Perchance to Dream (12 page)

The Big Pop-up Book of Scenery

“What is that?” Moth asked with a heaping helping of suspicion.

“This, my inquisitive fae friend, is a compilation of the set pieces traveling with us, a compendium, if you will, of landscapes, cityscapes, and dwellings of all sorts.”

“I thought they’d be bigger,” Mustardseed sniffed, unimpressed.

“This is merely the travel edition.” Aleksandr flipped through the folder, irritated, perhaps, at their lack of appreciation.

Bertie caught glimpses of cunning, three-dimensional designs as the ringmaster turned the pages: a winding road surrounded by meadows; a quaint village of thatched-roofed cottages; a miniature version of the train station.

“Well, Mistress?” From the very air Aleksandr seemed to pull a sheaf of parchment and a three-foot-long feather pen, its plumage a scarlet exclamation point. Offering both the writing paraphernalia and his contagious enthusiasm, he asked, “Where will you begin?”

Experiencing a moment of pure panic, Bertie cast about for inspiration. Out the tiny window, snow still obscured the sky.

Sky. Day and night. Celestial bodies
.

“It’s the story,” she said with convincing fervor, “of the sun and the moon.”

“Perfection,” Aleksandr breathed. “One performer dressed in palest gold, the other silver, performing with skipping ropes. Forward throws and somersaults.”

Bolstered by the approving noises of the Innamorati, Bertie continued, “Only one can own the sky at a time. The winter days and nights pass on the tundra, the ground covered in snow.” She closed her eyes and tried to picture the scene. Her left hand closed over the scrimshaw with a flare of pain, but when she began to write, it was pleasant, almost relaxing, to watch her handwriting fill the paper, edge to edge, without the fear that something might land on her head.

(Lights up on THE SUN, standing Center Stage. THE MOON enters, regal and haughty.)

THE SUN
The day is my domain. You do not belong here.

THE MOON
I am an admirer, milady. (He circles her with light steps.) Would that you belonged to me.

THE SUN
Be gone with you. The sky is mine. (She rises on a platform into the sky.) And so the day triumphs over the night.

THE MOON
(When THE SUN travels in an arc overhead) But not for long. As you set, so shall I rise.

While Bertie crafted the dialogue, Aleksandr kept the fairies amused by flipping through
The Big Pop-up Book of
Scenery.
One wire-rigged contraption immediately captured their fancy.

“What is that?” Moth demanded.

Aleksandr spoke with great reverence. “The Wheels of Death.”

“Death my arse,” said Mustardseed. “That looks like two hamster wheels on a taffy puller.”

“Wheels would be perfect.” Nay, Bertie had just been entertaining notions of such staging, and the coincidence surprised her. “Maybe we need to add more Players? Two seems hardly enough.”

Sitting on her left side, Ariel looped an arm behind her. “Perhaps a musical number?”

When he began to toy with her hair, Bertie’s stomach imitated the maneuver she’d witnessed the acrobats performing earlier. “Stop that. It’s distracting.”

“The aerial silk-dancers would make excellent Ice on either side of the stage.” Aleksandr’s eyes skimmed the crowd, potential acrobats already filtering forward. “Never fear, good Mistress of Revels, I can add in a variety of specialty numbers once you’ve crafted the storyline.”

It made sense, really. “Enter the Chorus it is, then.”

(Near the front of the stage, ICE descends on pale blue ribbons.)

THE MOON
This is no longer your world. I cast a long silver shadow, and the very air freezes.

“He’s aggravated because he loves her.” Ariel’s soft observation raised the tiny hairs on the nape of Bertie’s neck. “A circumstance to which I can relate.”

“It’s very
Romeo and Juliet,
” Peaseblossom observed. “Minus all the stabbing.”

“Stabbing?” Aleksandr asked, his puzzled expression bordering on concern.

“Don’t worry,” Moth hastened to reassure him. “Only Juliet stabbed herself.”

