Perchance to Dream (3 page)

From under the caravan, Mustardseed made shooing motions at their newly arrived champion. “Go on, now! You’re supposed to exit, pursuing them!”

The stranger whirled about, piercing black eyes searching for the source of the tiny voice and passing over Nate without marking his presence with so much as a blink. Evidently spotting the fairies, the newcomer addressed his answer to the wheel of the wagon. “Oh, I am, am I? Explanations first, I think!” Turning, he advanced upon Bertie and Ariel. “Let us begin with how you summoned me here. What sort of witchcraft is this?”

“I apologize for interrupting whatever it was you were doing.” Bertie folded the still-damp page from The Book into four and shoved it in the pocket of her borrowed coat. “I didn’t require a courier. And it wasn’t witchcraft.” She paused to think over that assertion, then added, “Not really.”

The newcomer stalked nearer, vibrating with barely restrained energy. “Only a minute ago, I was about to lay claim to a priceless jewel. Then, without a by-your-leave, I was grasped by Fate’s Hand and cast down here like a pebble on the shore. And you claim that was not witchcraft?”

“She said that it wasn’t—” Ariel started to say, but a blur of motion knocked him aside.

Before Nate could shout to her, before Bertie could turn and run, the newcomer had her by the arms, black fingernails like claws curving into her skin through the silk of Ariel’s jacket. With his face only a few inches away from her own, she could see the bristles on his cheeks and chin pointing every direction, the depth of the purple-black circles about his eyes. Feral of teeth and foul of breath, he smelled like he’d imbibed the contents of a condemned distillery and looked entirely capable of committing ten sorts of mayhem.

But all he did was sniff at her curiously. “No, you’re not a witch.”

Nate made a guttural noise of frustration, addressing Ariel’s prone form. “Get up an’ get in there!”

“Let her go.” Unwittingly obeying the command, the air elemental regained an upright position and gathered his winds behind him. His clothes and face were dusty and disheveled, but undiluted fury radiated from every angle of Ariel’s body. Bertie shook her head at him, afraid that a sudden, ill-timed blast could startle her captor, who’d brought his nose a bit closer still to sniff at her again.

“No, not a witch,” the stranger mused. “Why do I sense something familiar about you?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.” Bertie gave him Mrs. Edith’s most Imperious Look, though her voice squeaked a bit when she said, “Unhand me this instant.”

Instead, he glanced from the caravan to Bertie, recognition sparking in the depths of his dark eyes. “There was another Mistress of Revels when first we met, and you were smaller, I think. That day, you made it rain jelly beans and peppermint sticks and chocolate humbugs from the sky.”

CHAPTER THREE
To Be Acquainted with This Stranger

Y
ou’re one of the Brigands!”
Moth screeched before Bertie could make the connection.

“I was,” he corrected. “No longer am I a member of that particular brotherhood, sadly.”

Peaseblossom sniffed her contempt. “If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man.”

“No true man ever got his heart’s desire, my diminutive Lady Disdain.” Returning his attention to Bertie, he caught sight of the scrimshaw hanging around her neck and squinted at it. “Wherever did you get that?” Before she could answer, he broke into a wide and somewhat alarming grin. “Have you been to the Théâtre?”

“We’re
from
the Théâtre.” Ariel’s winds swirled and danced behind him, though his shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch. “But how did you guess that?”

“The lovely medallion the lady is wearing? I took it there myself. Left it as gift for Mr. Hastings.” The newcomer’s grin broadened, and what had been disconcerting mere seconds ago was now jovial and warm.

Bertie thought of the Properties Manager at the theater. “You left an object for him without filling out paperwork in triplicate? Did you want his head to explode?”

“More like a little joke between associates.” The newcomer clapped Bertie on the arms. “Mr. Hastings is a tricky one, he is. Nothing unwanted in that room. Each thing to its proper place.”

