“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.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Divide and
Conquer
Mrs. 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 drawe
r, 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
to the stage
with The Book!
Bertie folded the note in thirds, not wanting any passersby to be able to read her message, and wrote Ariel’s name on the outside, underlining it twice for emphasis and nearly ripping a hole in the paper.
“Come on, let’s go.” She turned around, expecting the fairies to be gorging themselves on sticky toffee pudding or swimming in a pot of cheese fondue, but the refreshment table was oddly devoid of nourishment; not even crumbs dotted the surface of the tablecloth.
“What the heck is up with this?” Mustardseed said, his fists on his hips and his eyes accusatory.
Bertie faltered. Even the fairies at their most ravenous couldn’t clear the refreshment table so thoroughly. Worse yet, no coal fire burned in the stove, the bouquets rotted in their vases, and the clock had run down, as though the unseen, grandmotherly caregiver had abandoned the Green Room. “Maybe the Mariners just came through here. You know what they’re like when they disembark.”
“Something feels very, very wrong about this, Bertie.” Moth backed away as though the table crawled with vermin, or worse, carrot sticks and broccoli. “Wrong-er than Mariners.”
“There’s nothing in the sugar bowl but dust!” Peaseblossom said.
“I can’t worry about that now!” Bertie stuck the fountain pen behind her ear and dashed back to the Call Board, pulled out a brass thumbtack, and jammed it through the note, wishing it was a sword she could use to skewer her foe. “Come on! We have to get to the stage to see if this worked.”
It was the same route that the Players took every night of a performance: Open the backstage door, climb a shallow set of black-painted stairs whose edges were lined with phosphorescent gaffer’s tape, wend around large coils of rope, brush past the heavy weight of the velvet curtains, traverse the red-gelled glow of the Stage Manager’s corner where his headset hung on a hook. The space around the pedestal radiated cold. Bereft of The Book’s golden light, the dust motes lay on the floor as though dead.
“Heigh-ho, Ariel!” Bertie strode onto the stage. “Come out, come out wherever you are, you bastard.”
“How long before he gets here?” Mustardseed asked.
“Sh!” Bertie commanded, flapping her hands at them. “I think I hear something.”
As one, they strained their ears, trying to discern anything unusual, anything that would indicate Ariel’s arrival. Bertie thought she could just make out a low whistle when Peaseblossom jerked her to one side by her hair.
“Move!”
Eyes smarting at the assault, Bertie stepped back seconds before something smashed into the spot where she’d been standing. “What the hell?”
It was one of the sandbags Mr. Tibbs used to counter-weight the scenery, ripped down one side and disgorging its contents onto the stage. A length of sturdy rope, frayed at the end, trailed behind it.
Bertie squinted into the gloom overhead. Though she couldn’t locate the source of the sudden malfunction, her instincts pointed an accusing finger. “It has to be Ariel.”
All four fairies launched themselves upward in pursuit, but she couldn’t follow without a harness and someone to hoist her aloft. Instead, Bertie paced the stage, heaping foul oaths upon Ariel for stealing The Book, on Ophelia for putting the idea in his head, on the Theater Manager for trying to kick her out. . . .
“He’s not up there,” Mustardseed said as the fairies returned to encircle her troubled brow.
“We looked all the way up to the ceiling!” Moth said.
“How can he ignore a note on the Call Board?” Bertie demanded. “Unless—”
“Unless he’s already torn his page out,” said Cobweb.
“Unless he’s already gone,” Peaseblossom whispered, clasping her little hands together.
Bertie gripped either side of her head, as much to squeeze the thought out as to force some inspiration in. “Where did he leave The Book, then?”
“Beats me,” Mustardseed said. It bespoke their disconcertion that the other boys didn’t immediately take him up on the offer.
“Now what?” Bertie felt she’d used up all her ingenuity on the Call Board summons.
“When I lose stuff, I’m supposed to retrace my steps,” Mustardseed said.
Cobweb landed on the stage just so he could jump up and down. “Oh! Oh! You could try acting it out.”
“That’s dumb. She doesn’t have a script,” said Moth. “You can’t act something that doesn’t have a script.”
“Hold on.” The idea fluttered through Bertie’s head like one of Ariel’s butterflies. “That might just work.”
“It might?” said Cobweb, taken aback. Recovering, he turned and shoved Moth. “See? It might!”
