Eyes Like Stars (6 page)

“That was six drafts ago,” Mustardseed reminded him.

“Besides, how could she be a fairy changeling, stupid?” asked Cobweb. “She doesn’t have wings!”

“Don’t call me stupid, half-wit.”

“Being a fairy changeling just didn’t feel right,” said Bertie. “This is my story, and I’ll edit it however I please. It’s more romantic to travel in a caravan. So shut up!”

“The Mistress of Revels did not immediately take me to the Théâtre, as she’d promised my mother,” she continued. “No, along the way I learned to dance and sing and tumble—”

“When ye were six months old?” Nate interjected.

“After that,” Bertie hedged.

“Oh, aye, when ye were
nine
months old.”

“The journey,” Bertie said over him, “was fraught with danger.”

The caravan began to cross the stage.

“They hit a pothole!” shouted Moth.

The caravan hit a pothole with a massive thump and the screech of protesting wood. The rear wheel on the downstage side of the cart rolled into the orchestra pit.

“Then the horses stampeded and drove over Verena with their big, metal-shod hooves!” added Mustardseed.

The horses leapt forward and flattened the Mistress of Revels against the floorboards.

“They were set upon by brigands!” yelled Cobweb.

Two dozen extras dressed as highwaymen leapt from the catwalks onto the stage, brandishing swords and twirling their moustaches.

“And then the caravan burst into—”

“No!” Bertie interjected before they needed a fire extinguisher. “No flames! Absolutely nothing caught on fire or exploded. Stop it, right now. You know how I feel about you sticking things into my narrative!”

Verena cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but about the brigands—”

Bertie shook her head. “There were no brigands!”

The group in question looked at each other, and their
leader sidled to the edge of the stage. “What do you want us to do, then?” he said in a loud whisper.

“Shove off!” Bertie said. “You were never supposed to be here in the first place.”

“All we want is a few minutes of stage time!”

“Fine, then. Have it
your
way.” Bertie raised her voice and pretended to read, “The brigands met a terrible fate at the hands and feet of the Mistress of Revels, for though she didn’t look it, she was a black belt in jujitsu.”

Cobweb laughed as Verena landed a series of flying side kicks. “I don’t think you’ve ever used that line before.”

“Violence makes for good theater,” Bertie said. “Now, while there were no brigands, no potholes, no stampedes, and certainly nothing burst into flames, the journey was still fraught with danger. Near the city limits, Verena took sick with a Mysterious Ailment.”

“Dying makes good theater, too!” That was Mustardseed. “Is she going to die?”

“Now you’ve ruined the surprise!” Cursing mightily, Bertie jumped from the stool and glared at the fairies. “You all had better shut your pieholes until I’m done with this scene, or so help me, I’ll never steal you another snack cake as long as you all shall live.”

There was no back talk this time, just the sound of crickets chirping.

Satisfied, Bertie cued the last scene change. The caravan approached a wooden flat painted to look like the façade of the Théâtre. The Mistress of Revels descended slowly, carrying a basket.

“She left me on the doorstep of the Théâtre,” Bertie said, “with only a note and my mother’s best intentions.”

“Dear Sir or Madame,” Verena intoned. “I entrust this child to you. Her name is Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, and her destiny lies within this theater.”

Bertie flapped her hand at her. “Just leave me on the doorstep already.”

The Mistress of Revels nodded before setting the basket against the door.

“Blackout!” the fairies called, and the lights obeyed. “Curtain down!”

Nate’s voice drifted out of the darkened auditorium. “I liked that version, especially th’ bit wi’ th’ thieves.”

Bertie stowed the prop copy of The Book backstage and lifted the Stage Manager’s headset. “House lights up, please.”

“I was just thinkin’,” Nate said, “about how yer mother
is
out there, somewhere. Mayhap now’s th’ time t’ seek her out.”

While his tone didn’t challenge her, his words certainly did.

“I could wander forever and never find her.” Bertie
looked to the back of the auditorium, at the faint phosphorescence of the Exit sign as she went to join the others.

“But if ye stay here—”

“Not ‘if’ I stay. I’m staying.” She offered Nate her hand and heaved him to his feet. “So that when my mother comes looking for me, I’ll still be here to find.”

B
ertie looked up
at Nate through the blue fringe of her bangs. “Will you help me?”

He nodded. “With my last breath.”

