Eyes Like Stars (23 page)

Ariel was gone. At her feet, two of his red-and-gold familiars lay on the stage. Bertie knelt next to them.

I killed them, and Ariel’s probably passed out backstage because the damn collar strangled him.

Bertie tasted something foul in the back of her throat. For a moment she thought she might throw up, but one butterfly twitched its delicate antennae and the other fluttered its wings. With a shaky sigh, Bertie gathered them up before someone could squash them. Once in her hand, they recovered enough to crawl into her hair and perch there, like brilliant barrettes.

The fairies flew back onstage at full speed, preceding Ophelia.

“I got them, Bertie!” the water-maiden called.

Sure enough, the Department Managers were heading toward Bertie like a cavalry at full charge. The triumvirate
collectively goggled at the pages, the assorted damage to the house, and Bertie’s thoroughly disheveled appearance.

“What on earth—” Mrs. Edith started to say before words failed her.

“It looks worse than it is,” Bertie promised.

“I don’t see how that is possible,” Mrs. Edith said, “because it looks very, very bad indeed.”

“It’s not her fault!” Peaseblossom rushed to Bertie’s defense. The other fairies chimed in and, with a jumble of cross-corrections and one fistfight, they managed to bring the Managers up to speed. Bertie didn’t interject so much as a peep of disagreement, even when they suggested that she’d cut off the Stage Manager’s head and fed it to a crocodile.

“The magic is breaking,” she said at that juncture. “We have to find a way to get the pages back in The Book before the Théâtre falls apart.”

Mr. Hastings pursed his lips, scanning the amount of paper piled onstage with a professional eye. “They should be filed straightaway, with every page in order.”

Mrs. Edith waved a pair of scissors under his nose. “Anything I can’t fix with my glue gun isn’t possible to fix.”

Mr. Tibbs chomped on a replacement cigar and glowered at them. “You’re both off your heads. Get this rubbish off my stage so I can start repairing the floor.”

“It isn’t rubbish, my dear Mr. Tibbs,” protested Mr.
Hastings. “Were you not attending? These are pages from The Book, for pity’s sake!”

“I heard. Someone has got to clean this mess up, and right smart, too—”

“That’s enough!” Bertie shouted over the top of them. Everyone fell silent, as startled by the order as by the authoritative steel in her voice. “The only thing holding this place together is the last page, if I guess correctly.”

“Pages,” Peaseblossom corrected.

Bertie had nearly forgotten. “That’s right. There are two in The Book now.”

“But how’d the second one get in there?” Moth wanted to know.

“I don’t know.” Bertie turned to the second page, running her index finger along the words. “Sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

“It’s a famous speech,” Mustardseed said.

“That’s true. But why
this
famous speech? Why not the balcony scene, or Hamlet’s speech to the Players?” The butterflies opened and closed their wings, stirring a tiny wind in Bertie’s hair. “It was the one that Ariel quoted, right before we went to Venice.”

Cobweb wrinkled up his little forehead. “So?”

“Ophelia!” Bertie pointed at the nearest stack of pages. “Pick one up and read it to me.”

The rest of the Company ceased milling about aimlessly
and suddenly looked very alert indeed as Ophelia cleared her throat.

“A little more than kin, and less than kind.” She paused. “It’s Hamlet’s first line.”

Moth zoomed in, trying to be helpful. “You’re not reading it with the correct inflections.”

Ophelia tilted her head, a wicked gleam appearing in her eyes. When next she spoke, it was in perfect mimicry of the Danish prince. “ ’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, nor customary suits of solemn black. Nor windy suspiration of forced breath. No, nor the fruitful river in the eye!”

The page in her hand faded around the edges. Bertie whispered, “Keep going!”

“Nor the dejected ’havior of the visage,” Ophelia bellowed. Bertie could see the water-maiden’s hand through the paper now. “Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief—”

The page vanished completely. The Managers yelped, the Chorus Members swore in amazement, and Bertie opened The Book. She was almost afraid to look, but the missing page was back inside, bound firmly, she found, when she tugged ever so gently at it. Underfoot, the largest of the cracks in the floor sealed over.

“That’s it!
That’s
how we get the pages back inside!” Bertie hugged Ophelia around the neck. “You were brilliant!”