“It’s carved from Sedna’s bone,” Nate said, hardly able to voice the Sea Goddess’s name without choking. “Ask him how a sneak-thief came by such a bit o’ magic?”

The title was an apt one, Bertie thought. “Where did you get it from? The scrimshaw, I mean.”

The sneak-thief hooked one of his curved, black fingernails under the medallion’s leather string, lifting it to the light with an appreciative look. “Perhaps it was a token from a knight I served for a time. Or I chanced upon it in a crowded marketplace.” He let it drop, the weight solid and reassuring against her skin. “Or I found it, high in the nest of a bird.”

“Which one of those?” Bertie’s impatience put an edge on the words.

“It matters not. It was an unwanted thing.” He turned, sniffing at the air and following an unseen trail into the field.

“An unwanted thing?” She gave chase past the caravan, fascinated by the cadence of his words.

“Though I left the Brigands years ago, I am still a larcenist of sorts. A bandit, a burglar, a picker of pockets.” He paused and held up a finger. “But I have a Code of Honor. I only take things that are unwanted. That’s the trick, you see.”

“What’s the trick in taking unwanted things?” demanded Moth from under the caravan.

With a wiggle and a pounce, the sneak-thief located a leather satchel dropped in the grass upon his untimely arrival. “The trick is knowing the difference between when they are not wanted and when they are.”

Nate snorted at the exact same time Ariel did, and it was all Bertie could do not to laugh at the disconcerted look the pirate gave the oblivious air elemental.

Peaseblossom peered at the newcomer from between the rear wheel’s painted spokes. “Have you a name, sir?”

“Waschbär.” Nose aquiver with amusement, the sneak-thief bounced on the balls of his feet, as though prepared to bound away at the least provocation. “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“I am the Mistress of Revels, also known as Beatrice Shakespeare Smith.” When one of the fairies cleared his throat, Bertie added, “And Company.”

Waschbär’s chest rumbled, a precursor to laughter. “But of course. Emissaries from the Théâtre, on a grand and merry adventure through the countryside. Am I right?”

“Precisely.” Bertie didn’t think they needed to get into the particulars just yet. She tried to maintain eye contact with him, but her gaze kept sliding to his pack.

He caught her staring and flashed another mouthful of teeth at her. “I have many nice things. Mayhap you find yourself in need of something?”

“That’s why you were … er … summoned here.” She pointed at the still-flaming fae. “You gather what dry wood you can find.” None of them moved. Bertie sighed and added, “Once there’s a fire, we can see about food.”

“Aye, Captain!” Four sparks of light immediately scattered and disappeared into the bushes. Their enthusiasm for snacks overcame Bertie’s previously kindled blue-fire, much as a tidal wave would douse a candle: flames smothered all at once without even a wisp of smoke to mark their passing.

“And I, milady?” Ariel asked. “What would you have me do?”

Bertie slanted a look at Waschbär. Despite the newcomer’s change of mood, she had to repress the urge to use Ariel as a shield. “I suppose you should check on the horses. Make sure their upending didn’t knock all their bolts loose.”

The fairies returned with armloads of twigs that might, with conviction and hard work, become sticks someday. Aided by Waschbär, who could obviously see better in the dark than any of them, and a box of matches the sneak-thief pulled from the unseen depths of his pockets, a fire soon crackled merrily. Illumination expanded like a spotlight until the area around the caravan was included in the ragged-edged circle.

Nate skirted the fire, loathe to walk through the conflagration though it could hardly do him damage, seeing as Bertie could see every spark through him as he walked. “Watch yer back, lass, ye don’t know what he’ll do next.”

Waschbär gestured to the merry blaze. “Let us sit, enjoy your fine fire, and share both food and safety in numbers.”

“We have the numbers if you have the food,” Mustardseed said.

In response, the newcomer nudged his pack over. Apples, sugar buns, and little brown nuts rolled in every direction. A very dead rodent landed on the ground as well, eyes gummy and mouth hanging agape.