“She sounds like a most troubled person,” the ringmaster said. “And I don’t think we require any of that in this piece.”

Bertie rubbed her thumb over the smooth surface of the medallion, the cut on her palm burning under its handkerchief bandage. Inspired, she pictured a transition from running upon metal wheels to walking along the knife edge of a narrow passageway. “So the Sun and the Moon fall in love, though it is forbidden, and they run away together.”

THE SUN
This is the place that cuts the day from night. If we cross it, we can be together.

THE MOON
I shall go first.

THE SUN
You are waning. Let me light the way.

“But of course they succeed, though they should be set upon by many trials.” Aleksandr waited until her pen stopped moving before he continued. “And we finish with the lovers being married. It is a good play that ends with a wedding!”

Bertie, drafting the lines as fast as her hand would permit, could hardly think for the excited laughter and clamoring of the circus performers.

“Oh, yes! A wedding.”

“With music and dancing!”

“A trampoline act that portrays the tossing of rose petals—”

“Hand balancing,” one of the acrobats called. “To symbolize the handfasting!”

About to pen “and they all lived happily ever after,” Bertie paused. The knot on her handkerchief-bandage had worked loose during all her frantic scribbling. “Handfasting?”

The giraffe-girl blinked her long lashes. “The bride and groom cut each other’s palms. The blood is mingled, the hands bound at the wrist with a ribbon, vows are spoken.”

Something in her throat made it difficult for Bertie to swallow. “You don’t say.”

“It’s one of the oldest of wedding ceremonies,” the giraffe-girl hastened to add as she was swept away by the enthusiastic performers.

“Chef Toroidal, a nuptial cake, if you please, one full of plums and ginger, soaked in brandy!” Aleksandr closed
The Big Pop-up Book of Scenery
with a bang and leapt up. “Casting and rehearsals commence this second, and we must have sustenance!”

The Innamorati cheered. Fiddle music accompanied the ensuing organized chaos as the ringmaster sorted his acrobats from his animal-people, preparing to block out scenes and rehearse transitions. The fairies rushed back to the counter to order another pie.

“What kind of pie starts with the letter
D
?”

“Let’s skip ahead to the lemon meringue!”

Bertie didn’t move, paralyzed by the idea that she’d married Nate without meaning to. Worse yet, that not even a ceremony like that, unintentional or not, had had the power to pull him through.

We have to get to Sedna. No more mucking around with vows and word-spells and—

An electric current of pain ran up her arm, and she squeaked.

Ariel jerked his hand away from her, whatever attempt he’d been making upon her person thwarted. “Is that wound paining you?”

Pulling her hand into her chest, Bertie shook her head. “It’s not.”

“It won’t help matters any if it’s infected.” He tried to coax it from her, fingers teasing, smile lighthearted even as his eyes narrowed with a familiar determined expression. “One small look—”

“Leave it be!” Bertie caught up everything on the table—the quill pen, the remaining blank pages,
The Big Pop-up Book of Scenery
—and fled. Pushing and shoving her way through the auditions already in progress, she stifled a cry when one of the acrobats roughly jostled her hand. Opening the door to the compartment, she ran over the narrow walkway as the winds roared around her, “Married? Married? Married?” Each direction shift brought a new condemnation:
Thoughtless child
came from the North Wind and
treacherous betrayal
from the South. East and West agreed she was
not to be trusted
as they chased her into Valentijn’s boxcar. The Keeper of the Wardrobe was in absentia, the costumes hanging from the racks and pegs swaying like ghosts as Ariel caught her around the waist.

“Why are you running?” He held her as easily as he would a kitten by the scruff of the neck.

Bertie spit and swore, fighting to get away from him. “I have to write this stupid train to the Caravanserai. We have to get to Nate before—”

“Before what?” Ariel’s grip on her faltered.

“Before he’s … I mean …” She strained against the circle of his arms, but it was a secret that broke free. “I pulled his soul from his body. He’s not going to last much longer, separated like that.”

