Terrified, Bertie pulled harder on the reins, all too easily imagining him crushed under the horses or the wheels. “Get out of the way!”
He looked up at her then, gaze like silver daggers. The winds around them redoubled, freezing this time. The depot’s mammoth central spire was not only visible now, but rapidly approaching. Metallic blue ice sparked off the horses’ shoes; when Bertie peered over the edge of the caravan, she could see the same was happening to the wheels until, finally, Ariel managed to frost-weld wheels and hoofs to the road, bringing them to a standstill just before the station.
“Are you all right?” Bertie slid down from the driver’s seat and straight into his arms.
Far from being exhausted, he glowed like a furnace, as though exhilarated by the exercise. Then his mouth was on hers, the only warm place in this ice-riddled world. The heat spread through her veins, and she heard the hiss of snowflakes evaporating on contact with her skin.
Muffled cries from the carpetbag interrupted the moment with the mewling of an orphaned kitten. “Bertie! Bertie! They ate his feet! How is he supposed to promenade with me if he doesn’t have any feet?!”
Ariel sighed against her mouth, a vaguely exasperated noise that turned into a wry smile. “Someday, when we’re quite alone, we’ll be able to finish what we’ve started.”
The warmth in the promise melted the lump of ice in her middle along with the surrounding snow, and Bertie sank up to her ankles in slush. “I should book us passage on the next train.”
Ariel indicated a sign, the same dark gingerbread as the building and framed with scrolled woodwork:
TICKET BOOTH, TIMETABLES, & STATIONMASTER’S OFFICE
“You didn’t quite manage ‘An Ordinary Station,’ though, Bertie.” Peaseblossom looked around at the various snowbound curiosities, blinking white flakes from her lashes.
“I don’t give a royal fig what kind of station it is, so long as there’s hot buttered rum,” Moth said. “And I’m not going to drink it, I’m going to take a bath in it!”
“Waschbär, grab them and catch up with us!” Bertie set off at a brisk clip, welcoming the chance to put her thoughts back in order now that Ariel was keeping lips to himself. “We’ll need to find passage on something that can also accommodate large freight.” She rounded the corner of the building; the sight that greeted her brought a smile to her face.
Under a covered platform, glowing furnaces burned with luminous fire at intervals, and a gleaming row of train cars reflected the glorious rainbow colors of aurorae. Similarly dressed in shades of the northern lights, hundreds of performers clambered into the various ice-painted cars. Silken skirts were bustled back over impossibly long legs, which, in turn, were clad only in white fishnet stockings and lace-frilled garters. Feathers decorated neck ruffs and miniature top hats, even serving as fluttering false eyelashes. Tightrope artists with ice blue eyelids and doll-rouged cheeks minced down nearly invisible wires that led from the station’s roof to one of the train cars’ windows, tattered lace parasols held aloft, accompanied only by the jingle of the needle-thin icicles dangling from their soft-soled shoes. Up a nearby ramp, tumbling august clowns in whiteface pushed a gilt cage; the cunning prison contained a girl costumed as an exotic bird, avian patterns frosting her skin and a mother-of-pearl beak concealing her lower face and jaw. At the front of the crowd, a sizable gentleman in a pristine white brocade topcoat and tails radiated an air of undeniable authority.
“That must be the man in charge.” Despite feeling severely underdressed in her tattered dress and woolen blanket-shawl, Bertie bridged the space between them. Touching his sleeve, her frostbitten fingers still managed to note the heavy weight of the fabric, the delicate fibers that rose from the cloth to wave about like tiny hairs. “Excuse me, sir?”
He turned, and Bertie gasped before she could stop herself. If Waschbär bathed, shaved, and rouged his cheeks, the sneak-thief would be the spitting image of the man who had her by the hand and kissed her knuckles.
“Are you the ringmaster?” she managed to ask.
“Yes, fair damsel.” He employed a flourish that outdid even Ariel’s most grandiose obeisance. “I am Aleksandr, Leader of the Innamorati, at your service.”
“I am Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, the Mistress of Revels.”
His eyes grew appreciatively round at the mention of her title, and he groveled a bit lower, if that was possible. “A pleasure to meet you!”
