Eyes Like Stars (17 page)

Nate put his face very close to hers. He smelled of leather
and pipe tobacco, dark rum and soap from the Turkish Bath. “Eat it, afore I pry yer mouth open an’ pour it down yer ungrateful gullet.” He straightened, slapped his hand twice against his thigh, and strode away in high dudgeon.

“Start with the broth,” Peaseblossom advised.

“I’m sorry about this afternoon. I shouldn’t have run away.” Bertie poked at the fouler things swimming in the soup and managed to isolate a spoonful of broth. When she looked up, Peaseblossom was hovering very close.

“It’s all right,” the fairy said.

“It’s not. It’s a mess.” Bertie let the liquid dribble off the spoon.

Peaseblossom got close enough to tuck a stray piece of Bertie’s hair behind her ear. The touch was like a kiss. “It’s not as bad as it seems.”

That went for more than the soup, Bertie hoped. She licked the spoon, didn’t die, and tried it again.

The stomping of boots preceded a profoundly pissed-off swashbuckler. Nate shoved the bottle under her nose. “Is that what ye drank?”

She recoiled from the cloying, sickly-sweet smell. “Yes.”

“Why ever would ye do somethin’ that stupid?”

“I was hoping it would change me into a proper Director.” Aware he watched her every move, Bertie took another sip of broth. “Instead it filled my head with useless nonsense.”

“Did Ariel drink wi’ ye?”

“Yes, and quite a lot more of it than I did, I’d like to point out.”

“He’d have more of a head fer it than you. An’ he should have known better than t’ let ye do yerself such a mischief.” Nate sat down on the chaise but left a careful space between them. “Are ye feelin’ any better yet?”

“Yes, thank you.” Bertie chewed a morsel of chicken and swallowed with caution. It stayed put, so she added a bit of rice and ignored the rest of the questionable mess. “I’m not eating the cabbage even if you threaten to cleave me in twain.” She set the container down.

“I can live wi’ that,” Nate said. “But I can’t live wi’ th’ idea o’ ye gettin’ hurt. Ariel’s dangerous.”

“I wish you’d stop fretting about Ariel.” Bertie wondered how the air elemental’s head was faring. If there were any justice in this world, he’d have the mother of all hangovers, too.

“I want ye t’ stay away from him.”

“That’s nice,” said Bertie, closing her eyes. “I’m hoping for world peace, myself.”

“ ’Tisn’t a joke, lass.”

“My head is about to split open, Nate, so please do us both a favor and shut up.”

The pirate jumped up. “What will it take for ye t’ listen t’ reason?” Grabbing her by the arms, he hauled Bertie several feet in the air.

Startled by the sudden movement as much as the change
in altitude, it took her a moment to locate her ire at being treated in such a fashion. “Put me down!”

“I can’t stand aside an’ watch ye drown yerself in him!” Nate held her there for a moment, maybe just to prove that he could.

“I’m going to be sick—” Part of Bertie wanted to make good on the threat and puke down his front, but if she started throwing up, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

Slowly, by inches, Nate lowered her to the floor. “One o’ these days, lass, I’m goin’ t’ still that mouth o’ yers.” He gently traced her upper lip with his thumb.

Before Bertie could think of a response to his threat, he turned on his heel and made his exit.

“Oh, my,” said Peaseblossom.

“Gross!” yelled Moth. “Nate likes Bertie.”

“Nasty!” That was Cobweb, who turned to Mustardseed. “Darling!”

“Sweetie!” returned Mustardseed. They tackled each other midair and made loud, slurping kissing noises.

Bertie sat hard on the chaise and put her hands over her knees to stop them from shaking.

Peaseblossom patted her shoulder. “He wouldn’t ever hurt you, you know. There’s more brains there than brawn.”

“Pity he seems to have misplaced his brains.” Bertie scrubbed her hands over her face. “That’s it. I need coffee and a cigarette, and I don’t care if getting them kills me.”

She was halfway to the door before Peaseblossom called, “What did you do with The Book?”

When Bertie spun around, it took the room a full three seconds to catch up. She put her hands over her stomach. “I stuck it under the chaise.” Peaseblossom looked horrified, so Bertie added, “For safekeeping!”

“Wouldn’t a safe be safer?” Moth asked.

“You’d think,” Mustardseed said.

