So Silver Bright (3 page)

“Yes, but at what price?” Before he could answer, Bertie changed the subject. “Would you also be so good as to take a message to Aleksandr that I’ll be at his disposal within the hour? The rest of you ought to find suitable lodgings for ourselves and our gear in the meantime.” She pried a coin off the Mistress of Revels’s belt and handed it Nate. “That’s for the hotel.” She pulled off a second and slipped it into her tattered pocket. “And this is to buy a bit of peace and quiet.”

“And soap,” Mustardseed advised with a nose wrinkle.

Peaseblossom fretted. “Oughtn’t I come with you? I’m a lady, too.”

“That is true.” Bertie tapped her shoulder in invitation, which the fairy hastened to accept as the caravan rattled down the street and disappeared around the first corner.

“How will we find the others when we’re done?” Peaseblossom’s frown had tripled until she could hardly see out of her squinched-up eyes.

“Easy,” Bertie said, “we’ll follow the scent of chaos and destruction.”

*   *   *

Professional bathing turned out to be a most complicated process. Bertie was forced to abandon her clothes and possessions—scrimshaw included—in a locker. After she was scrubbed with a combination of sea salt and sugar to rid her of the worst of the ash and soot, the girls were escorted to the steam room. There they were thumped and walloped by someone Bertie inwardly dubbed Brunhild. Almost the exact moment she got accustomed to the pummeling, the beefy woman poured her into a soaking pool.

Disconcerted by the sudden buoyancy of the water, Bertie remembered her ulterior motive in visiting the bathhouse. “I was told you have a marvelous view from the central tower.”

“Indeed.” Brunhild paused near the door. “The salon is on the top floor. I shall see if there is a stylist available to see you, since you cannot intend to traipse about in public with hair like that.”

The observation stung, not in the least because Bertie knew the sun and wind and rain of the previous week had done their worst to her black-and-purple coiffure. She swallowed further protests along with her pride. “My thanks.”

Peaseblossom drifted along the surface of the water like a tiny, rose-tipped leaf. “You don’t look the least bit relaxed.”

“That’s because I’m not.” Microscopic bubbles clung to Bertie’s skin, each one containing a threat from the Sea Goddess; when they popped, they delivered jagged-edged images of dark water, of starfish fingers wrapped about Bertie’s throat, of seaweed hair dragging her down, down, down. “I think I should stick to showers for the time being.” Vaulting out of the bath, she hastened under the bracing-cold water spurting from recessed wall fountains and rinsed off with much sputtering and cursing.

Brunhild pursed her lips upon her return, no doubt displeased to find Bertie sitting upon a bench nestled in her robe, teeth chattering but her body mercifully clean. “This way, please. Your stylist is ready.”

Pausing only to gather up the extra yards of terry cloth as though they were the skirts of a silk ball gown, Bertie followed their unusual chaperone up a circular staircase. Narrow, open windows punctuated the curving wall at regular intervals, allowing glimpses of the place where earth met water with a lingering kiss. A distant gull cry gave Bertie pause, and she halted midstep.

Dad.

Leaning out the nearest window, she considered the vast expanse of beach. Sand in the metallic shades of coveted coins composed drifts and dunes, wending between palm trees and tufts of pampas grass in fat, serpentine coils. Low-lying fog teased its way ever closer, obscuring the roiling waves that broke on the shore near the White Cliffs. Putting one knee on the sill, Bertie extended her hand, reaching for the open air.…

The attendant reacted with shock to such unorthodox behavior. “Merciful heavens, come down from there before you fall,” she ordered with a voice like a trumpet blast.

I’m being ridiculous. That wasn’t him. He’s off in search of
her.

Sedna, who even now threatened to return to corporeal form. Sedna, who would see Bertie dead without so much as batting a salt-spangled eyelash. That the Scrimshander would make such a decision so easily, so
blindly,
filled Bertie with heartache that soon transmogrified into fury. Through a red haze, she scanned the beach, cheeks burning, but saw no sign at all of the Sea Goddess.

To hell with her and to hell with the Scrimshander since he’s chosen her.