Waschbär, in the meantime, had led the rest of the troupe to join them on the platform. “Greetings to you, Aleksandr!”
“Rapscallion!” the ringmaster cried, enveloping his near-twin in an embrace that involved much good-natured back thumping. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“I’ve joined the Company,” the sneak-thief replied.
“Their gain is certainly our loss,” Aleksandr said. “You were the finest Arlecchino ever to grace our transitory stage.”
Bertie had a sudden, vivid memory of the Harlequin onstage at the Théâtre, every movement embellished with a dexterous backflip or cartwheel, his eyes twinkling behind his black mask.
Waschbär merely grinned and pointed at the train. “Where are all of you headed?”
“West,” Aleksandr said, chest puffing out, “to the Caravanserai.”
Adrift in their exchange, Bertie caught hold of Waschbär’s sleeve. “How close is this Caravanserai to the White Cliffs?”
The sneak-thief smiled. “Very close indeed. A mere hop, skip, and jump to Fowlsheugh.”
“Just what I wanted to hear.” She turned back to Aleksandr. “Would you permit me and mine to ride with the Innamorati for a while? We are but a small company, nine in number including the fairies and ferrets, with a caravan and horses that also require passage.”
Giving Bertie a look that took in both her person and her entourage, the ringmaster said, “We could easily put all of you in the caboose, with your things fitted in amongst the freight. And I doubt you eat much.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Peaseblossom sniffled. “They just ate most of my beloved.”
Aleksandr looked to the boys, who mounted an immediate defense.
“It was snowing.”
“We were hungry!”
“That’s what people do, in the snow, when they’re hungry! They eat each other!”
“We’ve money—” Bertie reached for the gold disks on her belt before the ringmaster could ask what they meant by that.
“I’ve no need of coin,” Aleksandr said, his eyes suddenly gleaming. “What have you of interest to trade?”
“Not another trade,” Ariel said, shaking the remains of an ice crown from his hair.
Mustardseed agreed. “What’s with all the bartering?!”
Though she’d never before hesitated to liberally stretch the truth, Bertie wanted no misunderstandings between them, especially if it might mean the difference between safe passage and being thrown off a moving train. “All we have are the caravan and the horses, but neither is in good working order right now.”
Waschbär nudged her. “You do have something most valuable.”
“Oh, really?” Aleksandr perked up, the way Bertie imagined she did at the scent of freshly ground coffee. “What would that be?”
More puzzled than perky, Bertie looked at the sneak-thief. “I do?”
“You do,” the sneak-thief told her, then turned to the ringmaster. “She is a Teller of Tales.”
A short intake of breath and another, lower bow; Bertie thought Aleksandr might be eating his bootlaces, but then he asked, “Would you be amenable to a collaboration? We have need of a Brand-New Play, a lavish production to showcase the many talents of my acrobats and artistes!”
Certain a Brand-New Play would waylay their efforts to get to the Scrimshander—and Nate—Bertie shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
The ringmaster’s expression fell like a trapeze flyer without a net. “You have a grand show already in rehearsal?”
“Not quite,” she hedged.
Moth piped up. “The Montagues and Capulets Are Dead! is doing quite well!”
“Ariel juggles,” Mustardseed tattled. “And Bertie was supposed to tell stories, but she got herself kidnapped instead.”
Aleksandr’s face was a study in disapproval and disbelief. “The Mistress of Revels should not be reduced to mere chicanery.” Before one of the fairies could ask “chiwhatnow?” he pressed the advantage of truth. “It’s a grand opportunity, you surely see? An entire troupe of artisans, augusts, and acrobats at your disposal, nay! Your whim! Anything you can imagine, we can perform, in exchange for your passage aboard.” He eyed the group as a whole, adding, “Plus a change of vestments, courtesy of the Keeper of the Wardrobe, and the limitless hospitality of the pie car.”
“Pie car?!” Four-part harmony. Even Peaseblossom squeaked the words as though someone had trod upon her tiny feet, the promise of pastry perhaps enough to heal her broken heart.
