Eyes Like Stars (7 page)

“I guess he’s mad about the cannon.” Bertie looked at her feet so that she didn’t have to see the dire look on Mrs. Edith’s face. She noticed small details: Her clunky Mary Janes were scuffed and needed polishing; her favorite pair of
black-and-red striped socks sagged around her ankles. “But it wasn’t just the hole in the roof. He said I don’t have a place here. That I don’t contribute anything.”

Mrs. Edith reached for the ever-present teapot and poured herself a cup of oolong. “That hardly seems fair. You’re just a child—”

Bertie shook her head. “That’s the trouble. I’m not a child anymore.”

The Wardrobe Mistress sighed into her tea. “No, you’re not.”

“He said that if I can find a way to contribute, I can stay.”

“Did he promise it?” Mrs. Edith asked.

Bertie nodded. “I have until eight o’clock to get everything sorted out.”

“By that, I assume you have a wild scheme already in place?” Mrs. Edith’s cup returned to its saucer with a clink.

“I need to become a Director,” Bertie said, “so I’m going to restage a play in a new time period and setting. I want to move
Hamlet
to Egypt.”

The gleam in Mrs. Edith’s eye was a welcome sight; it signaled the coming of pleated linen robes and gold embroidery. “You’ll need costumes. When will this performance take place?”

“I’ll ask for as much time to prepare as possible,” Bertie said. “I should think I’ll need at least a month.”

“If not two,” Mrs. Edith mused. “Write out a list and you’ll get what you need.”

Bertie threw her arms around the older woman’s neck and pressed a kiss to her wrinkled cheek. “Thank you!”

Mrs. Edith was about to answer when Ophelia wandered in, still dripping water. “Oh, had you heard then already? I came to tell you the news.”

“Yes, Bertie’s told me all about it.” Mrs. Edith eyed Ophelia’s sodden dress. “You’re going to catch your death. Let’s get you into some dry clothes.” She reached for the bell pull; before it finished tinkling, half a dozen assistants hurried into the room, carrying a clean gown, mops, and buckets of soapy water. They shoved Nate out ahead of them, making shooing gestures with their fingertips.

Bertie glared at him, wondering why he’d left her alone to plead her case. “What were you looking for?”

“It doesn’t matter, as I didn’t find it,” Nate retorted. He dashed past her, gesturing to the fairies to follow as he whispered, “I’ll explain later!”

“We have to go,” Bertie said, edging for the door. “I still need to convince Mr. Hastings and Mr. Tibbs before I go to the Theater Manager with my idea.”

Mrs. Edith, busy getting Ophelia changed, spared a moment to fix Bertie with a stern look. “You come back here before you go, and I’ll see you’re properly attired for a meeting with Management.”

Bertie blanched, wondering what Mrs. Edith’s idea of “proper attire” would encompass. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And, Bertie?”

“Yes?”

“In my professional opinion,” Mrs. Edith adjusted her glasses, “the blue hair would look smashing if you tinted the ends black.”

As it turned out, they didn’t have to go all the way to the Properties Department to find Mr. Hastings. Out of his natural habitat, the Properties Manager had the wizened look of a plant kept too long in a cupboard. The glass in his spectacles was cloudy with age, and the wire frames were worn thin from rubbing against his nose and ears, both of which had hair growing out of them. Every bit of his clothing, from the tweedy jacket to his corduroy pants, was infused with a thousand years of dust. Today he scuttled along, the awkward weight of an iridescent green glass hookah bouncing against his hip. Perched in Mr. Hastings’ arms, with all its metallic bits and coiled hoses, it looked more like an enormous beetle than a water pipe.

“Give that t’ me, Mr. Hastings.” Nate assumed the burden of the hookah with a good-natured smile. “Steal this back from th’ Scenic Dock, did ye?”

“I have the paperwork right here in my pocket,” the Properties Manager said, a wee bit breathless. “The Stage Manager
checked it out for the Caterpillar scene in
Alice in Wonderland
three weeks ago.” He reached under his arm with his newly freed hand, presumably for the signature sheet. Instead, he produced a fan with a carved ivory handle and three-foot-long ostrich plumes that molted exotic puffs of white and pink. “Wait, no, that’s from the last number the Ladies’ Chorus performed. All bare legs and high kicks, it is.”

Bertie laughed and got a feather up her nose. “Where’s the hookah been since
Alice
closed?”

“Seems as though the Chorus Boys thought to open a hubbly-bubbly bar in one of the back dressing rooms.” He scrutinized Bertie’s face. “You weren’t down there, were you?”