Bertie borrowed the Stage Manager’s clipboard and started to scribble on its top sheet with the fountain pen. It was difficult to remember everything that she and Ariel had said; some moments were hazy—curse that “Drink Me” bottle!—but Bertie thought she had most of it by the time she pulled the page off.
“I know everything except the end,” she said. “Maybe if we act it out far enough, we can figure out what he did with The Book. I can play myself, but I need someone to be Ariel.”
“Don’t look at me,” said Peaseblossom. “I don’t do elemental.”
“Or me,” said Moth. “I don’t do antihero.”
Bertie sighed and held out the inky excuse for a script. “Someone has to play Ariel.”
Nate entered from Stage Left. “I’ll do it.”
Bertie considered escape routes, praying this was a soup-induced nightmare while the fairies considered the recasting.
“You’re a little tall to play Ariel,” said Moth.
“And you have way too many muscles,” said Mustardseed.
“But you might be able to pull it off,” Cobweb said, “if you can look really constipated.”
Nate reached for the page in Bertie’s hand, but she pulled it back and started to crumple it up.
“It was a half-baked idea.” She struggled to sound dismissive instead of frantic. “There’s no way it’s going to tell me anything I don’t know already. The ending has to be written out.”
“We’ll improvise that bit,” he said.
“We haven’t checked everywhere,” she protested.
“I have.” Nate reached for the makeshift script again.
“Why were you looking for Ariel?” Bertie demanded.
All of Nate’s muscles flexed at once. “I was going t’ wring his neck.”
“For stealing The Book?”
“Fer—” Nate blinked as the conversation shifted gears. “He stole Th’ Book?”
“Lose the sword!” suggested Moth, still trying to give Nate an Ariel-makeover.
“Ariel took The Book,” Bertie explained with reluctance. “We need to get it back before anyone realizes it’s missing.”
“An’ if he’s not in th’ theater?” Nate pried the script out of her grasp. “Mayhap he’s torn his page out an’ fled.”
“Scene change,” Peaseblossom said into the headset. “The Properties Department.”
Shelves slid into place, each one burdened with a glittering assortment of props. The “Drink Me” bottle sat Center Stage, sparkling in a soft pink spotlight. A golden glow emanated from under Marie Antoinette’s chaise.
“Nate,” Bertie said, “I really, really don’t want to do this.”
“Ye want t’ find The Book, aye?” He leaned forward until his stubble tickled her ear. “Then take yer place.”
Bertie made a strangled noise of protest as he moved into the wings. Against the ad
vice of every screaming instinct, she knelt at Center Stage.
Where’s an asp when I really need one?
The lights cut to a blackout. A warm amber wash slowly faded up as Nate made his entrance, divested of coat, sash, and sword. While he couldn’t quite manage the air elemental’s catlike grace, his boots made nary a sound against the floorboards.
“I thought I might find you here,” Nate said with Ariel’s inflections.
“What do you want, Ariel? Come to gloat?”
“Do you mind if I join you?” Nate read.
Bertie-as-herself shook her head. “Actually, I do. I’d like three seconds to myself without noise, chaos, or crisis.”
“That’s hardly welcoming.”
“That’s because it wasn’t an invitation.”
“Skip ahead, skip ahead, skip ahead,” yelled Peaseblossom.
Moth signaled the orchestra, and unseen musicians launched into the tango.
Bertie’s lower intestine tied itself into a knot, but she followed her stage directions and stood up. “Shall we dance?”
Nate pulled her close. “I think it’s customary for the man to lead.”
“So lead on, pretty boy.”
Bertie wished one of the trapdoors would open up and swallow her, but Nate-as-Ariel led her into a fluid tango, as full of grace as the original but without the hallucinations of Spanish buildings or jetting fountains.
The scrimshaw’s bone-magic seeped into Bertie’s chest, except she wasn’t sure she needed it this time. Though Nate had assumed Ariel’s demeanor and his words, though his eyes got progressively darker, he’d never stood before her so completely unmasked. He twirled her out just when he ought—
I may hold ye at arm’s length. . . .
—and pulled her back when the music called for it.
But I want ye t’ be mine an’ mine alone.
“Are you ready for the finale?” Nate’s voice tightened as he dipped her.
“No!” She tried to twist out of his grasp.
He held her fast and shook his head. “That’s not yer line.”
“Nate—”
The light poured over his shoulders. “I’m not Nate right now. I’m a spirit. I’m th’ wind.”
“You’re not him.”