Eyes Like Stars (5 page)

“What a diva!”

“Stupid, men can’t be divas. . . .”

“Divo, then.”

“That just sounds weird. Call him a jerk and be done with it.”

Bertie rummaged in her pocket, locating her cigarettes but unable to find her lighter. Her knees wobbled, overcome with the fading vestiges of emotion and adrenaline, and she sat with a graceless thud.

“D’ye need a match?” Nate’s voice was as soft as the linen shirtsleeve that brushed against Bertie’s bare arm when he sat next to her.

“I need something, but a match will suffice for now.” She took comfort in his solid presence and the scent of seawater. “This has been
such
a Monday! I wish I’d stayed in bed, and I wish yesterday had never happened.”

Nate lit the cigarette, omitting the stern looks and lectures anyone else would have given her. He could hardly warn her of the evils of the demon tobacco as he lit his own pipe. Once it was started, he put his arm about Bertie’s waist and gave her a bone-cracking squeeze. “It’ll be all right, lass.”

“Somehow I very much doubt that.”
If I have to leave, I’ll
never see Nate again.
Bertie’s free hand sought out his, her skin pale against his rope-roughened paw. “Do you think . . . do you think Ariel was right?”

“Most o’ his words are naught but pretty lies an’ truth twisted like ribbon candy, but which bit did ye mean?”

“That I could figure out a way to take someone with me?”

He shook his head. “Ye heard the Theater Manager. Players can’t leave th’ theater.”

“But if they could?” Bertie tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.

Nate’s grip on her tightened, and the passing seconds were knots tied in heartstrings. “Would ye want me t’ come with ye?”

“Yes. No! I mean, I don’t want to go, so what good is asking that question anyway?” She started to get up, but Nate caught her by the back pocket of her jeans.

“Sit yer arse down an’ stop tryin’ t’ run away.”

Bertie twitched but didn’t try to get up again. “Ariel was right about something, though.”

Nate assessed how firmly affixed her rear was to the stage before he nodded. “Th’ bit about yer mother?”

“Yes.”

“Do the play for him, Bertie!” Peaseblossom said. “He hasn’t seen the new version.”

Nate raised an eyebrow. “Ye’ve been stagin’ it again?”

“I reworked the middle section,” Bertie said with a shrug. “But I don’t see how performing it now will help things.”

“Maybe this time you’ll get it right and figure out where your mother is,” Peaseblossom said, her eyes dark and serious.

Bertie’s argument died in her throat. “Someone cue the lights. The rest of you take a seat.”

T
he lights faded
up on a stool far Stage Right. Bertie entered from the wings, carrying a large prop version of The Book embossed with the words:

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF THE STAGE

She settled on the stool, cleared her throat, opened to the first page, and pretended to read. “My mother was an actress, and surely she was the star.”

The curtain opened. A tight spotlight came up on a lovely young woman dressed in a sequined costume. Silver stars decorated her dark curls, and smaller stars glimmered in her eyes.

“She was an ingénue on the rise, a society darling,” Bertie said. “Titled men filled her dressing room with roses and sent jewelry that sparkled like the night sky.”

The spotlight expanded to include dozens of flower arrangements and heaps of diamonds. Glitter drifted gently from the rafters until the very air shimmered.

Bertie’s Mother sat at a dressing room table, powdering her nose and brushing her hair. She addressed the audience. “One of them must have captured my heart. Was it a young lord with a castle on the hill and a coach-and-four?”

A tight spotlight came up on an aristocrat in a black coat and ascot tie.

“Was it the powerful businessman with a keen eye for finance and a generous nature?”

A second spotlight on a heavyset gentleman consulting a gold pocket watch.

“Or was it another? Someone without name or coin, but who had instead a heart filled with love for me?”

The third spotlight illuminated a young man dressed in shades of brown and gray. He turned his pockets out to reveal they were empty, then unfurled his fingers like a magician to produce a single red rose.