With a subtle shifting of muscle, Ariel turned her around to face him. “When did this happen?”

Clamped between them,
The Big Pop-up Book of Scenery
dug into Bertie’s chest, though Ariel’s gaze went deeper than that. “That first night, when I wrote that he entered.”

The air elemental’s fingers clamped down on her left wrist, unwrapped the handkerchief, and brought her wounded palm inexorably up to the light. “And this.” The words were blue-black diamonds hacked off some unseen ice block with a razor-sharp pick. “Tell me again how this came to be.”

No matter how much she wanted to voice a lie, she couldn’t. “I thought the blood would help pull him through. All of him.”

The air elemental studied the ragged line as a scholar would an ancient text, one of his fingers air-tracing the wound. “A blood pact.”

Though he didn’t touch it, Bertie could feel the intent behind the gesture along with the tiniest bit of wind he let slip across the healing furrow. “Yes.”

“You married him.”

“No!” Still held prisoner, her hand spasmed. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Is it now?” Ariel’s voice had gone gentler still, and it was more frightening than the loudest of shouts, the harshest of winds. “This mark says otherwise, if he gave it to you. What vows did you exchange? Did he promise to protect you with his sword? His body? To honor and cherish you, for a year and a day, for a lifetime, for eternity?”

“None of those things!” Bertie jerked from Ariel’s grasp, nearly falling in her haste to get away from him, from his questions that pricked like needles. He wanted to write the story on her skin, like a tattoo, except he had the wrong story, and she wasn’t about to let him mark her with his version of things. “I need to think. Leave me be.”

He made a noise like he was being strangled from the inside out. “Or what? You’ll write me out of existence? Or maybe you could trade me to Sedna for your precious
husband
—”

The door to the compartment slammed open and the Keeper of the Costumes entered, burly arms filled to overflowing with silks and satins. Looking from Bertie to Ariel, Valentijn dumped the fabric on a steamer trunk and set his fists on his hips. “Can I help you?”

“No!” Bertie surged through the open door, across the walkway.

“We’re not done!” came Ariel’s shout behind her, followed by another stern query voiced by the Strong Man, but Bertie didn’t slow, didn’t care. She ran past the mechanical horses, who rested with their necks bent, heads hanging low, eyes closed, over the next walkway. Back in the caboose, there was nowhere to go now but out the back door, onto the tiny balcony—

To heave myself off.

But Ariel was right behind her, step for step. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Bertie flung everything she was carrying at him. Papers scattered across the compartment, the quill skittered under a bench, and
The Big Pop-up Book of Scenery
slid across the floor, coming to rest next to the fairies’ puppet theater. “Where I’m going, now or any other time of the day or night is no business of yours!”

“
You
are my business!”

“Where did you get
that
misguided notion?”

“You told me you loved me!”

Bertie’s mouth worked as Ariel advanced on her, but nothing came out. His stride faltered, and she saw the precise moment when he realized those words had not been meant for him.

“I see.” Though he’d been three inches away from sweeping her into his arms, he stopped short, hands clenched at his sides. “I’ve been ten sorts of fool.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On

Y
ou could write
a most enthralling duel scene, milady playwright: the humble swashbuckler and the Lothario, each willing to die for the hand of the fair maiden.” Pushing past her, Ariel opened the back door to the train car. The currents that rushed in were bleak, drawn from midwinter’s longest night, and he spoke to those winds. “I shouldn’t have returned to the theater.”

“Don’t say that—” The cold ripped the words from Bertie’s lips, and she couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I thought I had a chance to win your heart, but there’s no way to compete against the idea of a man, something you’ve built up into a terrible fancy in that imagination of yours.”

“This has n-n-nothing to do with imagination.” Bertie’s teeth were chattering so hard that she feared they’d crumble to dust. “S-s-stop being ridiculous, and come in out of the c-c-cold, you idiot.”

