“Are you going to be all right?” Moth asked.
“Ask me again after the show,” Bertie said, leaning against the wall for support. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”
Even as she fanned her face with an extra programme, the temperature in the corridor dropped. Bertie’s breath formed ice crystals in air that carried with it the perfume of the aurora borealis.
“You would do better to leave the stage fright to the Players, Beatrice.” Ariel was dressed all in black silk again; even his familiars had wings of onyx and black pearl tonight. The butterflies, perched on his cuff links, moved with the winds that preceded him down the corridor.
Bertie’s programme fluttered to the floor. “You came back.”
Ariel laughed. “I did.”
She took a step toward him. “But you had your freedom.”
“I had something more important waiting for me here.” His winds encircled Bertie and coaxed her into his arms. “You chose me, Milady, and I choose you in return.”
“Chose you?”
“As your own,” he specified, his smile as compelling as it was fierce. “Why else would you have given me the one thing I thought I wanted?”
“That big stack of announcements had quite a lot to do with it.” Bertie tried to shove away her memories of the tango, of what had happened afterward.
That has nothing to do with anything, besides which I don’t have time for my insides to melt into gooey puddles right now.
“In case you’re curious,” Ariel added, his beautiful mouth forming the magical words, “the performance is sold out.”
The tattered remnants of Bertie’s restraint drifted away. Before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around Ariel’s neck and kissed him, hearing the fairies’ protest only as distant mosquito buzzing until one of them bit her on the back of the neck. With a half-muffled yelp, she fell away from Ariel, giddy and stunned, but not the least bit sorry for her indiscretion.
“Pleased with the news?” he asked.
“As if you couldn’t tell,” she said, a flush creeping up her neck. “That leaves one flaming hoop left to jump through. I wish Mrs. Edith was here, so I could consult her bones about the chances for a standing ovation.”
“Speaking of costuming . . .” Ariel looked from her gloved hand clasped in his to her ringlets, the diamond earrings, the satin column of her dress. “You look lovely this evening. I like what you’ve done with your hair.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” Bertie repeated the oft-practiced curtsy.
Down the hall, a door slammed. Gertrude had exited Dressing Room Ten and, even at this distance, Bertie could hear her muttering lines under her breath.
Gertrude spotted the group and bellowed, “The moment I put on this wretched headdress, I forgot the end of my speech in the first act.”
“It’s just nerves,” Bertie tried to reassure her. “It will come back to you once you’re onstage.”
“This was a terrible idea.” Gertrude shoved at the sleeves of her unfamiliar costume until Bertie heard the stitches pop. “Why are you even back here, making a nuisance of yourself?”
Distracted by the gentle pressure Ariel was applying to her hand, Bertie tried to remember exactly why she was backstage. “It’s almost time for the curtain to go up, and I wanted to wish you good luck—”
“Good luck?!” Gertrude screeched. “You did not just say that to me! Oh! Oh!”
Bertie paled. “I’m sorry! I meant ‘break a leg’! Really, I did!”
“Overture and beginners, please.” The Call Boy shoved past them.
Gertrude chased after him. “Tell me to break a leg, this instant! Tell me!”
Bertie shook her head at Ariel and extricated herself from his grip. “Look what you made me do!”
“She’ll be fine,” he countered. “Perhaps she’ll really break a leg, and we can send on the understudy in her place.”
The fairies dissolved into snickers as the door to Dressing Room Four opened. Ophelia glided into the hallway and lifted a hand to touch Bertie’s curls.
“You look lovely,” she said. “I do like to see you wearing something other than jeans.”
Bertie held very still and let Ophelia finish her ministrations. At such close proximity, Bertie was surprised to see tiny lines at the corners of the water-maiden’s eyes, emphasized rather than obscured by the heavy application of eye shadow and mascara.
“Are you ready for the performance?” Bertie asked her.
Ophelia nodded. “I find the restaging invigorating.”
“That’s good to hear,” Ariel said. “Gertrude just came through here, not the least bit invigorated.”