Bertie nodded. “I’d like to think so.”

Bertie’s Mother accepted the flower from him as the lights faded on the other two suitors. She stood up to put a print Sunday dress, a silver hair comb, and the red rose into a small suitcase.

“I left the theater,” she said, “and traveled to a small cottage by the sea.”

Scenery for a railway station replaced the dressing room. Smoke boiled across the stage, and sound effects hissed to imitate a train coming to rest. Bertie’s Mother stepped onto a platform outfitted with a leather seat and a large, floating window. She placed her suitcase in the overhead luggage rack, sitting as the “train” left the station.

The compartment heaved and rocked in place, accompanied by a
chug-chug-chug
that blared through the loudspeakers. Silhouettes of buildings and light posts flashed on the back wall, followed by fences, trees, and the occasional cow. With a final hiss and another blast of smoke, the “train” came to rest.

The sign overhead proclaimed it A
N
O
RDINARY
S
TATION
. Bertie’s Mother alighted, and her young man greeted her with an embrace. They exited together as the lights cross-faded to an unassuming home in the countryside. Laundry danced on the line. A large tree provided shade. Bertie’s Mother entered Stage Left. She collected the pasteboard clothes off the line and hung out stiff sheets and towels.

“I like to imagine she was a simple person,” Bertie said, “with an uncomplicated life. She married her lover and raised a family. She looked beautiful, even when doing her chores.”

Bertie’s Mother smiled at the audience, her starry eyes sparkling in the spotlight.

“I picture her with my father, along with five or six of my brothers and sisters.” Bertie paused to think for a moment before she added, “And a dog.”

“Of course there was a dog,” Bertie’s Mother said.

Bertie’s Father led a procession of six Children arranged tallest to shortest. The Family Dog, on all fours, sat on his haunches and barked with enthusiasm.

“Then I arrived,” Bertie said, watching from the side of the stage. “The youngest. The darling. The apple of every eye.”

Bertie’s Mother reached under her apron and pulled out a wriggling bundle. The Family gathered around to sigh and coo. “Isn’t she precious?”

“One day,” Bertie said, “when I was but a babe of six months—”

“What do ye mean, when ye were a babe o’ six months? Ye can’t remember that far back if ye were an infant!” Nate said from the audience.

“Don’t interrupt.” Bertie lifted a hand to her eyes to cut the glare from the lights. The fairies and Nate sat Fifth Row, Center.

“I’d be willin’ t’ believe it, if ye were two or three years old,” Nate argued. “But six months?”

“Who’s narrating this story?” demanded Bertie.

He sighed. “Ye are.”

“Then shut up. You didn’t protest when I was discussing things that happened before I was born.”

“All right, all right.” Nate crossed his arms over his chest and scowled mightily. “But yer no doubt gettin’ it wrong.”

“Shush!” Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed, Peaseblossom, Bertie, and Bertie’s Mother hissed at him.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I was a wee child of indeterminate age,” Bertie said over Nate’s derogatory snort. “Life was ordinary and boring and lovely. Every morning my mother woke me with kisses, and every night she read me a fairy tale that ended ‘happily ever after.’ She missed her old life of greasepaint and curtain calls and applause, but she never said a word of reproach to me.”

“At least Bertie would like to think so,” said Bertie’s Mother.

Bertie nodded. “And then one day, a visitor came to my parents’ cottage.”

With wheels yellow as the sun, a ruby-red caravan rolled onstage, its flowered curtains fluttering in the tiny window. Two mechanical horses pulled it, their shoes clanging and sparking against the stage. Dulled metal plated their flanks and sturdy legs, steam hissed from silver-velvet nostrils, and rich amber light poured from their eyes. A woman with hair and eyes like bits of the night sky leapt down in a swirl of
emerald and black silk. Her skirts were embroidered with tiny golden moons, and a belt of jangling golden disks encircled her waist.