“I don’t think so.” Ariel considered the blank canvas of the landscape and took a deep, cleansing breath, the sort that sounded like he was letting something go. “Tell me you love me, at least as much as you love him.”

Bertie’s good hand closed around the medallion, and she saw herself trapped between them: a woman draped in moss, cedar-still. Her feet were rooted in loam. Her features were carved of stubborn wood: cheekbones of burl and a nose that was a snub wood knot. Twisted-branch arms scattered leaves like sheets of journal paper.

Above her, brilliant red butterflies led straight to Ariel. Held aloft by coiling wisps of smoke, he swayed to an unheard tune, eyes closed. The translucent beauty of his ethereal self stole the very breath from Bertie’s lungs, and the air spilled over her lips in a cloud-colored ribbon that dragged her toward him.

But he was not the only one calling to her. Far below, the tide pulled Bertie out to sea with gentle blue-green hands. Nate’s face was coral-carved, his clothes moving in the water like the sails of a sinking pirate ship.

Caught between the water and the sky, Bertie tried to stay grounded.

The water and the wind will wear the wood down, until only water and wind remain.

She grew obstinate, unyielding to either wind or water. A forest took root around her, protecting her from the other elements, the trees ancient and far-reaching into the earth. Between the massive trunks, Bertie caught a glimpse of a clearing.

“What is mine, and mine alone?” She let go of the medallion to push back a curtain of moss, seeking that place of twilight, a between-place. “Neither my days nor my nights.”

“I will give your days back to you, then.” The words seemed to come from a great distance, except Ariel’s hand closed around the medallion. With a swift jerk, he pulled it from her neck. “And your nights as well.”

The forest disappeared instantly, lost to snow and ice. Bertie stared at Ariel in horror as he leapt atop the railing and let the scrimshaw dangle over the edge. It spun wildly on the end of the leather string Nate had once worn in his hair.

Bertie lunged at him. “Give it back, I need it.”

“You don’t.” He pretended to drop it, letting the scrimshaw swing like a pendulum.

Everything shifted. Unbalanced, Bertie fell over one of the wrought-iron benches, trying to reach him, reach the necklace. When she landed on her wounded hand, a chrysanthemum-burst of fireworks cascaded up her arm to ignite hot fountains of sparks in her elbow and shoulder. The handfasting scar began to bleed in earnest. “Ariel—”

“Say please.”

Lulled as she’d been by his manners and charm the last few days, Bertie had almost forgotten his quicksilver side: mercurial, selfish, and cruel. “Please.”

“Like you mean it.”

“Please.”
Gathering her strength like so many dying vines, Bertie forced herself to stand again.

He considered the plea for a moment, before deciding. “No. I shall keep it, as a souvenir of our brief and bitter time together.”

“You can’t mean to leave—”

“Ask me to stay.” His eyes pleaded with her, too.

Adrift in a stark realm of blackest night and whitest snow, all her words were bits of caged color, and Bertie could not free them.

“I thought as much.” The expression on his face stabbed her to the heart. “Farewell, milady. Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Making her a lovely, sweeping bow, he stepped off the back of the train, immediately lost to the blizzard.

A final blast of wind knocked her backward, where she lay panting on the cold floor of the caboose, the wooden planks like frozen steel. Tears trickled from her eyes, forming icicles on her cheeks. Snow swirled in the open door. Reality fell away from Bertie in jagged-edged chunks even as she wrestled the journal from her pocket. The fountain pen had gone missing somewhere between Wardrobe and pie car; sleeve crackling with ice, Bertie’s sound hand closed around Aleksandr’s ridiculous quill and managed to scratch out the word,

Truth

The floor under her cheek slanted a bit, tilting the stage of the fairies’ puppet theater toward her. Montagues, Capulets … It was only fitting to repeat the line.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Except Ariel’s bitter departure and his theft of the medallion might just be her undoing. Another tear slid down her cheek; this one did not freeze, though, falling instead in an onyx droplet to the floor and cracking like an egg on impact.