“Most of the Players are ill-equipped to deal with change,” Ophelia observed.
“You’re not coming unglued,” Moth said.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve improvised.” Even when Ophelia didn’t move, the ends of her hair and gown swirled about her, as though caught in the ebb and flow of an unseen river. “I’ve always walked the ragged edge.”
“That’s a good line.” Ariel adjusted his cuff links, which seemed determined to flutter away.
“It is, isn’t it? I’ll have to remember to use it again.” Ophelia smiled at him with such brilliance that a never-before-seen dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “I find my memory stirred by all the excitement tonight!”
With joyous steps, she started to walk, indicating that they should follow her. Her slippers skimmed the floor, and her robes billowed behind her in a silver stream, the flickering lining the same deep blue depths as the ocean.
The same deep blue of Cobalt Flame dye.
Bertie grasped the scrimshaw, wondering why she’d never before thought to use it to see into the heart of the water-maiden.
First Verena’s skirts and now Ophelia’s robes? What is Mrs. Edith hinting at?
Ophelia had all but disappeared into the red-lit gloom backstage, but she called from the darkness, “Normally I wear white carnations. Those are for innocence. But I like the pink ones you sent to the Dressing Room even better.”
“I didn’t send you the flowers,” Bertie said. “Mrs. Edith went and fetched them.”
“Every flower has a meaning,” Ophelia sang out. “I just have to remember what pink carnations are for.”
A dozen crew members shushed them, but Bertie chased the sound of the water-maiden’s voice, which was the fading rush of water over stone. “What do pink carnations mean?”
For an answer, there was only laughter that turned into a lullaby.
Still clutching the scrimshaw, Bertie followed her into the darkness. “Ophelia! What do pink carnations mean?”
Pale blue light flared in the quick-change corner, illuminating Ophelia as she caught the silver fish of clarity. Her hands were unexpectedly warm, as was the kiss she pressed to Bertie’s cheek. “Not what they are for, Bertie, but who.”
“Who are pink carnations for, Ophelia?” Bertie asked a third time, her voice no more than the whisper of a lost child.
“Pink carnations,” Ophelia answered, “are for mothers. I remember.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sweet and
Bitter Fancy
What do you remember?” Bertie whispered, fearing Ophelia’s mind played tricks on them both.
The water-maiden held her close, as though afraid Bertie would slip away from her and be lost again to the memory currents. “What happened when I left the Théâtre. At least, I remember most of it. I remember . . .” She choked a bit before she finished. “I remember you.”
It was too much for Bertie to hope that she’d finally found her mother after all this time, but the scrimshaw wouldn’t let her doubt the truth. Ophelia slowly aged beyond her written years, until nothing was left of the bewildered, heartsick young girl betrothed to Hamlet. Even when Bertie let go of the medallion, time-passed remained etched on Ophelia’s face, lines carved in ivory.
“Who’s my father?” Bertie strained h
er eyes against the dark that would steal away the details of this most important moment. “Tell me, please. I want to know everything.”
“I’ll do better than tell you.” Ophelia smoothed a hand over Bertie’s cheek. “I’ll show you.”
“Show us what?” Ariel said, arriving with the fairies.
“Yeah, what’s going on?” Mustardseed demanded.
Bertie turned to them, numb from the shock. “Ophelia’s . . . she’s my . . .”
But Ophelia didn’t let her finish. “Don’t spoil it for them.”
“Spoil what?” Peaseblossom asked, looking as alarmed as anyone wearing that many sequins could.
“We have a show to put on,” Ophelia said. “Ariel, take the fairies somewhere with a good view of the stage. You won’t want to miss this.”
“What don’t they want to miss?” Bertie desperately wanted to drag Ophelia back to her Dressing Room, to ask her seventeen years of questions, but the orchestra was playing a vaguely familiar overture. Ophelia guided her through the pitch-black; Bertie knew every creak of the Théâtre’s wooden floorboards, and so she panicked. “Why are we onstage? What about Hamlet?”