“I need to take it to the Theater Manager.” Bertie lowered herself carefully to the floor and stuck her hand under the chaise, her fingers expecting to meet gilt-edged paper. When they didn’t, she flattened out against the ground. It was too dark to see much, but it shouldn’t have been dark at all. The absence of golden, glowing light stabbed at her already aching guts. “Where is it?”

“Oh, no,” moaned Peaseblossom.

“I put it right here.” Bertie swept her arm back and forth through the dust, hoping against hope that she’d shoved it farther back than she’d remembered, that it was still there.

Because if The Book isn’t there, someone took it.

Bertie heaved the chaise over. Wood splintered through velvet brocade, and she stared at the empty space.

“Mr. Hastings is going to be furious!” Peaseblossom said, gaping at such wanton destruction.

Bertie sat back on her heels, breathing hard. “We have bigger problems than Mr. Hastings if we don’t find The Book.”

“What do you think happened?” asked Mustardseed.

Bertie tasted restitution soup in the back of her throat. “I think Ariel found it.”

Trusting him, even for one second, was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

“We need to find him.” Bertie’s brain scampered in circles around the missing Book, around Ariel’s deception. It looped wider around Ophelia’s blatherings in the Turkish Bath, around the ripped-out page, around her claim to have left the theater. . . . “He was listening.”

“Who?” Moth wanted to know.

“Who was listening to what, and when?” Cobweb clarified.

“Ariel was eavesdropping on us in the Turkish Bath. That was him, his wind, that cleared the steam.”

That’s why he followed me to the Properties Department. Why he was so charming, so beguiling. Why we ended up on the chaise together.

And why The Book’s nowhere to be found now.

“He told me in the hallway that given half a chance, he would free all who are imprisoned here. Now he has The Book. He could pull out every last page and release the Players. We have to stop him.” Bertie had another horrible thought. “Unless he’s done it already.”

The fairies clutched one another.

Bertie snatched Moth from midair. “How do you feel? Any more free than usual?”

He paused to reflect. “Yeah, but only because I’m not wearing underwear today.”

Cobweb and Mustardseed backed away from him. “You’re going commando?”

Moth nodded. “I forgot to give Mrs. Edith my hamper this week.”

“Aw, man! I want to go commando, too!” Cobweb said as he reached for his trouser buttons.

“Keep your pants on. We need to figure out if The Book is still intact.” Bertie turned in a slow circle, her eyes coming to rest on a small window. She righted Marie Antoinette’s chaise, shoved it under the window, and stacked two packing crates on top of it. Hoisting herself up onto the first crate, she nearly put her foot through it.

“Careful!” Peaseblossom hovered right next to her. “Don’t fall!”

“I won’t if I can possibly help it.” Bertie climbed onto the second crate. Standing on tiptoe, she could just reach the window latch, but it wouldn’t budge. “Get me something. A piece of fabric, a handkerchief—”

“A pillow?” Mustardseed suggested as he kicked a blue satin square.

Bertie nodded. “Sure, if you can carry it.”

Between them, the fairies managed to get it aloft. Bertie grabbed it, ripped it open, and pulled most of the stuffing out.

“Oh, my! Was that really necessary?” said Peaseblossom.

“Yes,” said Bertie as she wrapped her silk-swathed hand around the window latch. “It was.”

With two grunts and a heave, the latch gave way and the window swung open. A gust of fresh air caught the fairies unprepared, sending them tumbling back. Bertie clung to the windowsill until her knuckles turned white as the crates swayed underfoot.

“Go on,” she urged. “Try to fly through.”

They looked at her like she’d suggested they tear off their own ears.

“Are you insane?” Moth asked.

“I need to know if he’s pulling the pages out!” The boxes teetered again.

“So you want us to go . . . out there?” said Cobweb.

“Yes, please.”

“No way!” yelled Mustardseed. “Who knows what’s out there?”

“I bet I get eaten by a grue—” Moth paused, choking on his own spit and cowardice, then finished, “—a gruesome monster of indeterminate size and shape. I’m pretty sure I taste like chicken.”

“You’re bioluminescent,” Bertie said. “Which means you taste awful. Now, come on.” She stuck her hand out the window and waggled it around a bit. “See? Nothing there to get you.”

