Perchance to Dream

  “Which one of those?” Bertie’s impatience put an edge on the words.

  “It matters not. It was an unwanted thing.” He turned, sniffing at the air and following an unseen trail into the field.

  “An unwanted thing?” She gave chase past the caravan, fascinated by the cadence of his words.

  “Though I left the Brigands years ago, I am still a larcenist of sorts. A bandit, a burglar, a picker of pockets.” He paused and held up a finger. “But I have a Code of Honor. I only take things that are unwanted. That’s the trick, you see.”

  “What’s the trick in taking unwanted things?” demanded Moth from under the caravan.

  With a wiggle and a pounce, the sneak-thief located a leather satchel dropped in the grass upon his untimely arrival. “The trick is knowing the difference between when they are not wanted and when they are.”

  Nate snorted at the exact same time Ariel did, and it was all Bertie could do not to laugh at the disconcerted look the pirate gave the oblivious air elemental.

  Peaseblossom peered at the newcomer from between the rear wheel’s painted spokes. “Have you a name, sir?”

  “Waschbär.” Nose aquiver with amusement, the sneak-thief bounced on the balls of his feet, as though prepared to bound away at the least provocation. “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “I am the Mistress of Revels, also known as Beatrice Shakespeare Smith.” When one of the fairies cleared his throat, Bertie added, “And Company.”

  Waschbär’s chest rumbled, a precursor to laughter. “But of course. Emissaries from the Théâtre, on a grand and merry adventure through the countryside. Am I right?”

  “Precisely.” Bertie didn’t think they needed to get into the particulars just yet. She tried to maintain eye contact with him, but her gaze kept sliding to his pack.

  He caught her staring and flashed another mouthful of teeth at her. “I have many nice things. Mayhap you find yourself in need of something?”

  “That’s why you were … er … summoned here.” She pointed at the still-flaming fae. “You gather what dry wood you can find.” None of them moved. Bertie sighed and added, “Once there’s a fire, we can see about food.”

  “Aye, Captain!” Four sparks of light immediately scattered and disappeared into the bushes. Their enthusiasm for snacks overcame Bertie’s previously kindled blue-fire, much as a tidal wave would douse a candle: flames smothered all at once without even a wisp of smoke to mark their passing.

  “And I, milady?” Ariel asked. “What would you have me do?”

  Bertie slanted a look at Waschbär. Despite the newcomer’s change of mood, she had to repress the urge to use Ariel as a shield. “I suppose you should check on the horses. Make sure their upending didn’t knock all their bolts loose.”

  The fairies returned with armloads of twigs that might, with conviction and hard work, become sticks someday. Aided by Waschbär, who could obviously see better in the dark than any of them, and a box of matches the sneak-thief pulled from the unseen depths of his pockets, a fire soon crackled merrily. Illumination expanded like a spotlight until the area around the caravan was included in the ragged-edged circle.

  Nate skirted the fire, loathe to walk through the conflagration though it could hardly do him damage, seeing as Bertie could see every spark through him as he walked. “Watch yer back, lass, ye don’t know what he’ll do next.”

  Waschbär gestured to the merry blaze. “Let us sit, enjoy your fine fire, and share both food and safety in numbers.”

  “We have the numbers if you have the food,” Mustardseed said.

  In response, the newcomer nudged his pack over. Apples, sugar buns, and little brown nuts rolled in every direction. A very dead rodent landed on the ground as well, eyes gummy and mouth hanging agape.

  Bertie wrinkled her nose at the sight of it. “That’s nasty!”

  “No, that’s a squirrel.” Waschbär considered it a moment, sniffed it twice, and set it to one side.

  The fairies ventured closer to the provider of sustenance, more afraid of skipping a meal than of possible death and dismemberment. Ariel managed to step between Bertie and the stranger without making a noise, but Waschbär acknowledged the defensive gesture with a chortle. The rumble moved down his chest to dislodge a pair of furry slippers from his pockets, which proceeded to scamper about his ankles.

  Startled, Peaseblossom flicked her fingertips at the unwelcome arrivals. “Shoo! Go on, you nasty things.”