Scrambling down from her perch, Bertie was firm in her resolve to dye her hair the most eye-blinding shade of magenta there ever was, reasoning that the salon was nearer than a tattoo parlor and even the most horrifying hair color would grow out with time, whereas ink stippled into her skin would be a permanent reminder of this failed day. Seething, she threaded her way through the salon’s gracious appointments, over thickly woven rugs, and past potted trees coaxed to bear lemons and limes to fruition even indoors. Once ensconced in a swivel chair, she paged through the vivid hair samples and tried not to note the way the warm hues prophetically gave way to Jade Pendant, Wicked Green, Storm-Tossed Teal, and Midnight Sky.

Turning to Peaseblossom, Bertie mustered a halfhearted smile. “Could you go locate the moderately perturbed pirate, possibly haunting the bathhouse doorstep, and tell him I’ll be a little longer than expected? If he hasn’t seen to accommodations yet, he should before nightfall. And let Aleksandr know I’ll be late as well.”

“Of course!” Peaseblossom paused only to give her a cheeky grin. “The tall pirate, yes? Wearing a lot of leather and probably a scowl?”

“That would be the one. Watch out for errant sword swipes.” Bertie turned back and nodded to the pixie-like woman with cropped tufts like purple porcupine quills. “Surprise me.”

The colorist’s eyes widened. “Do you mean to say I should choose on your behalf?”

“I do,” Bertie said. “Something extraordinary. The sort of hue that would give one’s father a heart attack.”

The colorist sorted through the rainbow tresses. “You’d look lovely with Hammered Gold—”

“Cinnamon Stick,” cried a second.

“Burning Ember.”

As the minutes slid past her like pearls on a knotted string, Bertie did not demur when the attendants offered sustenance in the form of dewy slices of melon, ruby strawberries in cream, and honeyed pastries served with strong coffee. She occupied her mouth with the sweets and her eyes with an inky broadsheet, one regaling all the daily news of the Caravanserai: arrivals, departures, performance schedules of the various itinerant minstrels, and the declaration that the Innamorati would be opening a Brand-New Play in the amphitheater in three days’ time.

Everything, however, deferred to the headlining news that Her Gracious Majesty the Queen would be holding a massive celebration as part of her upcoming birthday festivities. Many of the salon’s patrons had been summoned to join the Court, it seemed, either as visiting dignitaries or as performers. Theatrical instinct suggested the best of the marketplace entertainment surrounded Bertie: diamond-dancers, now fully clothed, getting new crystals glued to their finger- and toenails; a snake tamer sitting under one of the hair dryers; several sword-balancing belly dancers holding court in the corner. Listening to their excited chatter transported Bertie back through time and space to the Ladies’ Chorus dressing room, only now she wasn’t a troublesome child underfoot and in the way.

“Something to drink?” A servitor offered her water laced with sunshine slices of lemon.

Accepting, Bertie realized seconds later that liquid malevolence slicked the surface of the crystal goblet. The glass fell from her hand and shattered on the floor. As Bertie’s apologies stuck in a desert-parched throat, the attendants hastened to reassure her it was no trouble at all.

There was no escaping Sedna, even here in Rapunzel’s tower, and the urge to flee washed over Bertie in a cold moment of panic. “I have to go—”

Gathering her robe about her, she was immediately stalled by the entrance of a messenger.

“Beatrice Shakespeare Smith?” The girl’s braids hung alongside her face like tiny brown silk tassels.

It would hardly be polite to knock the child down the stairs in her haste, so Bertie forced herself to take a deep breath. “Yes?”

“For you.” The girl handed over a rectangular box with an impish grin and half a curtsy before bolting back down the stairs at double speed.

Tempted to give chase, Bertie jerked at the parcel’s strings and was left to gape at the shimmering chiffon garment and a pair of matching slippers. “Who would send me a dress?”

“Such handiwork is superlative, even for the Caravanserai dressmakers,” the nearest stylist observed around the hairpins between her pursed lips.

Some instinct sent Bertie’s hand rummaging for a label. Sure enough, a rectangle of embroidered muslin, hand-sewn into the lining, answered her question:

M
OONLIGHT
G
OWN FOR A
P
RIMA
D
ONNA

D
ESIGNED BY
V
ALENTIJN FOR THE
I
NNAMORATI

“The Keeper of the Costumes must have spies everywhere to know I’m in need of new attire.” Bertie ran a trembling hand over the intricate beading, sewn in swirls and bursts of pale blue and pearl. “And just who does he think he is calling a prima donna, I’d like to know!”