“Take your seat,” Ophelia commanded instead of answering either question.
Bertie reached out her hands, locating the edge of a massive armchair. “But—”
“Do as you’re told.” Ophelia’s tone was stern. “I’ll be right back.”
Bertie almost succumbed to a fit of hysterical laughter at Ophelia’s first parenting attempt, but as quickly as could be managed in a ball gown, she obeyed.
Ophelia returned and put The Complete Works of the Stage into her hands. “Hold this.”
Bertie recoiled from its soft glow. “Why are you giving me The Book?”
“You need to read from it.” Ophelia gave Bertie’s knee an encouraging pat. “That’s how the story goes.”
Bertie started to protest, started to slide down, but the whirring noise of the curtain opening pinned her to the worn brocade. A million watts of light hit her as the audience burst into applause. The overture faded in anticipation of the opening line; Bertie could hear the rustle of silk as ladies shifted in their seats, the staccato cough of a gentleman clearing his throat, then the expectant hush of the audience.
“Pssst,” Ophelia signaled from the wings.
Bertie squinted at her, trying to suppress how ridiculous she felt with her high-heel-shod feet dangling over the edge of the enormous armchair.
“Open The Book,” Ophelia prompted with an accompanying gesture.
Something black and oily slid through Bertie’s veins. She nearly choked as it crawled up her throat. “I’m . . . I’m afraid.”
Four tiny lighting specials zigzagged across the stage and alighted beside her.
“Ready,” said Peaseblossom.
“And I!” chorused the boys.
“We’re right here,” Ariel said in an undertone as he entered from Stage Left.
A spotlight tightened in on the group. The fairies watched her, Ariel watched her, the audience watched her.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Bertie whispered.
“Yes, you can.” That was Peaseblossom.
Moth nodded. “You’ve wanted to know the truth for a long time.”
Ariel leaned forward until the strands of his windblown hair coiled over her arm. “Everyone is waiting, and they’ve paid to see a play.”
“They came to see a dazzling new production, not the unremarkable story of some nobody!” But Bertie opened The Book, feeling as wooden as one of the mannequins in the Wardrobe Department. Her breath came in short little pants. She forced herself to focus, to turn the page. Even after so many surprises, it still chilled her to see her own handwriting in The Book.
“How Bertie Came to the Theater,” she read with a quiver in her voice, “A Play in One Act.”
* * *
Glorious illumination poured over Ophelia, who now wore a green dress. The flowers woven into the filmy overlay were embroidered with brilliants.
“My mother was an actress, and surely she was the star,” Bertie said, her words a spirit returned to haunt her. “She was an ingénue on the rise, a society darling.”
“Not really,” said Ophelia, “but close enough. I didn’t have as many lines as some of the other female Players, but I made every one of them count.”
“Titled men filled her dressing room with roses and sent jewelry that sparkled like the night sky,” Bertie continued. The spotlight expanded to include dozens of flower arrangements and heaps of diamonds. Glitter drifted from the rafters until the very air shimmered. Bertie stared at the scene, transfixed. “It’s just like I imagined.”
“That,” said Ariel, “is not in the script. Keep going.”
Ophelia sat down at her dressing table. “It got old, to tell you the truth, with Hamlet sulking all the time. I wanted to go dancing. I wanted to live, just a little, before I died. But every night was the same routine. ‘Into the water with you, Ophelia. Suck the water into your lungs, Ophelia. Let them drag your limp carcass across the stage, Ophelia.’ And those boys are rough with their hands, let me tell you.”
She powdered her nose pale green and twined bracken in her hair.
“That is not how I pictured it,” Bertie said.
“Shhh,” said Peaseblossom.
Hamlet entered Stage Right and stalked into the spotlight. “God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another.”
Ophelia turned to look daggers at him. “Are you calling me a harlot?”
“Maybe.” He managed to slouch without leaning on anything. “Maybe not.”
