsy.

Down the hall, a door slammed. Gertrude had exited Dressing Room Ten and, even at this distance, Bertie could hear her muttering lines under her breath.

Gertrude spotted the group and bellowed, “The moment I put on this wretched headdress, I forgot the end of my speech in the first act.”

“It’s just nerves,” Bertie tried to reassure her. “It will come back to you once you’re onstage.”

“This was a terrible idea.” Gertrude shoved at the sleeves of her unfamiliar costume until Bertie heard the stitches pop. “Why are you even back here, making a nuisance of yourself?”

Distracted by the gentle pressure Ariel was applying to her hand, Bertie tried to remember exactly why she
was
backstage. “It’s almost time for the curtain to go up, and I wanted to wish you good luck—”

“Good luck?!” Gertrude screeched. “You did not just say that to me! Oh! Oh!”

Bertie paled. “I’m sorry! I meant ‘break a leg’! Really, I did!”

“Overture and beginners, please.” The Call Boy shoved past them.

Gertrude chased after him. “Tell me to break a leg, this instant! Tell me!”

Bertie shook her head at Ariel and extricated herself from his grip. “Look what you made me do!”

“She’ll be fine,” he countered. “Perhaps she’ll really break a leg, and we can send on the understudy in her place.”

The fairies dissolved into snickers as the door to Dressing Room Four opened. Ophelia glided into the hallway and lifted a hand to touch Bertie’s curls.

“You look lovely,” she said. “I do like to see you wearing something other than jeans.”

Bertie held very still and let Ophelia finish her ministrations. At such close proximity, Bertie was surprised to see tiny lines at the corners of the water-maiden’s eyes, emphasized rather than obscured by the heavy application of eye shadow and mascara.

“Are you ready for the performance?” Bertie asked her.

Ophelia nodded. “I find the restaging invigorating.”

“That’s good to hear,” Ariel said. “Gertrude just came through here, not the least bit invigorated.”

“Most of the Players are ill-equipped to deal with change,” Ophelia observed.

“You’re not coming unglued,” Moth said.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve improvised.” Even when
Ophelia didn’t move, the ends of her hair and gown swirled about her, as though caught in the ebb and flow of an unseen river. “I’ve always walked the ragged edge.”

“That’s a good line.” Ariel adjusted his cuff links, which seemed determined to flutter away.

“It is, isn’t it? I’ll have to remember to use it again.” Ophelia smiled at him with such brilliance that a never-before-seen dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “I find my memory stirred by all the excitement tonight!”

With joyous steps, she started to walk, indicating that they should follow her. Her slippers skimmed the floor, and her robes billowed behind her in a silver stream, the flickering lining the same deep blue depths as the ocean.

The same deep blue of Cobalt Flame dye
.

Bertie grasped the scrimshaw, wondering why she’d never before thought to use it to see into the heart of the water-maiden.

First Verena’s skirts and now Ophelia’s robes? What is Mrs. Edith hinting at?

Ophelia had all but disappeared into the red-lit gloom backstage, but she called from the darkness, “Normally I wear white carnations. Those are for innocence. But I like the pink ones you sent to the Dressing Room even better.”

“I didn’t send you the flowers,” Bertie said. “Mrs. Edith went and fetched them.”

“Every flower has a meaning,” Ophelia sang out. “I just have to remember what pink carnations are for.”

A dozen crew members shushed them, but Bertie chased the sound of the water-maiden’s voice, which was the fading rush of water over stone. “What do pink carnations mean?”

For an answer, there was only laughter that turned into a lullaby.

Still clutching the scrimshaw, Bertie followed her into the darkness. “Ophelia! What do pink carnations mean?”

Pale blue light flared in the quick-change corner, illuminating Ophelia as she caught the silver fish of clarity. Her hands were unexpectedly warm, as was the kiss she pressed to Bertie’s cheek. “Not what they are for, Bertie, but
who
.”

“Who are pink carnations for, Ophelia?” Bertie asked a third time, her voice no more than the whisper of a lost child.

“Pink carnations,” Ophelia answered, “are for mothers.
I remember
.”

W
hat do you
remember?” Bertie whispered, fearing Ophelia’s mind played tricks on them both.

The water-maiden held her close, as though afraid Bertie would slip away from her and be lost again to the memory currents. “What happened when I left the Théâtre. At least, I remember most of it. I remember . . .” She choked a bit before she finished. “I remember you.”

It was too much for Bertie to hope that she’d finally found her mother after all this time, but the scrimshaw wouldn’t let her doubt the truth. Ophelia slowly aged beyond her written years, until nothing was left of the bewildered, heartsick young girl betrothed to Hamlet. Even when Bertie let go of the medallion, time-passed remained etched on Ophelia’s face, lines carved in ivory.

“Who’s my father?” Bertie strained her eyes against the dark that would steal away the details of this most important moment. “Tell me, please. I want to know everything.”