  The animals hissed and retreated in a series of humpity steps, backs arched and teeth bared, but they did not flee.

  “What are they?” Bertie held out her hand and got bitten for her trouble.

  “Dinner,” Nate said.

  “Ferrets,” Waschbär supplied. “They’ve been my only company these many years.”

  “I say we poke them with sticks,” Mustardseed said.

  “Be my guest,” Cobweb said. “You’ll be lucky to not get eaten.”

  “They’ve never eaten anyone. Well, not to my knowledge, at least.” Waschbär said with a nod. “This one is Pip Pip and the other Cheerio.”

  “So they’re British ferrets,” Peaseblossom said.

  Moth perked up a bit. “Perhaps they’re royal ferrets.”

  “‘Her Majesty’s Ferrets’ certainly has a ring to it.”

  “What do you think, Ariel?”

  “I have no opinion on ferrets, royal or otherwise.” The air elemental reached out his hands and pulled, as though upon an invisible rope.

  “Oh, oh, are you pantomiming a tug-of-war?” Mustardseed hopped up and down.

  Ariel’s glance would have withered an Opening Night bouquet. “No.” Another pull, this time accompanied by a dragging noise.

  Startled, Bertie jumped. “What are you doing?”

  “I have no intention of sitting on the ground.” One last pull, and he hauled a fallen log into their midst. The ferrets immediately clambered upon it, chattering their approval.

  “Perfection. Now we shall break bread.” Waschbär located two sugar buns and picked up one in each hand. Casting about, he took three sure steps through the tallest of the grass and crouched down. When she squinted hard, Bertie could see a tiny, slow-moving stream lazily traversing the field. Humming to himself, the sneak-thief plunged the buns into the water. After much sloshing and splashing, he turned and offered the damp bits of bread to Moth and Cobweb.

  They couldn’t conceal their disgust. “What did you do that for?”

  Waschbär marveled at their dejected countenances. “But I washed them just for you! Do you not clean your food?”

  “No,” said Moth. “Most people don’t. At least not like that.”

  “To heck with most people, I sure don’t,” said Cobweb. “You want to dunk them in jam, fine. Frosting, you don’t even have to ask. But water?”

  “I don’t even like to drink water, much less soak my food in it,” Mustardseed said.

  “All right, then.” Waschbär selected two more buns. The boys accepted them and retreated to the other side of the fire to share out the spoils while the sneak-thief sat back on his haunches, his musk more pronounced as the fire warmed his variety of furs. “What would you like to eat, Beatrice? Rough bread? Sharp cheese? Joint of roast mutton?”

  “This is fine.” Not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful, Bertie picked up a rosy red apple and took a tiny bite as she crossed to the improvised bench. Nate leaned against the log, looking wholly disapproving when Ariel moved closer. Now that the situation wasn’t dire, Bertie could appreciate the unfamiliar scent of the countryside: hay and campfire smoke and what she assumed was a distant cow. Stars winked into existence overhead, as though eager to keep an eye on her. “And you can call me Bertie. Unexpected use of Beatrice makes me think I’m in trouble.”

  “As you like, Bertie.” Waschbär studied her across the fire while his nimble fingers cracked nuts with a rapidity that defied logic. “So what thing is wanted here?”

 
“Paper.” The bit of fruit stuck halfway down her throat, and Bertie had sudden sympathy for Snow White. “But not your average sort—”

  With a gleeful noise, he turned his pack completely over. Bits of twine threaded with shiny beads spilled out alongside a gold ring that gleamed with opal-fire. A glass vial scattered colored sand into the grass.

  Peaseblossom peered over his shoulder. “The ring is lovely.”

  Waschbär nodded as he polished it on the front of his shirt. “From the jewel cask of a castle on the Lightning Ridge.”

  “What’s with the sand?” Moth wanted to know.

  The sneak-thief let a bit dribble through his nimble fingers. “The sands of time.”

  Bertie would have reached for that, drawn by the glittering flecks of stone, but Ariel’s words caught her wandering attention.

  “The lady asked you for paper.”

  “There’s paper, and then there’s paper.” With a wink and a nod of acknowledgment, Waschbär tossed aside a piece of ragged silk to reveal a journal. The leather cover was tooled in designs that shifted with the firelight, and the thong closure held an ebony fountain pen against the edge of the pages….

