Eyes Like Stars (13 page)

“I had nothing to do with Ophelia’s unexpected performance,” Bertie said. “Take it up with her. Or better yet, try it for yourself. Maybe you can shuffle right off to Buffalo, if you want it badly enough.”

“Only when you order the changes do they happen.” Words conspired with winds to wrap cloud-tendrils about Bertie’s wrists and tow her toward him. “Somehow you’re the one that makes it so.”

Nate caught Bertie around the waist in the span of two heartbeats—his and hers—as his cutlass came up again. This time, the tip dug into the white skin of Ariel’s throat. “Let’s see if ye bleed like any other man.”

No one moved. Bertie wondered if either Nate or Ariel breathed, so hard were they staring at each other. She put her right hand over Nate’s and pushed down until the cutlass swung away. A crimson stain bloomed on Ariel’s collar.

Nate smiled. “So ye can.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Bertie said. “I’ve had a difficult enough morning without refereeing another brawl. I need a shower and a decent breakfast. Definitely more coffee. And
then maybe—just maybe!—I might have the fortitude to deal with you, Ariel. Until then, stay out of my hair.”

“Yes, I see you have enough going on in that department.” Ariel gave the top of her head a pointed glance. “Are you going to call in the ocean set again or use an actual bathtub?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” mocked Cobweb.

“Pervert!” yelled Mustardseed.

“None of your business,” Bertie said. “Now, I suggest you find something to do with your time that doesn’t involve sabotaging my production.”

Ariel managed a wounded look, aided by his bloodied throat and deathly pallor. “My dear—”

“She’s not yer dear,” interrupted Nate. “Sod off.”

“Yeah! Sod off!” Moth shook his fist for emphasis.

“Very well.” Ariel gathered his winds about him like a cloak and disappeared through a trapdoor.

“He does know how to make a dramatic exit,” Mustardseed said. “You have to give him that.”

“I don’t have t’ give him a thing, save a knife through th’ ribs.” Nate spat on the stage. “Th’ son o’ a parrot eater.”

“Son of a parrot eater,” Moth repeated. “Is that bad or good?”

“Buggered if I know!” Cobweb said.

“Oh, no, you don’t. We are done being pirates,” said Peaseblossom. “We’re Assistant Directors now, and Assistant Directors do not bugger anything.”

“Fat lot you know,” said Mustardseed. “They bugger lots of things! They bugger left and right and every which way in between.”

Nate nudged her. “Ye were gettin’ a shower.”

“Are you implying that I stink?” Bertie turned her nose in the direction of her armpit and sniffed gently. “Phew. Never mind. I do stink.”

“We didn’t want to say anything,” said Moth. “But yes, you’re a little ripe.”

“So, do you want a shower in the Ladies’ Dressing Room or something that will annoy the Stage Manager?” asked Peaseblossom.

Bertie pretended to contemplate her options. “Who wants to join me in a Turkish Bath?”

“I’ll get the headset!” Peaseblossom hollered.

Nate frowned. “Won’t ye get in trouble fer a scene change?”

“I’m a Director now,” Bertie said with a grin as an enormous dome lowered from the flies. “I say it’s research.”

A large marble pool spiraled up from below-stage. A dozen fountains, each spurting warm water, slid into place along the back wall, which was decorated with an elaborate mosaic.

Nate gazed at the swirling picture rendered in stone, marble, and glass with something akin to awe. “That’s th’ Greek Chorus. What’s it doin’ in a Turkish Bath?”

Bertie spared it a glance. “All conquering empires have bath houses.” She kicked off her slippers as the final set decoration, an enormous water clock, landed Downstage Left. “And before you ask, that’s Greek, too. Mr. Hastings told me what it was . . . a long word . . . starts with
c
. . .” She snapped her fingers and came up with “Clepsydra.”

“A water thief.” Nate walked around it to better admire the doors and windows, spinning pointers and dials. “How’d ye remember such a mouthful?”

“I like a big word now and then.” With great affection, Bertie reached out to pat the huge, elaborate thing, which already dripped the ancient precursor to
tick-tock
.

“Seems like a lot o’ work for a bath,” Nate said. “D’ye do this often?”

“No,” Bertie said. “The steam is hard on the ceiling murals.” On cue, vapor poured in from both sides of the stage.

“Whoo!” yelled Moth. “Time to get naked!”

Nate took a step back. “Er . . . perhaps I ought t’ be goin’ now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bertie. “You could probably use a bath, too.”

He shook his head. “Pirates don’t really bathe.”