“The sky threatened rain,” Bertie said. The brilliant blue of the cyclorama shifted to a pale gray. Thunder rolled, echoing off the back wall of the theater and setting the chandelier atinkle.

“Greetings to you, goodwife,” the newcomer said. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Verena, Mistress of Revels, Rhymer, Singer, and Teller of Tales, on my way to a distant castle to perform for the Royal Family. Perhaps you would be so good as to shelter me from the oncoming storm?”

“Of course,” Bertie’s Mother said with a nod. “You may use our barn if you like. I can offer you some fresh bread and cheese for your supper.”

“That is most kind of you,” said Verena. “A debt paid today is one that cannot be called in tomorrow, so I will give you something in return. Come to the caravan tonight at moonrise, and bring your youngest child.”

“Itinerant performers probably don’t wear emerald an’ black silk embroidered wi’ gold. It would get filthy wi’ dust an’ muck.”

A pause. “It’s called ‘creative license.’ This is a play, remember?”

The lights faded to near darkness as a silver-foil moon rose in the background. The Mistress of Revels kindled a fire of red, orange, and yellow ribbons that leapt high with the aid of a tiny fan. The plaintive and melancholy sound of a single violin wended its way through the auditorium. Verena crouched before the flames, adding her lilting voice to the lament.

A candle flickered in the cottage window, and the door opened. Bertie’s Mother tiptoed across the yard to the caravan, carrying the baby in her arms.

Somewhere, the Family Dog howled.

“Sit down, goodwife, sit down.” Verena beckoned, the many bracelets on her arm chiming a welcome. “I promised you payment for the meal, so I have. I can weave your daughter’s story on this night’s loom.”

Bertie’s Mother hesitated. The violin held a long, high note; as it descended the scale, she took a deep breath and joined the Mistress of Revels by her fire. “Teller of Tales, it’s her Future I want told, not a pretty bedtime story.”

“Bedtime stories are filled with fairy godmothers and toads who become princes,” Verena said with a low chuckle. “You would wish more magic than that in her Future?”

“There are stars in her eyes,” said Bertie’s Mother with a shiver. “She’ll have magic enough because of those cursed things.”

Verena took Bertie’s Mother by the chin, twisting her face to study her closely. “Your stars are still there. Faint, but there.”

“She will want a life greater than this. I did, too, a long time ago,” said Bertie’s Mother. “But that life . . . you know as well as I that it’s not all roses and curtain calls and champagne on Opening Night. It’s ugliness and filth and greed. The bright lights mask the sorrow, but the sorrow is still there. I don’t wish that for her.”

The Mistress of Revels sat back, her expression solemn. “Will you try to keep her from it, goodwife? Will you tie her to the laundry line with your apron strings? Hobble her at the knees, crush her soul, and break her spirit to keep her safe?”

Bertie’s Mother rocked, trying to comfort herself as well as the child in her arms. “Will she be happy?”

“Ah, there’s a question, there’s a question!” Verena took a pouch from her jingling belt and cast a handful of powder on the fire. The flames exploded upward, green and purple and blue-black like a beetle’s wing. The Mistress of Revels’s shadow on the back wall was an enormous, twisted chimera reaching into the future with curved claws. “Her destiny lies at the crossroads of imagination and trickery. Her future is bound with red velvet and gilt.”

“That’s a nice bit of showmanship, but you didn’t answer my question. Will she be happy if she binds herself to that place?”

“Happiness,” Verena said, “is subjective.”

“I have nothing to send with her, besides a mother’s love and best intentions.”

Verena nodded her dark head. “It will be enough.”

“Take her with you, then, to the theater. Take her . . . before I change my mind.” Bertie’s Mother walked swiftly to the cottage. When she opened the front door, a shaft of light fell over her empty arms, and a single tear shone on her cheek like a diamond.

A baby’s cry drifted through the auditorium. The caravan exited Stage Right.

“I liked it better when you were a fairy changeling,” said Moth as the scenery shifted yet again.