“Naturally,” the ringmaster said, his inflections leaving no room for doubt. “Fine dining extraordinaire, compliments of Chef Toroidal and his team of highly trained gourmet gastronomes!”
“I’ve dreamed of such a thing.” The glint in Moth’s eyes was that of silverware upon a creaking sideboard. “Lovely imaginings of cherry and apple and mincemeat.”
“Lemon meringue,” said Cobweb. “Chocolate cream.”
“Stop yammering about pie,” Bertie told them, all the while knowing there would be no dissuading them now. “Or I’ll write your lips shut.”
Peaseblossom clapped her hands over her mouth. Irrepressible, even in silence, Moth covered his eyes, Cobweb his ears, and Mustardseed his backside. Bertie gave Mustardseed one of Mrs. Edith’s patented Dire Looks, and he shoved his hands deep into his pockets with a grin and an ear wiggle.
“Don’t you have an opinion, too?” Bertie turned the same Look on Ariel.
Tendrils of silver hair shifted over his shoulders as he considered the question. “It’s not my place to counsel the Mistress of Revels.”
“You’ve a few minutes only to make up your mind,” Aleksandr warned. “The Innamorati train will not wait.”
There was no helping it. “A play in exchange for our passage.”
“AND PIE!” screamed the fairies.
“And pie.” Aleksandr spat into his hand. Bertie did likewise, and they shook upon the deal. “Words cannot convey the extent of my delight!”
“I have words enough for everyone.” She gestured to the corner of the station. “I’m afraid we experienced a bit of technical difficulty, and we’ll need help with our things. They’re around the corner.”
“Oh, my good Mistress of Revels! My roustabouts will see to the loading of your gilly wagon.” When Aleksandr snapped his fingers, a dozen burly, mustachioed men stepped out from behind the ringmaster like a row of muscled paper dolls. With brutal efficiency, they retrieved the mechanical horses and the caravan, now defrosted enough to move as they ought, guiding them up a ramp and into a freight car.
“Oh, my!” Peaseblossom exclaimed. “Look at that!”
One after another, late-arriving hoops rolled out of the station, along the platform, and up the ramp. The fairies goggled after them, though the roustabouts slammed the door shut.
“Those … those were made of people!”
“Little girls, holding each other by the ankles!”
“I saw, Mustardseed,” Bertie said, “now, all of you, lower your voices, please.”
Aleksandr, perhaps taking the fairies’ exuberance under consideration, waved a gracious hand at the caboose. “With my compliments. This will afford you a bit of privacy, should you require it, but do feel free to mingle with my merrymakers. They will surely be most humbled and thrilled to meet the Mistress of Revels.”
The train’s shrill whistle declared its intent to depart.
Mustardseed headed for their guest quarters, the others following him with screams of “Wait for me!” and “Don’t hog the custard!”
Bertie pursed her lips, well aware of the wrack and ruin the fairies could wreak upon a hapless buffet table. “Perhaps I should have shoved them in their carpetbag, for safekeeping.”
“Dear Beatrice!” Aleksandr looked affronted. “I’m certain they’ll be most safe aboard.”
“It wasn’t them I was thinking of.”
Aleksandr’s laugh was like a lion’s roar. “You will feel quite at home soon enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” With a bow, he disappeared into the swirl of late-boarding passengers, soon lost amidst frothing petticoats, airbrushed unitards, and fabulous candy-colored coiffures.
The steam whistle blasted a second time. Bertie ran for the caboose, almost falling up the stairs in her haste to board, with Ariel and Waschbär close behind her. Stepping inside, she was reminded of an old-fashioned soda parlor or, at least, the Théâtre’s version of one: all ribbon-striped cushions, silver paint, etched mirrors, and white wrought-iron benches.
“Nice digs!” crowed Moth as he zipped about the compartment.
“It is that,” Waschbär agreed. Pip Pip and Cheerio tumbled from his pockets, pausing occasionally in their gleeful capering to sniff at the air, which smelled faintly of caramelized sugar and vanilla, as though some unseen person was baking waffle cones. Through the tiny windows, the station disappeared like a dream forgotten upon waking, and every turn of the wheels brought her one tiny bit closer to her father.