“Never mind that. It’s perfection! You must change into it at once.” With much clucking and fussing, the attendants hustled her behind a silk folding screen, handing over the dainty undergarments nestled in the tissue paper, adjusting the laces on the gown, and adding the silver slippers that had accompanied it.

Bertie acquiesced, thinking it faster than fielding their arguments and having to retrieve her ruined clothes from the locker downstairs. Firm in her resolve to perform the speediest quick-change in history, it was only when they escorted her to the trifold mirror that she caught sight of herself and nearly choked. “My hair!”

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” the shortest attendant squeaked, overcome by the effect. “It’s called Arctic Tempest.”

Bertie opened her mouth to respond and found herself entirely deprived of words for once. “It’s … silver,” she finally managed.

The colorist nodded. “And look at the movement it gets.” With gentle fingers, she shifted Bertie’s hair so that it lifted and resettled around her shoulders, doubly reminiscent of Ariel’s wind-tossed tresses. “Extraordinary, is it not?”

“That’s the only word for it.” Looking at her reflection, Bertie realized just who had thought her a “prima donna,” who had met with the Keeper of the Costumes and procured such a dress. Without actually being indecent, the skirts were sheer, the bodice fitted, and the neckline low enough to invite contemplation of the freckles dusting her skin; it was the sort of dress a woman would wear to meet someone significant, with every bead issuing an invitation for a lingering look. Her pulse kicked in her throat as she wondered just what Ariel wanted from her this night and what her answer would be when he asked it of her.

If Sedna gave her a chance to answer at all, that is.

CHAPTER THREE

Thou Shalt Have the Air of Freedom

The moment she stepped
foot out of the bathhouse, Bertie set off down the nearest alley at a run and entered a scene crowded with extras: women carrying baskets upon their heads; barefoot children running home to their suppers. Forced to weave her way among them, she glanced up at a sky-ceiling increasingly obscured by wrought-iron balconies, brilliant potted plants, and recently aired rugs. The walls on either side of her narrowed. The sun dipped a degree lower, and what had been bathed in the dusky pink of early evening darkened as though someone had cued the light booth.

Bertie turned a corner and found herself quite alone, at a dead end painted with shadows. Repressing a shudder, she retraced her steps, heels clicking against the cobblestones. The weight of her beaded skirts shifted, recalling another time, another place, another alley, another dance, except the roses blooming on the walls here were white and instead of Cobalt Flame, her hair was this ridiculous shade of—

“Silver,” Ariel said by way of greeting as he emerged from a side street. White butterflies took to the night air, the whisper of their wings hinting at unborn secrets. Soft violin music and guitar song drifted out a nearby window.

Bertie held her breath, knowing it would be only moments before a bandoneón joined them. “It’s Arctic Tempest, and it wasn’t my idea.” But she saw that there was no way to convince him it hadn’t been her choice or destiny or some meddling hand of Fate that delivered her to him looking this way.

“‘Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky.’” Ariel smiled and offered her a bouquet. The flowers gave off the scent of a forgotten garden at dusk, of lovers meeting in secret under an arbor, of kisses stolen in the half light.

“We don’t have time for Victorian niceties—” Bertie started to explain, but Ariel interrupted by pressing his lips to hers. The kiss deepened immediately, his arms encircling her waist as he pulled her against his chest. Fireworks exploded in Bertie’s mind, her heart, her gut, burning up every speck of rhyme and reason. Amber sparks she imagined rather than saw sizzled on the cobblestones as Ariel threaded his hands through her newly silvered hair.

“Fire!” someone above them shouted.

Yes, she was on fire, burning like a Roman candle, her head spinning like a Catherine wheel.…

“Fire!” the voice screamed again. “Someone call the brigade!”

Another shower of sparks cascaded over Bertie, falling from the balcony overhead. A knotted rug burned merrily, its fringes already reduced to frizzled embers. She stared at it, appalled.