“Yeah, to get
you
,” Cobweb scoffed. “Because you’re
from
out there.”

Bertie snagged him from the air. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For this,” Bertie said, and tossed him at the window.

Cobweb squeaked when he hit the opening, but light and energy filled in the gap and prevented his exit. There was a sizzle and a zing, then he bounced backward onto the ledge, smoking faintly and smelling of burnt popcorn.

“That answers that, I guess,” said Bertie.

The other three looked at her in horror as Cobweb smoldered.

“I suppose,” Bertie said, realization dawning, “Ariel might only have torn out his own page and left the rest alone.”

“You couldn’t have had that brainwave a minute earlier and saved me a frizzling?” Cobweb demanded.

“Sorry,” she said with a guilty start.

“What is going on here?”

Bertie twisted around at the sound of Mr. Hastings’ horrified voice. The packing crates slid one direction and she went the other, thankfully landing on the arm of the chaise before rolling off and hitting the floor.

Mr. Hastings advanced on her, but not to help her up. “I repeat, just what is going on in here?”

Bertie stood, rubbing her tailbone. “Just a little experiment.”

“You totally deserved that,” Cobweb observed.

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

“But Marie Antoinette’s chaise! And this cushion!” Mr.
Hastings rearranged his glasses to examine the damage. “Why on earth were you fiddling with that window?”

She didn’t utter a word, certain that anything she said would only anger him further.

“I see.” Mr. Hastings opened the door for her. “Clearly it’s inappropriate for you to be in here unsupervised. In the future, you’d best make your requests in writing.”

“Yes, Mr. Hastings. You’re absolutely right, and I . . . I apologize.” Bertie sidled past him, unable to meet his gaze. Any other day, the banishment would have been cause for protests and tears, but today it was the final entry in a long list of horrifying surprises, filed under the heading: “Failure.”

M
rs. Edith
is going to give me the lecture about how clothes don’t magically sew themselves,” Cobweb said with a mournful sigh.

As they walked, Bertie assessed the damage she’d done. There were holes in his pants, and his shirt had burned completely away. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Cobweb, never one to hold a grudge against her. He peeked down the front of his trousers and perked up a bit. “Hey, I’m going commando now, too!”

Bertie stopped and pivoted so she could peer down the hallways that splintered off the main corridor. “We have to figure out where Ariel put The Book. Even if he’s gone, he had to leave it somewhere. Mustardseed, you and Moth go check the pedestal, just in case he did us a favor and put it back.”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” They sped off, pushing and shoving to be the first to reach the stage door.

“What can we do to help?” Cobweb demanded.

“I need you to think about other places he could have stowed it.” Bertie turned in another slow circle, wishing she had the right sort of dowsing rod for sensing a wayward air elemental. “The Théâtre is huge. . . .”

“And it has four hundred and ninety-seven hiding places,” Peaseblossom said. “I counted once.”

“We’ve used most of them ducking the Stage Manager,” said Cobweb.

“We don’t have time to check even a fraction of those,” Bertie said. “We need to get The Book back before Management realizes it’s missing.”

“Ophelia’s crazy,” Peaseblossom said, trying to be comforting and failing utterly. “She was probably making the whole thing up.”

“You don’t really believe that she left the theater, do you?” Cobweb asked.

“At this point, I’d believe anything,” said Bertie.

Moth and Mustardseed returned, expressions gloomy. “It’s not there.”

“Of course it’s not. That would be far too easy.” Her gaze came to rest on the one thing that could summon Ariel to them faster than a tug on a recalcitrant dog’s leash:

The Call Board.

“That’s it!” she shouted, setting off at a run. “I’ll put a notice on the Call Board. If he’s still in the theater, he’ll have to answer it.”

“I know where there’s paper and a pen!” Peaseblossom headed straight for the Green Room. In the back corner, she landed atop a tiny mahogany table and began jumping up and down on its brass handle.

“Out of the way.” Bertie applied her upper-body strength and growing desperation to the sticky drawer, which flew open, scattering its contents across the carpet. She fell to her knees and rummaged through needlebooks, spools of thread, and other detritus before locating a scrap of parchment paper so old that it undulated across the floor like waves in the ocean. Under it was an ancient fountain pen, rusted of nib and nearly devoid of ink. Still, she managed to scrawl:

ARIEL:

Immediate call