“Say what you mean for once!” Ophelia yelled at him. When she threw her silver-backed hairbrush at his head, he yelped and fled.
Bertie had a terrible thought. “Please tell me Hamlet’s not my dad.”
“Shhh,” Ophelia admonished, along with half the audience.
“But—”
“Maybe,” Ophelia said at the top of her lungs to discourage further interruption, “I looked elsewhere. Maybe I got sick of the accusations, sick of being Polonius’s daughter, and Laertes’s sister, and Hamlet’s girlfriend. Maybe I wanted, for a short while, simply to be myself.”
A stranger in black strode forward to meet Ophelia at Center Stage. She accepted his hand as the orchestra launched into a new song: a tango.
Goose bumps rippled down Bertie’s arms. She danced it with my father.
Ariel’s hand twitched involuntarily, tightening over hers. “The music’s the same.”
As was the choreography. Bertie could only hope she’d managed to perform it with half as much grace.
“Back to the titled gentlemen,” Ophelia said over the bandoneón’s song. “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 spotlight came up on an aristocrat with a greasy moustache and pallid complexion. He stood on a platform Stage Right and couldn’t seem to get down.
“Oh, please,” said Ophelia just as The Stranger dipped her low with a dexterous flourish. They reversed and slinked across the stage. “Was it the powerful businessman with a keen eye for finance and a generous nature?”
Another spotlight, this time on a florid gentleman stuffed into a too-tight three-piece suit.
“Not likely,” said Ophelia. “Men like that always smell of bacon.”
The Stranger whirled her back to Center Stage in a complicated series of turns that left Bertie dizzy all over again. With Ophelia cradled in one arm, he produced a single red rose from thin air. Bertie’s breath caught and Ariel swore softly when The Stranger used the flower to trace the planes of Ophelia’s face, the curve of her breast, the length of her body. The Stranger helped her to stand, and Ophelia gave him a smile that shot Bertie with equal parts wistful longing and jealousy.
To look at someone, anyone, like that! To be so very sure . . .
“It was another,” Ophelia said. “Someone
without name or coin, but who had instead a heart filled with love for me. I left the Théâtre to be with him.” She left him standing Center Stage and approached the oversize prop version of The Book that rested atop a pedestal. “Nobody ever gave me credit for the way I was written: always drifting between the worlds of life and death, air and water.” She opened The Book to the middle, took a deep breath, ripped out a page, and held it up for everyone to see. “But it was I who figured out how to walk the ragged edge.”
Ariel let out a slow breath. “Well done.”
Ophelia folded the large piece of parchment and slid it into the pocket of her dress. “I left the Théâtre and traveled to a small cottage by the sea.”
The scenery started to change to the train station.
“No, wait. That’s not right.” Ophelia tilted her head to one side and thought for a moment. “Was there a train? I don’t remember that bit.” The train backed offstage. “I think it was a boat. No . . . perhaps a wooden cart?”
Both a boat and a cart tried to slide on Stage Right, colliding in an explosion of wood and dust.
“It doesn’t matter how I left.” Ophelia held out her hand to The Stranger. “Just that I left. I didn’t take anything with me. Not my print Sunday dress, not my silver hair comb. Just my page from The Book.”
The Dressing Room set disappeared as The Stranger lifted Ophelia off the stage with a puff of wind. They landed on the red-carpeted runner and ran, hand in hand, for the Exit door.
“Wait!” Bertie slid off the chair and nearly fell down a rabbit hole. One after another, more trapdoors opened around her, all over the stage, until nothing remained of the boat and cart crash save a few stray splinters. By the time they slammed back into place, Ophelia and The Stranger were gone.
Mrs. Edith entered. Or rather, Not-Mrs.-Edith: a Player wearing a mask of the Wardrobe Mistress’s face that exaggerated her severe features.
Another Masked One, Bertie thought. Another person who knew the truth.
Not-Mrs.-Edith walked on stilts that towered over Bertie’s chair. Every footstep echoed through the auditorium.