“Liar. You wash all the time with seawater, and this is more pleasant, I promise.” Bertie paused to peer at him. “Are you blushing?”

“No!”

“Yes, you are.” Bertie grinned so hard that she stretched muscles in her toes. “Don’t be such a prude! I promise not to look.”

As Nate hesitated, Mustardseed flew between them, divested of pants and tunic. His tiny, naked butt disappeared into the steam as he cried, “Wheeeee! Balls out!”

“I think that’s a rugby reference,” Bertie said. “But don’t quote me on that.”

Nate shifted from one booted foot to the other. “Pirates don’t play rugby, an’ I don’t think—”

“No, you really don’t, so I’m not wasting any more time or hot water standing here arguing with you.” Bertie turned toward the pool and pulled her shirt off.

“By all th’ hells!” Nate ducked his head, presumably to give her some privacy.

Her pajama pants, socks, and underwear followed. “Should I take the scrimshaw off before I get in?”

“ ‘Th’ bath isn’t filled wi’ saltwater, is it?” he muttered, eyes still averted as a flush crawled up the nape of his neck.

“Nope.” Bertie pinned her hair atop her head so the dye wouldn’t turn the bathwater blue.

“Then leave it on. Ye need all th’ protection ye can get right about now.”

“If that’s true, maybe you oughtn’t leave me alone, so
helpless and vulnerable.” Bertie slid into the soaking pool. “Anyway, you were going to explain about the necklace and the Sea Witch.”

“Th’ Sea Goddess, Bertie. Fer all that ye muck about wi’ th’
Little Mermaid
set, ye should know about Sedna.” There was a sigh, followed by the sound of his cutlass hitting the stage and the slither of linen that signaled he’d started disrobing.

Bertie caught sight of his bare shoulders as the steam shifted Stage Right. She had only a moment to admire them before the mist obscured her view, but that was more than enough to appreciate the fine lines of a nicely put-together man. Wondering if being in close, naked proximity to Nate was such a brilliant idea after all, she cleared her throat and tried to concentrate on innocuous things. “So enlighten me.”

“Sedna was a princess once, in love wi’ a young man.” Two thumps that Bertie presumed were his boots being removed and tossed aside.

“That sounds promising.” Bertie forced her muscles to relax as the heat of the water seeped inward.

The surface of the soaking pool shifted when Nate slid in at the other end. “She eloped wi’ him, but her father came fer her an’ dragged her back. Halfway across th’ ocean, he threw her into th’ sea.”

Bertie flinched, both at the gruesome turn of events
and at the water splashed in her face by the frolicking fairies. “That’s worse than King Lear. At least he only disowned Cordelia.”

“Ye haven’t even heard th’ worst o’ it,” Nate said, his tone grim. “When Sedna held on to th’ sides o’ th’ boat an’ begged fer her life, her father chopped her fingers off, one at a time.”

“That’s revolting!” Mustardseed said, sounding utterly delighted.

Moth swam the backstroke past a barely visible Nate. “Then what happened?”

“Her fingers drifted away through th’ water, some becomin’ animals, an’ others goin’ missin’.” The pirate sat in silence for a moment. “I used t’ dream o’ her. Most sailors do. She calls t’ us in our sleep; hers is a song filled wi’ loneliness an’ longin’. She offers us jewels an’ gold if only we’ll go t’ her. Comb her hair. Rub her hands where th’ phantom fingers pain her.”

Bertie watched the medallion drift through the water, the Théâtre’s façade wavering like a naiad’s dreams. “You said the scrimshaw was carved from a piece of her bone. How could you tell?”

He shuddered, sending ripples through the pool as though someone had cast a stone into the deep end. “It was like holdin’ a shell up t’ my ear. Th’ sea called t’ me through it.”

“But how is it supposed to protect me? Because I know you didn’t mean it to be just a good-luck charm.”

“Sedna learned, in th’ hardest o’ ways, t’ look beyond th’ surface o’ a man, t’ see what hopes an’ dreams an’ fears lay nestled in his heart o’ hearts. There are secrets here, hidin’ behind th’ lights an’ th’ playactin’. I want ye t’ beware those who are not as they appear.” The pool stirred again, and the steam had evaporated just enough for Bertie to make out Nate’s silhouette as water sluiced off his shoulders. “I’m not certain a cannon misfire is th’ only reason th’ Theater Manager wants ye gone.”

Bertie knew she should avert her eyes but found she couldn’t. “He’s giving me a chance to stay. Stop being over-protective!”

“It’s not yer job t’ give me orders, fer all yer a Director now. I’ll do what I can t’ keep ye safe.”