  Pages that glowed.

  Nate cursed under his breath, then added, “Just like Th’ Book.”

  “Oh, my.” Bertie leaned forward to get a better look. “How could that be ‘unwanted’?”

  “Ah, that’s a story. That’s a story for certain!” Waschbär chortled. “Mayhap a wizard left it lying on a stone bench near his tower. Mayhap it fell from the pack of a scribe journeying to his holy land. Mayhap it was locked away in the darkest recesses of a dimly lit sanctuary.” He stroked the cover, softly, so as not to scratch it. “The trick is knowing when something is wanted and when it is not.”

  Even across the fire, Bertie could sense its power. “It’s wanted.”

  “Oh, yes?” The two words held the suggestion of countless deals brokered in sun-warmed marketplaces.

  “I would trade for it.”

  “Of course you would,” the sneak-thief said.

  “I have nothing,” she said, “to equal the value of such a thing.”

  “There are the usual promises,” Waschbär said. “A kiss.”

  Caught between Nate and Ariel, Bertie’s cheeks flamed. “Kisses are nothing but trouble.”

  The fairies jeered. “I thought you said boys were nothing but trouble.”

  “Yes, and who do you think she’s kissing, stupid? Certainly not the fence posts!”

  “Your hand in marriage,” Waschbär suggested with a teasing grin. “Your firstborn child.”

  “I’m too young to get married and have kids,” Bertie protested, desperately trying to avoid making eye contact with either of her male bookends.

  “Come, come, there must be something!” Waschbär leaned back on one elbow, looking deceptively nonchalant. “If you cannot make the standard offerings, then you must make an unusual one. A dream, mayhap. A secret yearning of your heart.”

  Unable to do more than whisper, Bertie asked, “What happens when I give something like that to you?”

  Nate made a rude noise through his nose. “Naught good, I can tell ye that.”

  “Nothing good will come of this.” Ariel tried to keep the warning between the two of them but didn’t quite manage it.

  “Now then, air spirit, do you fear that you are the unwanted thing at this fire?” The sneak-thief’s eyes were bright, black buttons, if buttons could be amused. The firelight didn’t quite illumine their depths, so looking into them was like waving a flashlight around the under-stage area at the Théâtre.

  “Why don’t you give it to her out of the goodness of your heart?” Ariel let slip a blast of hot air, and the fire blazed before dwindling to embers.

  In the shadows, Waschbär chuckled. “If you’ve nothing to trade me, Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, you will have to steal the journal from me.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Bertie stared at him, not quite sure she wasn’t hallucinating due to lack of food and a surplus of campfire smoke up her nose. “You want me to what?”

  A hidden owl hooted as Waschbär lifted the journal to his twitching nose and sniffed it. “Yes, yes, this is the thing that’s wanted here. A place to write your hopes and dreams, eh?”

  “And pudding,” Moth said. The others elbowed him but he wouldn’t recant. “If it were mine, I’d write about treacle tarts and jam roly-poly.”

  “Might I see it?” Bertie held out a hopeful hand, fingers nearly grazing the leather cover before the journal disappeared into the folds of Waschbär’s furs.

  “I think not.” He gave her a wink and a nod.

  “Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.” Mustardseed hammered two walnuts together with an aggrieved air. When they cracked open, he picked out the meats and wore one of the shell halves as a hat.

  “The very definition of stealing would suggest I take it against your will,” Bertie said with a frown.

  “There are many ways to use a word.” Ariel offered guidance as though it were no more than a bit of bread and cheese. “Reflect a moment upon Much Ado About Nothing. Act Two, Scene Three.”

  “Beatrice’s line,” Nate supplied. “‘Against my will, I am sent t’ bid ye come in t’ dinner.’”

  “‘There’s a double meaning in that,’” Bertie said, completing the quote. “A double meaning.”

  The sneak-thief took a coin from his pocket and flipped it over and about his fingers. The flash of silver changed to copper in an instant, then to gold. “Why, ’tis a cockle!” The coin morphed into a shell, heart shaped and striped. “Or a walnut shell. A knack, a toy, a trick; they are all words.”