Peaseblossom looked scandalized. “She most certainly was not!”

Moth kicked at the twirling bits of down. “Yeah, we miss all the fun stuff.”

Mustardseed eyed the hookah with due consideration. “We should try that out.”

“Don’t let me catch any of you touching this lovely thing.” Mr. Hastings patted the water pipe with gentle affection. “My dear, could you please get the door?”

Bertie pushed it open with a small, happy sigh. The Properties Department was her true sanctuary, free from the threat of a scene change anytime the Stage Manager wanted to be tiresome. In fact, it was as far removed from
the hot lights, the ever-shifting scenery, and the Stage Manager as she could possibly get.

The ceilings were low, the lighting dim, and no matter where she stood, Bertie couldn’t see to the end of the room. The larger pieces of furniture were arranged closest to the entrance, thrones next to sideboards, steamer trunks next to rose-bedecked arbors. Beyond that, row upon row of metal shelving marched for miles. Bits of labeled masking tape and crumpled inventories adorned each shelf. Candelabras, platters of wax fruit, rolls of parchment, silver cigarette cases, and a hundred thousand other curiosities resided therein.

“This way,” Mr. Hastings said.

Nate obliged and followed him down the aisle, lugging the hookah and hindered by the fairies’ attempt to help him.

“I’ll hold this hose,” Moth said.

“No, let me!” Cobweb tried to elbow in front of him.

“Just get out o’ th’ way,” Nate barked.

“Come along, Nate. Stop dragging your feet.” Mr. Hastings scattered more feathers in his wake, having forgotten the fan under his arm, which trailed behind him like the back end of a peacock with only slightly less strut.

The fairies slashed and parried at the dancing plumes as the unusual parade made its way down the aisle, past Victorian statuary jammed higgledy-piggledy next to fin de siècle French perfume vials and Babylonian pottery.

Bertie nearly fell over the fairies when Mr. Hastings paused mid-aisle to consult the clipboard pinned to the shelving.

“Here we are,” he said. “49B. Shoehorns, devils’ pitchforks, hookahs.”

Nate heaved his burden into the empty space between its glittering sisters of gold-on-rose and midnight-blue-and-silver. On the neighboring shelf sat Alice’s “Drink Me” bottle. Bertie slanted a look at it; Mr. Hastings had let her sniff the contents once, and she’d never forgotten the combination of triple apple, rose, mango, Arabian coffee, cantaloupe, cola, licorice, and mint.

All that’s missing is the hot buttered toast.

Bertie’s stomach gurgled at the thought. As Mr. Hastings transcribed mysterious hieroglyphs onto the inventory sheet, Nate nudged her with his elbow and nearly sent her sprawling.

“They’re all so beautiful,” she said with a sideways glare for her cohort. “Maybe you’ll let me pick a souvenir to take with me when I go?”

“What’s all this now?” A frown cut Mr. Hastings’ forehead nearly in half. “Where are you going?”

“The Theater Manager’s asked me to leave,” Bertie said.

“She’s being thrown out into the cold, cruel world,” Peaseblossom said in a funereal tone.

“Goodness gracious!” Mr. Hastings clasped his clipboard
to his thin chest like a shield. “That’s terrible! Whatever is he thinking?”

“He’s thinking that the Théâtre would be better off without me.” Bertie patted his arm in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion. “I have one chance to change his mind. I just have to mount a production the likes of which they’ve never seen before!” She gave the Properties Manager her most winning smile. “How would you like to use all your Egyptian bits in a new staging of
Hamlet
?”

M
y dear
, you’re not making a speck of sense,” Mr. Hastings said with a frown. “Hamlet was from Denmark.”

“Not in my version, he’s not. Picture it: all the court intrigue—”

“With asps in baskets!” added Moth.

“Mummies everywhere!” said Cobweb.

“I have to make a contribution to the theater,” Bertie said. “So I’m going to be a Director, which means mixing things up a bit.”

“Ah, I see,” Mr. Hastings said. “And once you’ve ‘mixed it up,’ as you say, you’ll be allowed to stay?”

Bertie nodded. “The Theater Manager promised.”

Mr. Hastings set off at a brisk trot, indicating they
should follow. “We’ll need Egyptian artifacts, then. Third row on the left.”

Bertie gloried in the golden treasures that filled the shelves, easily imagining the feline statuary and canopic jars sitting in pools of bronze and turquoise light. Mr. Hastings patted the wrappings on an ancient, dusty mummy.