“Why?” Bertie persisted.

“None o’ yer business, missy.”

“Don’t you ‘missy’ me. You’re barely old enough to grow a decent set of whiskers.”

Nate made a rude noise. “If yer goin’ t’ be insultin’, I’m fer shore.”

Bertie made a point of squinting at his chest. “That’s an interesting tattoo.”

Nate slid into the water up to his chin as a familiar voice said, “I’m sorry, I thought I heard the water running.”

“Ophelia.” Bertie didn’t have time for her silly drowning
habit right now. “Would you excuse us? We’re trying to have an important discussion.”

“In the bathtub?” Ophelia asked. “Without any clothes on, and without a chaperone?”

“I do my best thinking in the tub,” said Bertie. “And you sound like Mrs. Edith when you nag.”

Ophelia looked at Nate, who had his gaze firmly fixed upon the water’s surface, and back to Bertie before she sat to dangle her bare feet in the bath. “Isn’t this pleasant?”

Bertie glowered at her, willing the water-maiden to either leave or explode. “It
was
.”

“You needn’t glare at me so,” Ophelia said. “I came to tell you something important.”

The clepsydra counted off several seconds while Bertie and Nate waited in polite silence for her to continue, but Ophelia only smiled dreamily.

“What was it you wanted to tell me?” Bertie prompted.

Ophelia started a bit, as though the question had jolted her back into her corporeal form. “Oh, that! Yes. I wanted to warn you about Ariel.”

Bertie stiffened. “What’s he done now?”

“It’s not what he’s done,” Ophelia said, “but what he could do.”

Again Bertie waited for an explanation that was not forthcoming. She would have shaken Ophelia, were it not
for Nate’s presence and her own lack of clothes. “What could he do?”

The water-maiden looked left, then right, as though to reassure herself that no one could hear her piercing stage whisper. “He could escape.”

Despite the temperature of the water, Bertie went cold. “What did you say?”

“Hm?” Ophelia lifted her foot; distracted by her dripping toes, she didn’t answer.

Peaseblossom landed on Bertie’s shoulder. “The idea’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous in the best possible way!” Moth said with a snicker. “Can you picture him tunneling out with a spoon?”

“Bedsheet ladder out the window!” said Cobweb.

Ophelia frowned. “I don’t know about spoons and sheets, but if he tears his entrance page out of The Book, he’ll be able to leave the Théâtre.”

Bertie stared at Ophelia through air so thick with water vapor and revelations that it hurt her lungs. The fairies choked on mouthfuls of bathwater.

“Good golly!” Mustardseed sputtered when he was finally able to breath again. The others echoed his sentiments while Nate swore under his breath.

“Ophelia?” Bertie said.

“Yes?”

“Whatever would give you that idea? That someone could tear a page out of The Book?”

“Oh, that’s not important,” Ophelia said with a graceful wave of her hand.

“It’s important to me.”

The other girl smiled. “Because I did it once.”

Ariel wasn’t the one who escaped. It was Ophelia.
“You ripped The Book?”

“I pulled out my page. The one I make my first entrance on.” Ophelia shook her head as though clearing it of spider-webs. “Then I saw the Exit sign.” Her eyes flicked toward the neon-green light at the back of the auditorium. “I’d never noticed it before.”

Bertie was afraid to ask, but she had to know. “Then what did you do?”

“I waited for a quiet moment,” Ophelia said, wiggling her fingers, “and I slipped out.”

“You went through the door.”

“Yes.”

“Into the lobby?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Out a revolving door.”

Bertie swallowed. “You left the theater?”

“Yes.”

An errant draft stirred the moist air, chasing most of the
steam into the flies. Bertie glanced at Nate, who looked as shocked as she felt.

“I didn’t think it possible!” he said.

“Anyway, I just thought I should warn you.” Ophelia stood, smoothed her skirts, and departed without explanation or apology, leaving perfect wet footprints in her wake.

All the words Bertie wanted to say stuck in her throat, like the bits of mosaic decorating the back wall. She thought the members of the Greek Chorus shifted to leer at her.

“Bertie—” Peaseblossom tugged at her ear.

“Shut up, Pease.” Bertie had a million and one questions to ask, and none of them good.

“But, Bertie—”

“I mean it!”

“It’s just—”

“Beatrice Shakespeare Smith!” Mrs. Edith strode onstage holding a plush bathrobe in one hand and a towel in the other. Her mouth was pinched together so tightly with displeasure that she looked as though she’d been sucking lemons. “The Stage Manager came to tell me you were bathing, so I thought I’d bring you these. And this is what I find!”