Bertie wrinkled her nose at the sight of it. “That’s nasty!”

“No, that’s a squirrel.” Waschbär considered it a moment, sniffed it twice, and set it to one side.

The fairies ventured closer to the provider of sustenance, more afraid of skipping a meal than of possible death and dismemberment. Ariel managed to step between Bertie and the stranger without making a noise, but Waschbär acknowledged the defensive gesture with a chortle. The rumble moved down his chest to dislodge a pair of furry slippers from his pockets, which proceeded to scamper about his ankles.

Startled, Peaseblossom flicked her fingertips at the unwelcome arrivals. “Shoo! Go on, you nasty things.”

The animals hissed and retreated in a series of humpity steps, backs arched and teeth bared, but they did not flee.

“What are they?” Bertie held out her hand and got bitten for her trouble.

“Dinner,” Nate said.

“Ferrets,” Waschbär supplied. “They’ve been my only company these many years.”

“I say we poke them with sticks,” Mustardseed said.

“Be my guest,” Cobweb said. “You’ll be lucky to not get eaten.”

“They’ve never eaten anyone. Well, not to my knowledge, at least.” Waschbär said with a nod. “This one is Pip Pip and the other Cheerio.”

“So they’re British ferrets,” Peaseblossom said.

Moth perked up a bit. “Perhaps they’re royal ferrets.”

“‘Her Majesty’s Ferrets’ certainly has a ring to it.”

“What do you think, Ariel?”

“I have no opinion on ferrets, royal or otherwise.” The air elemental reached out his hands and pulled, as though upon an invisible rope.

“Oh, oh, are you pantomiming a tug-of-war?” Mustardseed hopped up and down.

Ariel’s glance would have withered an Opening Night bouquet. “No.” Another pull, this time accompanied by a dragging noise.

Startled, Bertie jumped. “What are you doing?”

“I have no intention of sitting on the ground.” One last pull, and he hauled a fallen log into their midst. The ferrets immediately clambered upon it, chattering their approval.

“Perfection. Now we shall break bread.” Waschbär located two sugar buns and picked up one in each hand. Casting about, he took three sure steps through the tallest of the grass and crouched down. When she squinted hard, Bertie could see a tiny, slow-moving stream lazily traversing the field. Humming to himself, the sneak-thief plunged the buns into the water. After much sloshing and splashing, he turned and offered the damp bits of bread to Moth and Cobweb.

They couldn’t conceal their disgust. “What did you do that for?”

Waschbär marveled at their dejected countenances. “But I washed them just for you! Do you not clean your food?”

“No,” said Moth. “Most people don’t. At least not like that.”

“To heck with most people, I sure don’t,” said Cobweb. “You want to dunk them in jam, fine. Frosting, you don’t even have to ask. But water?”

“I don’t even like to drink water, much less soak my food in it,” Mustardseed said.

“All right, then.” Waschbär selected two more buns. The boys accepted them and retreated to the other side of the fire to share out the spoils while the sneak-thief sat back on his haunches, his musk more pronounced as the fire warmed his variety of furs. “What would you like to eat, Beatrice? Rough bread? Sharp cheese? Joint of roast mutton?”

“This is fine.” Not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful, Bertie picked up a rosy red apple and took a tiny bite as she crossed to the improvised bench. Nate leaned against the log, looking wholly disapproving when Ariel moved closer. Now that the situation wasn’t dire, Bertie could appreciate the unfamiliar scent of the countryside: hay and campfire smoke and what she assumed was a distant cow. Stars winked into existence overhead, as though eager to keep an eye on her. “And you can call me Bertie. Unexpected use of Beatrice makes me think I’m in trouble.”

“As you like, Bertie.” Waschbär studied her across the fire while his nimble fingers cracked nuts with a rapidity that defied logic. “So what thing is wanted here?”

