So Silver Bright (16 page)

Such theatrics would have done nicely for a finale, except Ariel exhaled a breath he must have been holding for some time. Varvara immediately flared up with the sort of blast that explodes from a fire-eater’s mouth, her skirts and shoes once more the shade of blood on rubies. The enormous mirrors around the hall vibrated, humming in twelve-part harmony until they shattered. Shards rained down toward the marble floor, the courtiers, and the Queen herself.

By some shared instinct, wordsmith and fire-dancer flung out their hands and transformed the lethal needles, separating all that was silvered glass into sand and flames. Varvara called the fire to her and wrapped it about her in an ember-glowing cape, while tiny bits of stone collected in drifts upon the floor around Bertie’s feet.

“Only one way to prevent seven years of bad luck,” she whispered to Varvara.

The fire-dancer grasped her meaning; with a noise like white thunder, they restored the mirrors as they had the front gates. The silvered surfaces rippled in their frames like waves upon the ocean before solidifying, reflecting countless panting and wild-eyed Berties and just as many silver-haired, impossibly aged Queens.

Breath catching in her throat, Bertie turned to the dais. When the Queen pursed her lips, her face blossomed with countless wrinkles. When she finally spoke, the single word rasped as though dust had settled in the back of her throat.

“Interesting.”

It was as though the many years in Bertie’s story had all manifested upon Her Gracious Majesty’s features at once. Bertie hazarded a glance about the room, but none of the courtiers or servitors seemed to think anything was amiss with the Queen’s appearance. Hoping it wouldn’t cause offense, she scrubbed at her own eyes, wondering if it was some trick of the light or the result of the countless broken mirrors, but no.

Her surprise banished all that was word-conjured. The massive opal faded. The Mistress of Revels’s grand costume fell apart, unraveled thread by thread by the silence. Standing alone before the dais, unmasked once more, Bertie was devoid of words, unable to do more than look up at the regal monarch and wait for what would come next.

“You have pleased me,” the Queen finally said. Only then was Bertie able to draw a breath, to relax enough to be able to feel her fingers and toes once more. Her Gracious Majesty stretched out her arm. Thinking she would be allowed to kiss the Royal Hand, Bertie approached. The Queen’s fingers unfurled, and a gleaming broach of rose gold lay in her pale, wrinkled palm. “A token of my esteem.”

Bertie stared at it blankly for a moment, realizing it was the same as the bit of jewelry she’d seen pinned to Mrs. Edith’s various shirtwaists every day of her growing up.

A gift from the Queen, that’s what she always said.

Bertie took the offering and her legs bent of their own accord. “My most humble thanks, and I would humbly beg your forgiveness for what occurred at the front gate.”

For a moment, Bertie thought the Queen might take back her broach and her good will, but Her Gracious Majesty only barked a laugh and waved a hand to indicate such things were of little importance to her. “You are forgiven.”

Bertie felt her knees go wobbly. “My thanks, Your Gracious Majesty.”

The Queen crooked a finger at Bertie, beckoning her closer. “Just what would you do with a wish-come-true, I’d like to know.”

The boon.
Bertie hadn’t even spit enough to lick her lips. “My family, Your Gracious Majesty. I would see us reunited.”

After a long moment, the Queen consulted a small, mirrored timepiece that dangled from her taffeta dress, perhaps to see just how many minutes an impertinent snippet of a girl had wasted. “You will have breakfast with me on the morrow in my private chambers, Beatrice Shakespeare Smith.” She reached for a walking stick resting upon the side of her throne, then spared a glance for the rest of the Company, all wearing various looks of astonishment except Moth, who was picking his nose. “While we dine, your retinue is free to enjoy the grounds. That will be more peaceful, I think.”

Realizing she ought to say something, Bertie gave another deep curtsy and murmured, “Of course, Your Gracious Majesty,” even as the fairies muttered about how they always got left out of the fun. Thankfully Nate’s low admonishment of “Shut yer mouth!” was lost to the sudden shuffle of feet, the shifting of silk skirts and brocade surcoats as the entire assemblage bowed and curtsied to the Queen when she rose.

Her Gracious Majesty paused by Fenek long enough to say, “Take them to the Imperial Tea Room whilst their accommodations are prepared. The girl looks as though she could use a cup to steady her nerves.”