And to Nate.
When the train lurched, still picking up speed, Ariel caught Bertie by the elbow, preventing a topple face-first into the rosy potbellied stove. “You’ll want to consider a costume change, I think.”
She looked down at the ruined Mistress of Revels’s costume with regret. The flight with the Scrimshander had done the first bit of damage, worsened thereafter by the dousing in the wetlands and the slog through the swamp. The silk bodice and skirts hung in shreds, as limp and bedraggled as she felt. “Mrs. Edith is going to have my head on a pike.”
“Mrs. Edith will rejoice if you return to the Théâtre in one piece.” Catching her up, Ariel placed a very gentle kiss on the end of her nose. “And I vow to see to the sanctity of your neck.” One hand found its way under her hair, gently stroking the skin there as his voice went low. “I seem to recall your fondness for denim. Perhaps the conductor has a spare pair of coveralls?”
The roustabouts had moved bits of their luggage into the caboose: the smaller of the trunks, the fairies’ puppet theater, an assortment of boxes and bags that contained only ridiculous fripperies. The satchel safeguarding Bertie’s jeans and sweater was nowhere to be seen, and she wasn’t about to wear a frilly nightgown aboard a circus train.
“We’re traveling with performers,” Peaseblossom pointed out, toasting her little toes next to the stove. “There must be a Wardrobe Mistress tending to the costumes—”
“No!” Bertie refused to let her imagination trip down that path, immediately squeezing her eyes shut and trying to conjure the exact opposite of her guardian. “Aleksandr said there was a Keeper of the Costumes. That sounds like someone you might mistake for Hercules, the Strong Man.”
“Perhaps he is the Strong Man,” Cobweb suggested. “Circus people tend to wear more than one hat.”
Moth scratched his head. “There must be trunks of hats somewhere, then.”
“Never mind the trunks. I still want pie,” Mustardseed whined.
“And how,” Cobweb said.
“And ice cream,” Moth corrected.
Bertie thought it was too soon to descend upon the unsuspecting Chef Toroidal and his team of gourmet gastronomes; highly trained they might be, not even a stampede of elephants could prepare them for four hungry fae on a pie quest. About to protest, her somewhat exposed stomach grumbled, and she reconsidered. “Change of clothes first, ice cream afterward.”
With a low whistle, Waschbär coaxed the ferrets back into his pockets. “Follow me!”
“If you take longer than five
seconds to get changed,” Moth said, “we’re going on without you.”
Shrugging off the threat, Bertie tried to figure out where to stuff the fairies for safekeeping, only to remember she didn’t have pockets, even tattered ones, and the journal took up what little room there was in her bodice.
The boys caught her contemplative glance down her front. “Don’t even think about it,” Mustardseed warned.
“There’s support, and then there’s support,” Moth said.
“And beyond that, there’s cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Maybe you’d like to cross the gap under your own power?” Ariel slid the compartment door open.
“Eep!” The fairies squeaked in alarm at the arctic-laced influx of air and dove for her hair.
“That’s what I thought.” Ariel indicated Bertie should go in front of him.
Traversing the rickety bit of metal between the caboose and the freight car, she gripped the railings. For added security, Ariel was right behind her every step of the way, both hands firmly on her waist. The snow fell thick and fast even between the cars, enormous flakes that glittered with diamond dust, and the freight car was a safe and quiet haven by comparison.
“Bracing, isn’t it?” Waschbär slammed the door shut behind them, his furs so stiff that they crackled.
“That’s one word for it.” Bertie gave a dramatic shudder, shedding snowflakes in a perfect semicircle around her feet. Going to pat the mechanical horses, she entertained a passing fancy of feeding them clockwork sugar cubes. “Do you think they’ll be all right, once they’ve defrosted?”
Ariel placed his ear against the slender neck of the closest steed, then pulled Bertie close enough to rest her cheek against the cold metal.
Tick, tick, tick . . .
“I do believe you’ll survive to bolt again.” Smiling, she went to rub its silver-velvet muzzle. The mechanical horse blinked amber eyes at her, albeit very slowly.