Out danced a tiny figure that moved like a marionette, though she was without strings when she gestured at Bertie. “O! what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!”

Squinting at the not-puppet, Bertie recalled Alice’s Wonderland “Drink Me” bottle back in the Properties Department, imbibing its contents, and fearing she would shrink down to nothing. The memory cued a costume and scene change, both; her spine was the crease on a piece of paper, her bones no more than diagonal folds on a bit of origami. The caboose, the snow, the cold, all faded into the blackout. For a moment, she could see nothing, could feel nothing beyond the rustle of her vellum limbs.

A gentle amber spotlight came up, tightly focused on the marionette without strings. With screwed joints at knee and elbow, and hinge lines now visible at the corners of her mouth, she bent over in cheerful greeting. “Hallo!”

Bertie sat up with difficulty. “What are you doing here, Ophelia?”

The spotlight’s radiance diffused outward, and Bertie found herself sitting on the edge of
The Big Pop-up Book of Scenery
. Open to its version of the Théâtre Illuminata, it rendered the velvet curtains in paper, the gilt with metallic gold paint.

“The next line,” the curious marionette said, “is yours.”

Bertie could taste the words in her mouth, like crimson lip rouge. “My mother was a star, an ingénue on the rise, a society darling.”

“Not really.” Puppet-Ophelia string-danced to her dressing table and sat down upon a chair. “The performances night after night, the make-up and the costuming and the curtain calls … all of it was weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable. I got sick of being Polonius’s daughter and Laertes’s sister and Hamlet’s girlfriend. I wanted, for just a while, to be only myself. That’s when
he
arrived.”

A deep-timbred voice spoke from the shadows offstage. “I haunted the cliffs and shores, waiting for the day when my lost love would take pity upon me and open the gateway to her underworld. Then word came via travelers to the Caravanserai about a place where the Sea Witch ruled.”

Bertie shifted, trying to catch a glimpse of him, and nearly fell off the edge of the book. When the Mysterious Stranger entered a few seconds later, he walked with a stiff-legged gait to Center Stage. The hood of his gray cloak fell back, revealing the papier-mâché mask of a bird, complete with feathers and a yellow bill. His lower, decidedly human jaw was left free to speak.

“I came to this place, this theater, looking for her.”

Ophelia twisted around in her chair. “What are you doing in here? Get out, before I call the Stage Manager—”

“You are not a mermaid.” The bird-creature lifted two handfuls of Ophelia’s hair and brought them to his face. “Yet you smell faintly of the ocean.”

“That would be the seaweed.” She twitched free of his impertinent grasp. “And no, I am not a mermaid. They’re just beginning Act One, if you’ve come to see the play.”

“I’m in the wrong place,” the bird-creature answered. “I apologize for the interruption, but I was passing by, and thought I recognized your scent … that is to say …”

“I should summon one of the stagehands before you defile the floor.” Ophelia pursed her lips. “Why are you backstage? You aren’t one of the Players. I have no idea who you are, Stranger, or even
what
you are.”

“I am a fulmar,” he said, then added, “the bird of the storm.”

“Just who do you seek?” Tilting her head to one side, she regarded him with a full measure of sudden curiosity.

“There was another who smelt of the sea. I have searched for her everywhere, but she is not to be found.” The bird-creature rustled uneasy feathers. “You are obviously not her, so I will make my apologies and leave.”

“Leave?” Ophelia repeated the word as though it had just occurred to her. Then she said it once more, this time with inflections of salted caramel candy. “Leave.”

Considering her with those jet-black eyes, the bird-creature asked, “Do you also wish to leave?”

“I do!” She spoke with enough vehemence to ruffle his feathers. “I am trapped here, performing the same play night after night, unless …”

“Unless?”