“At once,” Fenek said with a low bow and a sidelong glance at Bertie.

Only then did “the girl” realize she vibrated with post-performance energy, much as the mirrors had before breaking. Her nerves jangled with every flicker of light from the chandelier, every reflection upon the marble floor, every whisper of the departing courtiers.

Perhaps I’ll shatter as well.

Bertie fisted her hands and bit her lip, trying to get the shaking under control, but that only resulted in half-moons dug into her palms until she nearly bled.

“Does the Tea Room serve food, too?” Mustardseed demanded, pulling out a change purse that should not have fit in his pants. “I saved my coins from the Caravanserai, and I’m starving!”

“You’re always starving!” Peaseblossom protested.

“If you know that, you ought to have fed me by now!”

The Queen shook her head. “Partake of my hospitality, no payment is necessary”—here she paused to consider the Fearsome Foursome for a long moment—“save the cost of good table manners.”

“I’d rather pay coins and gobble any way I please,” Moth said quite truthfully before adding a belated, “Your Majesty.”

“Just as I suspected,” the Queen answered with a wry smile. “All the same, I will have your manners, or your heads.”

The fairies paled and muttered promises about chewing with their mouths shut and refraining from belching at the table. By the time Cobweb included a rash vow about the employment of a napkin, the Queen had disappeared, trailed by two dozen ladies-in-waiting.

In their absence, Ariel moved toward Bertie, hair crackling with static electricity, the silk of his sleeves snapping and billowing. Without realizing it, his fingers sought out the pale flesh at the base of his throat, the place where Bertie’s iron collar had settled on his skin when she’d imprisoned him at the theater. “What were you thinking, to summon Fire and trap it within mortal flesh?”

“Varvara isn’t trapped in mortal flesh, Ariel. The opal ring was her prison, and I
freed
her.” When he started to interrupt, Bertie fixed him with a killing look. “Why must you think the very worst of me?”

Taken aback by her vehemence, Ariel paused a moment to restrain his winds and compose himself. “My apologies, then. I shouldn’t have accused you of such a thing.”

“Our unguarded reactions are the most honest ones.” Bertie wished she could shrug it off, but only now did she realize the sense of hurt and betrayal she carried in place of the journal.

“Ne’er mind that now.” Nate broke between them and steered her toward the nearest exit. “We need t’ get ye clear o’ th’ crowd.”

“This way!” Fenek said with a jerk of his head and a hippity-hop gait.

Indeed, the courtiers already called to Bertie, catching hold of her sleeves and shaking her by the limp hand, seeking to curry favor with the newcomer. Fenek didn’t slow down or mark their attentions. Just behind him, Nate used his imposing stature and his dark expression to clear a path like a ship cutting through the water. Escorted by Ariel, Varvara kept pace with a telltale tapping of her toe shoes upon the marble floor. The fairies struggled to keep up, dodging ladies-in-waiting and gentlemen attendants, finally soaring overhead to avoid the press of bodies.

When Fenek gestured at last to a door, Moth clapped his hands with glee. “I smell cherry pie!”

“Cherry
blossoms,
” Peaseblossom corrected. “They smell nothing alike, really.”

The sign overhead was in Japanese, but the ornamented door and the impressive amount of gilt paint left no doubt in their minds this was the Imperial Tea Room. By now, Bertie’s right eye had begun to twitch in a most disconcerting fashion, and she couldn’t stop herself from shivering as though doused in ice water. Upon answering the door, the hostess of the establishment looked askance at her, unpainted lips rounding into an
O
of surprise. A long moment passed during which the woman glanced from Nate and Ariel, to the four fairies muttering about death by either seppuku or starvation, to the fire-dancer still balanced upon her toes, back to definitively vibrating Bertie.

“Is she well?” was the polite query when, by rights, she could have ordered them back out the door.

“Nothing a little tea won’t cure,” Fenek told her, backing away. “Her Gracious Majesty bade them come here. I will return to show them to their apartment when it is ready.”

“Of course. Please come in.” The attendant gave a quick nod, a beautiful bow, and led the troupe into the tea room.