“A plan! We need a plan!” said Cobweb.

“
Vive la Révolution!
” cried Moth and Mustardseed as they jumped to attention.

Bertie held up both her hands. “If either of you start singing something from
Les Mis
, I’ll drop-kick you into next week.”

“Can we build a barricade?” Moth demanded.

“Not until I think of a way to become invaluable.” Bertie paced the aisle runner between the velvet-upholstered seats. “What jobs are vacant?”

The fairies put on their thinking caps, which were red and pointy.

“You could do a lot of things!” Peaseblossom said after a moment. “Maybe Mr. Hastings needs help dusting the props?”

“I guess,” Bertie said, unconvinced. “But Official Duster doesn’t sound impressive.”

“You could put spangles on costumes!” Cobweb said.

Bertie shook her head. “I can’t sew without stabbing myself. Mrs. Edith wouldn’t want blood on the fabric.”

“You’re good with hair,” Mustardseed said. “Maybe you could try your hand at wig styling?”

“I don’t think that could be considered an invaluable contribution,” Bertie said. “Think harder.”

After a few moments, Moth wriggled his toes disconsolately. “I’m afraid nothing more important springs to mind.”

“Besides, there are no small parts,” Cobweb admonished Bertie, “only small actors.”

“I don’t know about that,” Mustardseed said, giving him a shove. “You’re pretty small.”

“What about yer play?”

Bertie turned to look at Nate. “My play?”

“How ye came t’ th’ theater. It’s a play, no?”

She thought about it a moment. “I . . . I guess so.”

Nate folded his arms in triumph. “That makes ye a playwright, then.”

The idea had never occurred to her before, and it tickled like a quill pen. “A playwright?”

“Aye. Ye could be th’ Théâtre’s wordsmith,” Nate said, looking mightily pleased with himself.

“Scribble something with dragons!” Moth crowed. “I always wanted to ride a dragon!”

“I don’t have time to write an entire play from scratch,” Bertie said, possibilities switching on like spotlights nonetheless.

Nate laughed. “Then ye start wi’ how ye came t’ live here. It’s nearly done, ye said it yerself. Ye just have t’ write it out an’ show th’ Theater Manager.”

Bertie scowled. “There’s no sense in showing him something that isn’t finished. He’d toss me out on my backside.”

“You didn’t just write the play, Bertie,” Peaseblossom said suddenly. “You ordered the Players about, shouted, and threw an artistic hissy fit. Do you know what that makes you?”

“A temperamental fusspot?” Mustardseed guessed.

“Crazier than a bag full of crazy?” Moth said.

“Close,” Peaseblossom said. “It makes her a Director.”

Cobweb scratched his head. “That person dressed in black, who sits in the back, smoking and giving everyone their motivation?”

“Wow,” Moth said. “We’ve never needed one of those before.”

“A Director.” Bertie’s skin tingled. “But what could I direct?”

“You want to start with something dramatic,” Peaseblossom advised. “Something with impact.”

“Somethin’ yer fair familiar wi’,” Nate said.

“Something funny,” Moth added.

“No,” Bertie said, “something tragic. The most famous of all of the Shakespearean tragedies—”

Mustardseed jumped up and down. “Your hair!”

“
Shakespearean
tragedy, Mustardseed.”

“Oh, sorry about that.
Hamlet
, duh.”

“But why would
Hamlet
need a Director?” Peaseblossom asked. “The Players have performed it thousands of times.”

“Precisely the reason it needs a Director!” Bertie said. “It’s
tired
. It needs to be made over into something spectacular. Something that will fill the seats and have patrons queued up in the street and put ‘Sold Out’ signs in the windows of the Box Office.
That
would be a real contribution, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess so,” said the fairy, unconvinced.

“Trust me, it will be brilliant,” Bertie said. “We’ll take
Hamlet
, and we move the production to a new time period and location.”

“Like where?” Moth asked.

“I don’t know,” Bertie said, biting her lip. “Somewhere with kings and queens and political intrigue, but with plenty
of wiggle room for fabulous costuming and sets. Like . . . Egypt!”

“Egypt.” Nate sounded less than convinced now.

“Ancient Egypt,” Bertie said with a bounce. “It’s perfect.”

Nate shook his head. “Yer definition o’ ‘perfect’ an’ mine must be diff’rent. An’ ’tisn’t goin’ to be easy t’ convince ev’ryone. Change isn’t in th’ Players’ nature.”