“Thank you.” The other girl turned a lovely shade of
pink, the first color Bertie had ever seen on her that didn’t come from a pot of rouge.

She couldn’t linger over the transformation, though. “Peaseblossom, take the boys and put a notice on the Call Board. I want everyone onstage immediately. We have to
act
the plays back into The Book.”

“All the plays?!” Peaseblossom looked aghast. “Do you have any idea how long that will take?”

“Do you have any idea how long the Théâtre will remaining standing if we don’t do it?” Bertie asked.

“No,” the fairy answered.

“Neither do I, but it’s a better option than leaving the pages all over the stage to molder and rot, with the magic scattered everywhere and the theater reduced to rubble. Right?”

“I guess so,” said Peaseblossom. “At least it will give the Chorus Members something to do besides wander about.”

Bertie crooked a finger at Mr. Hastings, Mr. Tibbs, and Mrs. Edith. “I need you three to get back to your Departments and hustle up the necessities for the performance. It’s still going to happen.”

Before they could even twitch, the door at the back of the auditorium slammed open and everyone jumped. As someone stalked down the aisle, Bertie lifted her hand to block the glare from the footlights.

“Thanks a lot.” Hamlet lit a cigarette and sagged against the wall.

“Sarcasm noted,” Bertie said. “You’re thanking us for what, exactly?”

“For whatever enchantment you performed to pull me back into the theater.”

“We didn’t do anything,” said Cobweb.

Bertie silenced the fairy with a look before she returned her attention to Hamlet. “You left.”

“Yes.” His floppy hair fell into his eyes.

“Why?”

“I was going to find a girlfriend who didn’t need medication,” he said, with a lazy smile for Ophelia.

Bertie was going to tell him not to be such a jerk, but Ophelia surprised all of them by making a rude noise. “I deserve far better than you, you know that?”

Hamlet gaped at her, and Moth took the opportunity to pose the question Bertie was already wondering. “Where did you go?”

“Some sort of drinking establishment.” Hamlet took a long drag and flicked ash on the carpet runner. “I’d just ordered something called a Hefeweizen.”

“And then what?” Cobweb took up the interrogation, trying to sound tough.

“The woman next to me offered to pay. Very forward of her.” Hamlet thought it over and added, “She was far too old for me. One-and-twenty, if a day, and I very much doubt that her virtue was still intact.”

Bertie sighed and tried not to think about how good it would feel to punch him in the nose. “And after the middle-aged harlot offered to pay for your drink?”

“I felt a prickle in the back of my throat. Words echoed in my head. My words, but not my voice, if that makes any sense.” He took another drag off his cigarette. “ ‘A little more than kin, and less than kind.’ Then I wasn’t there anymore.”

“You walked out of the bar?” Bertie said.

“No. I just wasn’t there anymore. I wasn’t anywhere. About the time I was thinking what a terrible bore eternity in limbo was going to be, I realized I was in the lobby.” Hamlet detached himself from the wall, taking quite a lot of plaster dust with him, and ambled toward the stairs that led up to the stage.

“
That’s
how Ophelia came back,” Bertie said. “Someone said her opening line.” Then she made a noise like the Mouse King squeaking.

“What is it?” Peaseblossom demanded, looking alarmed.

“Man overboard!” Bertie bellowed.

The fairies looked about them in confusion. “Where?”

Bertie clutched The Book to her chest and fixed a piercing gaze upon the Exit door. “Man overboard, man overboard! Work, damn it.”

“Nate’s line!” Peaseblossom said, comprehension dawning. “We can get him back!”

“We can!” Bertie hugged her hopes close. “Man overboard!”

“Man overboard!” the boys shouted.

“How long did it take,” Bertie demanded, turning to Hamlet, “between the throat-prickle and reappearing in the lobby?”

“A few seconds only,” Ophelia answered for him. “I finished reading his lines, the page reappeared in The Book, and he was transported to the Théâtre.”

“Man overboard!” Bertie waited, counting to ten. Her heart thudded in time with the passing seconds. “Man overboard!”

Peaseblossom tried to look hopeful. “Sedna probably took Nate miles and miles away, so it will take longer than a few seconds to bring him back.”

“That must be it.” Bertie refused to believe it wouldn’t work. “Assign his line to one of the Players and have him repeat it until Nate walks through the door!”

“Will do!” The fairies disappeared from sight.