  “Not just playthings,” Nate said, ghostly fingers seeking out the nape of Bertie’s neck. “We know better than that. They can be used as weapons, t’ cut and t’ wound.”

  There were so many things she wanted to say to him, none of which could be uttered before this audience. Vowing that the next thing to be stolen, after the journal, would be a moment alone with him, Bertie selected her words with care. “There are many ways to steal something. I might steal it the way I steal a glance.” She looked at Waschbär from under her eyelashes.

  “Yes, you might,” he said.

  “Or there is the way I might steal a kiss.” Plucking Mustardseed from the air mid-flight, Bertie planted her lips on his cheek, much to his chagrin.

  Waschbär smiled. “Yes, it might be stolen in that fashion. Perhaps with a bit more enjoyment, in some cases.” His gaze flickered over Mustardseed, who had rubbed his face nearly raw and was still making disgusted noises and rude comments about girl germs.

  “A heart might be stolen.” Ariel’s soft suggestion was nearly lost to the crackle and hiss of the fire.

  “I might steal someone’s thunder,” Bertie said, then held her breath when lightning ripped through the canvas of the night and the promised noise rattled her very bones. This was no sound effect, wrung from a sheet of metal in the flies; the real thing settled in the back of her skull and tasted of ozone.

  “Almost there,” Waschbär said.

  “Mind what you say next, Bertie,” Ariel said, sounding far more cavalier at full volume. “I don’t care to be burned to a crisp by an errant lightning bolt.”

  “Hush,” Peaseblossom told him. “This is the important bit.”

  Bertie clasped her hands about her knees until her knuckles turned white. “But I think I need to steal … the show. My show.”

  The journal appeared in her lap, a sudden weight upon her legs and mind.

  “That’s it, that’s it!” Waschbär clapped his massive paws as he reclined against his pack, at ease with the universe now that the game was done.

  Bertie ran her hands over the leather cover, nerve-clumsy fingers untying the knot that bound the journal closed. “It is like The Book’s paper, albeit less wrinkled and smeary.” Pulling their exit page out for comparison, she was gratified to see how its glow matched that of the journ
al. “See? ‘Following Her Stars’—”

  With a sizzle and a hiss, the page from The Book fused into the binding of the journal. Sparks of light flew every direction. All four of the fairies froze midair, Bertie’s hair frizzled with static electricity, and a hollow noise echoed around them, like an enormous door slamming shut.

  Ariel reached toward her, then thought better of it and let his hand drop. “Did you not stop to think that reading that line out loud might have acted us back to the theater? Why would you do something so foolish?”

  “I …” Bertie swallowed. “The Book is part of the Théâtre, the outside world is the journal, and my story belongs to both places.” It was one of those lies that, once spoken, became truth.

  “You’re truly the Teller of Tales now.” A shudder rippled through Ariel. “I hope you understand what that means.”

  Mustardseed flailed his arms about. “Won’t SOMEONE think of the PUDDING?!”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.” Bertie closed the journal. “Caution whispers in my ear.”

  “Would that ye’d thought o’ that a bit sooner, eh?” Nate’s soft words eased over her shoulder.

  With a glare at the ready, she turned. The last remaining sparks of The Book’s golden light clung to him in places, flaring, burning bits of him away. The desire to speak privately instantaneously transformed into Necessity. Leaping to her feet, Bertie trumpeted, “I’m exhausted. I vote we make camp and get a fresh start in the morning.”

  “At the cock’s crow?” Mustardseed said behind her.

  Moth opened his mouth, but Peaseblossom pointed a stern finger at him. “Don’t you dare!” she admonished. “Not before company!”

  Waschbär stretched until several vertebrae popped like champagne corks. “It would be good to start your merry romp on the morrow,” he said with a yawn that revealed his back molars. “It’s full dark, and the hour is late.”

  Ariel slanted a wicked look at Bertie. “And let’s not forget that there are dangerous creatures afoot.”

  The sneak-thief mistook his meaning but still concurred. “Lurking beyond the firelight are things larger and more fearsome than our friends the wolves.”