“Paper.” The bit of fruit stuck halfway down her throat, and Bertie had sudden sympathy for Snow White. “But not your average sort—”

With a gleeful noise, he turned his pack completely over. Bits of twine threaded with shiny beads spilled out alongside a gold ring that gleamed with opal-fire. A glass vial scattered colored sand into the grass.

Peaseblossom peered over his shoulder. “The ring is lovely.”

Waschbär nodded as he polished it on the front of his shirt. “From the jewel cask of a castle on the Lightning Ridge.”

“What’s with the sand?” Moth wanted to know.

The sneak-thief let a bit dribble through his nimble fingers. “The sands of time.”

Bertie would have reached for that, drawn by the glittering flecks of stone, but Ariel’s words caught her wandering attention.

“The lady asked you for paper.”

“There’s paper, and then there’s paper.” With a wink and a nod of acknowledgment, Waschbär tossed aside a piece of ragged silk to reveal a journal. The leather cover was tooled in designs that shifted with the firelight, and the thong closure held an ebony fountain pen against the edge of the pages….

Pages that glowed.

Nate cursed under his breath, then added, “Just like Th’ Book.”

“Oh, my.” Bertie leaned forward to get a better look. “How could that be ‘unwanted’?”

“Ah, that’s a story. That’s a story for certain!” Waschbär chortled. “Mayhap a wizard left it lying on a stone bench near his tower. Mayhap it fell from the pack of a scribe journeying to his holy land. Mayhap it was locked away in the darkest recesses of a dimly lit sanctuary.” He stroked the cover, softly, so as not to scratch it. “The trick is knowing when something is wanted and when it is not.”

Even across the fire, Bertie could sense its power. “It’s wanted.”

“Oh, yes?” The two words held the suggestion of countless deals brokered in sun-warmed marketplaces.

“I would trade for it.”

“Of course you would,” the sneak-thief said.

“I have nothing,” she said, “to equal the value of such a thing.”

“There are the usual promises,” Waschbär said. “A kiss.”

Caught between Nate and Ariel, Bertie’s cheeks flamed. “Kisses are nothing but trouble.”

The fairies jeered. “I thought you said boys were nothing but trouble.”

“Yes, and who do you think she’s kissing, stupid? Certainly not the fence posts!”

“Your hand in marriage,” Waschbär suggested with a teasing grin. “Your firstborn child.”

“I’m too young to get married and have kids,” Bertie protested, desperately trying to avoid making eye contact with either of her male bookends.

“Come, come, there must be something!” Waschbär leaned back on one elbow, looking deceptively nonchalant. “If you cannot make the standard offerings, then you must make an unusual one. A dream, mayhap. A secret yearning of your heart.”

Unable to do more than whisper, Bertie asked, “What happens when I give something like that to you?”

Nate made a rude noise through his nose. “Naught good, I can tell ye that.”

“Nothing good will come of this.” Ariel tried to keep the warning between the two of them but didn’t quite manage it.

“Now then, air spirit, do you fear that you are the unwanted thing at this fire?” The sneak-thief’s eyes were bright, black buttons, if buttons could be amused. The firelight didn’t quite illumine their depths, so looking into them was like waving a flashlight around the under-stage area at the Théâtre.

“Why don’t you give it to her out of the goodness of your heart?” Ariel let slip a blast of hot air, and the fire blazed before dwindling to embers.

In the shadows, Waschbär chuckled. “If you’ve nothing to trade me, Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, you will have to steal the journal from me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Bertie stared at him, not quite sure she wasn’t hallucinating due to lack of food and a surplus of campfire smoke up her nose. “You want me to what?”

A hidden owl hooted as Waschbär lifted the journal to his twitching nose and sniffed it. “Yes, yes, this is the thing that’s wanted here. A place to write your hopes and dreams, eh?”

“And pudding,” Moth said. The others elbowed him but he wouldn’t recant. “If it were mine, I’d write about treacle tarts and jam roly-poly.”