Ophelia’s smile was brighter than the stage lights. “Unless I pull my lines, my story, from The Book. It will be like I never existed at all.” Clapping her hands, she went to brush past him, but the bird-creature filled the doorway, standing stiff and still for a long moment.

“For the sake of another who wished herself away, I will take you with me, if you like.”

“Are you certain?” Ophelia asked, looking up at him through her lashes. “I shouldn’t like to be any trouble.”

The bird-creature shook his head. “I do get the feeling that trouble might be a specialty of yours.”

Ophelia stood on tiptoe to look directly into the glossy surface of his eyes. “The moment you tire of my company, we’ll part ways.”

The couple disappeared into the wings of the stage as two black-clad stagehands lifted the edge of the enormous page. Bertie slid off just in time, her hasty retreat accompanied by the faint cry of the Call Boy, “Ophelia to the stage, please.” The Théâtre set folded in upon itself as the cliffs rose. Ophelia’s costume changed as well, to gray velvet with shadowed trim that helped her disappear time and again into the shifting lights.

“I was the first to figure out how to free myself from the theater,” puppet-Ophelia said as they crossed to Stage Right. “I took my page with me to the seaside, and it was there that I fell rather unexpectedly in love.”

“It surprised both of us,” the bird-creature said softly. “There was no slipper, nor spinning wheel, nor true love’s first kiss. This was not a fairy tale with a happily ever after.”

The scene shifted again with the crackle of cardboard so that Bertie’s puppet-parents stood inside a cave. Warm stone walls curved in at the top, while bits of leaf and twig lay scattered on the floor. From behind the set, something did a decent job mimicking the roar and moan of the ocean. Bertie clambered back into
The Big Pop-up Book of Scenery
, afraid to speak for fear they would stop telling her story.

“You must admit,” Ophelia said with a laugh as she made a nest Center Stage, “that there was something between us right from the beginning.”

“There was yearning, I will admit, and a loneliness inside me.” Though the bird-creature’s words were for Ophelia, his eyes were on Bertie until he turned and entered the scene. “And you were lovely, and young, and full of life. I hardly knew what to make of you.”

“For the first time in centuries, I felt as if I could breathe.” Ophelia’s smile was only for him. “Though I was surrounded by water, I had no desire to throw myself in.”

The bird-creature circled her; as he moved, the lights lowered, and there was the suggestion of a thunderstorm outside. In the flashes of light, Bertie could see his feathers drift to the floor. Soft bits of down swirled and settled until he knelt before Ophelia, more man than bird. “Yes, there was something between us.” He brought her hand to his mouth for a single kiss.

Bertie could not think of him as her father yet, but he was no longer a Mysterious Stranger, either.

What part is he playing for me?

Watching Ophelia nestle against the man’s broad chest with a happy sigh, Bertie found it hard to breathe, hard to swallow. “What ruined it? Was it me?”

“Never think that—” the man started to say, but black-clad stagehands rushed into the cave set, wrapping the two figures onstage in long, twisted strips of sparkling aquamarine. Torn apart and coiled in separate cocoons, Ophelia reached for him, while the Scrimshander thrashed his arms and legs. The water was a winding sheet, though neither was dead yet.

“No!” Bertie cried when their motions slowed and finally stilled. The fabric settled into sloppy-wet pools. Ophelia lay in a heap, her swollen belly straining at the sodden green fabric of her dress.

The man crawled to her, his hand seeking the fullness of her middle before sliding up to her throat. He shook her gently. “Breathe, my love.”

A pale blue lighting special washed over her cheeks, but Ophelia obeyed him. She turned her head to one side and spat silver glitter onto the stage. “It’s all right. I’m used to it.”

Gathering her to his chest, the man cast about the cave. “It’s not safe in this place.”

Ophelia clutched him. “What are you saying?”

“We have to go back to the theater.”

“You’re supposed to be my handsome prince,” Ophelia cried. “This is supposed to be my happily ever after.”

“Calm yourself.” He gathered her in his arms. “I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.”