“It’s in mine!” piped up Cobweb. “Could we wear spandex and blow things up?”

“That would be wicked!” said Moth. “Are there going to be explosions, Bertie?”

Bertie imagined the Stage Manager’s face when he heard about the plan. “Most likely. We need to recruit support.”

Nate nodded. “Sympathizers, aye. Where d’ye want t’ start?”

“We need all the departments on board before we go to the Theater Manager,” Bertie said. “Let’s start with the easiest and work our way down.”

“Mrs. Edith it is, then!” Mustardseed said, flying ahead of the group with a burst of speed and sparkles.

“You really think so?” Bertie weighed their options as they stampeded down the hall. “I would have said Mr. Hastings.”

“Mr. Hastings likes you, but Mrs. Edith loves you,” Peaseblossom said. “I know that’s difficult to remember, when Mr. Hastings lets you run rampant through the Properties
Department and Mrs. Edith tries to make you behave yourself, but it’s true.”

“Fine,” Bertie said, “we’ll start with her.”

“Ye might want t’ think up a way t’ explain yer hair before we get down there,” Nate suggested. “Unless ye actually asked permission afore ye pilfered her drawers.”

Bertie put a hand up to her hair and muttered, “I’d forgotten about that.”

Nate gave her a sardonic look. “Ye could always lead wi’ th’ news th’ Theater Manager’s kickin’ ye out. It might take her mind off yer head.”

Walking into the Wardrobe Department was like opening an antique steamer trunk only to be buried alive in silk charmeuse, bobbin lace, and assorted bits of millinery. Adding to the whirl of color and fabric, Moth immediately sat upon the brass control for the overhead conveyor. A thousand years of history swept past Bertie on wooden hangers, gliding along the circuitous iron track overhead before disappearing into the cavernous storage closet.

Nate ducked his head and disappeared into the swirling vortex of frock coats, bustle skirts, and flapper dresses. “I need t’ look fer somethin’. I’ll be right back.”

“What? Wait . . . Moth, get off of that!” Bertie nudged the fairy off the control button.

By the time the sweeping dance of costumes glided to a
halt, Nate had disappeared. The hiss and sputter of the coal furnace at the far end of the room replaced the hum of the conveyor. Heat poured off the boiler in waves, its steam powering the sea of sewing machines and flatirons as well as maintaining the dye vat at an eternal simmer.

Mrs. Edith sat at the long, work-scarred table with a lapful of copper taffeta that gleamed when she moved. While the rest of the theater bespoke the easy grace and artistic flourishes of the art nouveau period, the Wardrobe Mistress remained a stiffly starched Victorian, from the high, severe collar of her shirtwaist and the wide leg-of-mutton sleeves, down to the hem of her floor-sweeping skirts. The only concession to her grudgingly admitted artistic nature was a broach of rose gold, rumored to be a gift from the queen. She could cow the most insolent of Chorus Girls with a single look, and her spectacles served as an indicator of her mood; just now they were perched on the end of her nose, permitting her gaze to skewer both her work and her ward.

“Do you have something you want to tell me?” The needle she held was more threatening than a sword.

Bertie flattened her back against the door, searching the darkest recesses of her brain for the correct answer. “Do you think I have something I should tell you?”

Mrs. Edith assessed Bertie’s head and pursed her lips. “Cobalt Flame?”

Bertie relaxed a fraction of an inch and nodded. “Do you like it?”

“Strange as it is to say, it does suit you, although if you keep using stuff as strong as that, you’ll be lucky not to go as bald as an egg.”

The fairies exploded with snickers, punctuated by “Hey, there, cue ball!”

Mrs. Edith set aside the topic of Bertie’s hair as easily as she shifted the fabric to the table. “I missed the call to the stage trying to get this seam finished. What’s going on?”

“That’s what I came to see you about.” Bertie slid onto a stool next to the Wardrobe Mistress while wondering how best to break the news.
Simply, without overdramatizing it
. “The Theater Manager asked me to leave.”

“That’s not amusing, Bertie dear,” Mrs. Edith said with a frown. “You shouldn’t joke about such things.”

“I’m not joking. He said I need to make my way in the world.”

Mrs. Edith pursed her lips as she selected a gleaming pair of sewing scissors from the table, snipped an errant thread, and tossed it into the rubbish bin. “Why now?”