“Isn’t he a lovely thing,” he said, then admonished the fairies, “Mind the dearly departed, please.”

He shifted a layer of linen and released a cloud of gold-flecked particles. The fairies sneezed in unison, flying backward into the open sarcophagus with such force that the lid swung closed and locked them inside.

“I think they’ll make excellent mummies as they’ve already had their brains removed,” Bertie said, her voice raised for their benefit. There was much shrill, muffled protesting and thumping from within.

“My dear,” said Mr. Hastings, “I doubt that esteemed gentleman wants company in his final resting place.”

“Not exactly very restful if you keep opening it to admire him, is it?” Bertie released the catch, and the fairies escaped, vibrating like hummingbirds.

“Did you know there was a piece of bread inside that thing?” Mustardseed asked.

Mr. Hastings frowned behind his glasses. “That piece of bread was four thousand years old and came from a mortuary temple in Western Thebes.”

Moth picked at his teeth. “It did taste a bit stale.”

“Yes, and it was full of sand,” said Peaseblossom.

Mr. Hastings retrieved the gnawed crust and sighed. “My dear, your friends are very hard on the antiquities.”

Bertie gave the fairies a pointed look. “Sorry about that. It won’t happen again. Now, about the play?”

“We’ll start with the sarcophagi. Obelisks to the ceiling, although Mr. Tibbs will claim that’s his department. I must get my papers in order.” Mr. Hastings slammed the coffin lid shut again, then apologized to the long-dead with absentminded civility. “Sorry, my dear.”

The fairies snickered behind their hands, but Mr. Hastings didn’t notice their mirth as he strode past them.

“Come along, all of you. No reason to dawdle. I need to locate the appropriate inventory lists and begin to cross-reference the artifacts. There are all the pieces from
Antony and Cleopatra
to unearth. . . .”

Bertie skipped happily as she followed him, clapping her hands, though Nate laughed at her ill-contained exuberance.

“I’m going to put the kettle on,” Mr. Hastings said over his shoulder. “Would you all care to join me for a cup of tea?”

Bertie wavered, loath to diminish their momentum but tempted by the promise of nourishment. “I still have to secure Mr. Tibbs’s support, and he’s sure to be difficult.”

“Perhaps some hot, buttered toast before you brave the lion’s den?” Mr. Hastings suggested.

That decided it. Better to make her entreaty with a full belly. “Yes, please. That would be lovely.”

“Actually,” Nate said, “I have a small favor t’ ask of ye, Mr. Hastings.”

“What do you need, my pirate friend?” Mr. Hastings filled the kettle and set it on a hot plate.

“Bertie needs a talisman,” Nate announced in the same way he might ask for a drink of water.

She looked at him askance. “I need a what?”

“I can’t keep my eye on ye every second o’ th’ day, so ye need something for good luck an’ protection.”

“Just what do I need protection from, pray tell?” Bertie set her fists on her hips.

“Mostly yerself.” Nate turned back to the Properties Manager. “Can ye think of anythin’ that ye might have?”

Mr. Hastings blinked at the question, took his spectacles off, rubbed them around with his handkerchief, and returned them to his face. “I’m sure I can, except I’m not quite certain I understand—”

“She’s goin’ t’ need a powerful charm t’ pull off this crazy scheme, don’t ye think?” Nate said.

“I cannot argue with that notion, but I’ll have to check my lists for the most appropriate choice.” Mr. Hastings crossed to the ceiling-high file cabinets arranged on either side of his rolltop desk. Opening the first drawer of the eighth tower, he extracted a single sheet of paper. “Let’s see. Under ‘talismans,’
we have amulets, four-leaf clovers, money trees, mystic stars, rabbits’ feet—”

“Ew. I’m not wearing some dead animal’s paw around my neck,” Bertie stated firmly over the appalled shrieks of the fairies.

Mr. Hastings continued, unperturbed. “There are also rosaries and scarab beetles.”

“What are you playing at?” Bertie muttered at Nate, well aware that Mr. Hastings could research for hours, and she had no intention of listening to his entire catalogue in alphabetical order, cross-referenced by production use, purchase date, and historical significance.

“ ’Tisn’t playin’.” Nate might have said more, but Mr. Hastings made a pleased noise of revelation.

“What about a scrimshaw?”

The pirate grinned, his teeth a flash of white against the bronze of his face. “That’d be particularly appropriate, I think. I’ll nip back an’ fetch it, if ye’ll tell me where ’tis.”