Bertie caught quick glances of paper screens, elegant, stark calligraphy scrolls, and the elaborate knot of fabric at the back of the woman’s kimono. The Wardrobe Department had an enormous hutch that housed over a hundred folded kimonos and obis, in brilliant shades of chrysanthemum-stitched orange and plum blossoms painted on lavender. There was one in particular, white butterflies flitting across slate gray, that had always reminded her of Ariel. But none of them compared to the ensemble worn by the hostess. The silk itself was a muted celadon, the threads forming embroidered tea leaves so finely matched that they almost disappeared into the fabric each time she took another sandal-shod step.

The woman slid open a door to a small chamber, empty save for wall paintings and tatami mats upon the floor. When she indicated they should enter, Nate nodded and ducked his head, but Ariel remained with her, speaking in a language that was, Bertie finally realized, the hostess’s native tongue.

Nate poured Bertie onto a woven straw mat and settled on his heels beside her. “Ye look like a lit firework, about ready t’ explode. That was quite th’ tale.” He reached out and brushed her hair from her face, trying to peer into her eyes. “Toward th’ end, ye were as pale as a ghost an’ goin’ sharp around th’ edges, like a knife honed.” Both hands found her jawline, his thumbs tracing over her cheeks. “Fer a moment, I thought ye might be lost t’ th’ story.”

“I didn’t feel lost at all.” Unable to kneel as he did, Bertie lolled against the nearest wall and hoped she wouldn’t fall through it. She recalled the way the words had filled her, as if she were a cup overflowing. “I could have gone on for ages, I think. Stopping was a bit like shoving a cork into a fizzing champagne bottle.”

Nate scowled at the idea. “An’ now yer twice as limp as a wrung-out rag. Whate’er ye might think, th’ tellin’ cost ye somethin’…” He trailed off when Ariel entered, carrying a lacquered box and an iron pot. “I thought ye were orderin’ tea.”

The air elemental gave him a withering glance. “I did. Normally this set would be used outside in the gardens, but our hostess was most understanding about both the young lady’s incapacity and the need for a privately administered restorative.” After arranging a variety of implements in a pattern that pleased him, Ariel began an elaborate ceremony of measuring, pouring, whisking. It was the most beautiful and graceful series of movements Bertie had ever seen, though it went unappreciated by the fairies.

“That’s a lot of trouble for a cup of tea!” Moth observed, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he diligently folded a bit of silk. A few seconds later, he triumphantly donned the repurposed table linen, now a miniature origami robe.

Bertie narrowed her eyes at him but couldn’t halt their mischief, and soon Mustardseed and Cobweb were similarly attired. Thus costumed, they performed a rousing rendition of “Three Little Maids From School Are We,” and when they got to the line “pert as a schoolgirl well can be,” Moth honked Mustardseed somewhere highly inappropriate, and the three of them went down in a tangle of limbs and napkin-improvised obis.

Peaseblossom fixed her gaze upon the ceiling, her cheeks as pink as her moniker implied. “I can’t take you three anywhere.”

Ariel merely shook his head and offered Bertie a beautiful vessel filled with steaming green liquid. Breathing in the scent of it, she regained use of her arms and reached for the cup with both hands. A single sip restored her, the tea pouring down her throat like rainwater on parched plants. She felt their roots take hold in her center, pushing new growth out through her arms and legs. Nate made a disconcerted noise, but Bertie managed, “I’m fine,” without it sounding like falsehood.

The forest is where I’m strongest. I would do well to remember that.

Ariel sat back, trying not to look pleased with himself and failing utterly. “Normally, you should pass the cup to the second guest, but I think you need that more than anyone else here.”

“Aye, it seems t’ be working,” was the pirate’s grudging admission.

Bertie continued to sip at her tea, cupping the delicate porcelain bowl with both hands to better absorb the heat and the scent. Fortified, she turned her attention to the available forest: paintings on rice-paper screens, cherry and plum trees that waved flowered fingertips at her. Like servants with heads bowed, the trees approached when beckoned, transforming the room into a glorious orchard. Padded chairs sprouted underneath Bertie and the others like mushrooms, and twisted branches grew together to form a long, low table covered with almond blossoms. The crockery Ariel had unpacked from the lacquered box multiplied, some of the kettles burgeoning beyond the size of Bertie’s head, others no larger than Peaseblossom’s thumbnail. Instead of staid biscuit-and-sandwich fare, the tea table treated them to intricate desserts wrought to look like dragonflies on water and tiny pink-nosed rats.