Hamlet edged closer to whisper in her ear. “You are quite fetching when you’re domineering.”

Bertie elbowed him swiftly in the gut. “Don’t you dare put the moves on me, Mister Melancholy. Start acting those pages back into The Book, and if I see you so much as twitch toward that Exit door, I’ll poison you myself.”

B
y the time
Ariel returned with Bertie’s coffee, a sort of controlled pandemonium reigned. The Danish Prince and a group of Chorus Members read pages from
Hamlet
as quickly as they were found, while everyone else sorted and stacked the rest into their play-appropriate heaps. Each seat in the theater housed its own pile, and the constant motion of the Players was a gliding court dance set to the music of shuffling paper.

“Hurry up,” Bertie yelled at the swarm onstage. “Don’t make me order a beating. . . . What time is it?”

“Early in the morning,” Peaseblossom said. “Very, very early.”

“Thank you, official timekeeper.”

“And so reigned the tyrant, Beatrice the Terrible.” Ariel
managed to stay out of arm’s reach while handing her the coffee. He did a double take when he spotted her borrowed hair accoutrements, but said nothing about the defection of his butterflies. “What did I miss?”

“We found a way to undo the damage you did.” Bertie gestured that he should sit on the floor, since all the available seats were occupied.

His posture was less perfect than usual when he obeyed. “Brava.”

Bertie sucked on the cappuccino as though it were the Elixir of Life, as well it was by then. She was so tired that her bones ached.

Ariel waved a hand at the surrounding chaos. “I see you organized the troops. Excellent demonstration of time management.”

“If I need my butt kissed, I’ll ask for it,” Bertie said.

“What do you want kissed instead?” he asked.

“Shut up.”

He obliged.

“I don’t like this any more than you do, all right?” Bertie said.

He nodded and pressed his lips together in an exaggerated silence that thoroughly irritated her, but everything irritated her right now. Bertie shoved the now-empty cup at him and stomped off.

“What are
you
looking at?” she snarled at a member
of the Ladies’ Chorus who was sorting out
Titus Andronicus
.

“Nothing!” Three pages fluttered to the ground, and the girl rushed to pick them up.

Peaseblossom returned before Bertie could yell and kick things. “Hey, boss lady!”

“How are we progressing?” Bertie demanded.

“We can’t find any more
Hamlet
pages, but I’m pretty sure we read in all the entrance lines.” Peaseblossom pointed at the stage. “All the Players from that show are present and accounted for, at any rate. I checked them off against the cast list twice.”

Bertie opened The Book. Counting under her breath and then checking again just to be sure, she whispered to Peaseblossom, “All pages from
Hamlet
are back in. I guess it just takes the entrance lines.”

“That’s good,” Peaseblossom said, “because there’s something else you need to know.”

Bertie sighed. “More bad news?”

“No, no. Not really
bad
. . .” Peaseblossom’s voice trailed off.

“Just tell me what it is.”

“We’re sorting more pages than just Shakespeare.”

“What?!”

“It’s
The Complete Works of the Stage
, not
The Complete Works of the Bard.
So it’s not just the Shakespearean plays, it’s—”

“All the plays ever written.” Bertie’s legs wobbled, or it might have been structural damage to the building that made the floor tremble.

“Breathe!” Peaseblossom advised. “It will be all right. Really it will. Why don’t we just leave it at
Hamlet
? Why does it have to be all of them?”

There was a shudder overhead, another shower of plaster, paint, and frescoed ceiling.

“That’s why, Pease,” Bertie said, shaking the dust out of her hair. “Besides which, even if the Théâtre weren’t falling apart, what would you propose we do with the pages in the meantime? File them? Cart them off in boxes? Even Mr. Hastings couldn’t handle this mess.”

“Then the plan is still the same,” the fairy said. “It’s just going to take longer to get it done, is all.”

“We have to finish before Friday night.” Bertie forced herself to sound calm and firm.

“That gives us the rest of today, tomorrow, and most of Friday,” Peaseblossom said, trying to sound upbeat. “We need to maximize efficiency, so let’s run multiple plays at the same time.”

Bertie looked at seat after seat filled with the various scripts. “Finish sorting the pages off the stage, and then have two platforms lowered in, three if we can fit them. I want every available Player acting around the clock until further notice. Is someone still saying Nate’s line?”