Eyes Like Stars (9 page)

Bertie screwed her eyes shut and rubbed her thumb over the medallion.

Nate thought this would make a good luck charm. So let’s see it do some magic.

“What do you think of our handiwork?” Peaseblossom demanded.

Bertie opened her eyes and confronted her reflection in the full-length mirror, which told her that the scrimshaw’s luck had yet to have any influence in matters of fashion. “I thought we were going for something professional.”

“It’s pin-striped,” Peaseblossom said, weighted down by a long strand of pearls and an offended expression.

“Classy!” added Moth.

“Like a lawyer going to court,” said Cobweb with a nod.

“I guess,” Bertie conceded. “But it’s still a corset. And the skirt?”

“It’s a bit short, but it’s the best we could do with so little notice.” Mrs. Edith tugged on the hem. “It’s more decent than the costumes for the musical numbers, at least. Face front, please, and raise your arms over your head.”

“Hold on.” Bertie pulled the scrimshaw out of the way and obeyed, instantly sorry when the Wardrobe Mistress tightened the strings on her bodice. “Oooof!”

“The laces have stretched since you first put it on,” Mrs. Edith said.

“No problem. I wasn’t using that oxygen.” Bertie thought of the almost-kiss she and Nate had shared in the corridor.
He said I needed to change clothes, but I doubt this is what he had in mind.

“Stand up straight,” Mrs. Edith said. “Shoulders back and tummy in.” She took the pearls from Peaseblossom and went to fasten them around Bertie’s neck, encountering the scrimshaw hanging there already. “What’s this?”

“My good-luck charm from Nate.” When Mrs. Edith narrowed her eyes in scrutiny, Bertie amended, “Well, not really from him. He got it in the Properties Department.”

Mrs. Edith sniffed her disapproval of both Nate and the scrimshaw’s origins. “Anything a Player wears belongs to Wardrobe.”

“What if it was an eye patch?” Moth asked.

“Wardrobe,” Mrs. Edith said.

“And what about a baldric?” Cobweb wrapped a bit of twine about his waist. “For carrying a sword.”

“That’s a kind of belt, so it’s Wardrobe.”

“What about the actual sword?” Mustardseed said, his little eyes squinched up with concentration. “If it’s sheathed, it’s being worn.”

“But if it’s being used, it’s a prop,” Peaseblossom said.

“Some items,” Mrs. Edith conceded, “are subject to interpretation.” She nodded at the medallion. “You should take it off, dear. It interrupts the flow of your ensemble.”

Bertie closed her hand over the scrimshaw. “I prefer to keep it on. I’m superstitious, too.”

“Since when?”

“Since I might be homeless.”

Mrs. Edith peered at Bertie over her spectacles. “We shan’t let that happen.”

Bertie sniffed heroically. “No, we shan’t.”

“That’s right, my girl. Stiff upper lip.” Mrs. Edith made her final adjustments to Bertie’s clothes and posture. “Now, when you sit—”

Bertie put a hand to her waist. “I don’t think I’ll be sitting in this thing.”

“Nonsense, of course you’ll sit. Ease yourself into the chair and do your best to perch on the edge.”

“Perch. Right.” Bertie tugged at the front of the bodice and got her hands slapped for her trouble. “Anything else?”

“Spectacles!” Cobweb handed her a pair of cat’s-eye glasses set with twinkling rhinestones.

“They don’t even have lenses in them!” Bertie poked her fingers through the empty holes in the rims and waggled them at her accomplices. “Anything else?”

Mrs. Edith held up white gloves.

Bertie balked. “No way. The glasses are bad enough.”

“You said the heels were bad enough!” said Mustardseed with a giggle.

“The heels
were
bad enough,” echoed Bertie. “I wanted to look presentable, not like a Gal Friday.”

Mrs. Edith didn’t say anything, but she looked a thousand sorts of awful.

Aware further protests would be useless, Bertie took the gloves and smoothed them on, one at a time. The corset prevented her from heaving a long-suffering sigh. “When I swoon from lack of air, someone is going to have to cut me out of this thing.”

Mrs. Edith looked to Peaseblossom, the least irresponsible of the four. “If she faints, cut her out from the back. Replacing the laces is simple, but if you slice through the boning, I will see that your wings are removed. With tweezers.”

All four fairies paled. “Yes, ma’am!” they answered in one voice.

“Good. And as for you, my miss—”

Bertie pivoted on one heel and flashed her most mature, serene smile at the Wardrobe Mistress. “Yes?”

Mrs. Edith hesitated, and Bertie looked down in alarm.

“What? Am I coming out somewhere?”

“You . . . you just look so grown up.” The older woman pulled an elaborately embroidered hankie out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

“Isn’t that what we wanted?”

When Mrs. Edith didn’t answer, Bertie forgot all the instructions about perfect posture and decorum. She threw her arms about the Wardrobe Mistress, inhaling the scents
of lavender water, starch, and needle-thin silver; Mrs. Edith smelled of comfort and safety.

And home.

Bertie nearly choked on her fear. “What if he doesn’t agree? What if I have to leave?”

Mrs. Edith’s arms tightened around Bertie before the older woman pulled back far enough to look her in the eye. “That, my dear, is the worst-case scenario.”

“Ariel said I should be excited,” Bertie said. “That it’s my chance to go find my mother.”

Mrs. Edith’s face tightened. “Ariel should keep his own counsel.”

“That’s what I told him,” Bertie said.

“No, you didn’t!” said Moth. “You told him to shut up.”

“The only thing is—” Bertie paused, wondering how to word it, then gave up trying to be delicate “—if there’s anything else you know, anything at all, about how I came here . . .”

Mrs. Edith took a deep breath and held it a moment. “I’ve told you all I can. You were left on the doorstep when you were very young.”

“And you didn’t see anyone, anything—”

“I would tell you more if I could.” Mrs. Edith enveloped her in another swift, firm hug. “Now go on, dear. Break a leg.”

Bertie had heard the phrase countless times over the years, but never directed at her. The well-wish settled alongside the carved bone disk, just between her collarbones.

“Posture!” Mrs. Edith admonished.

“Come on, let’s go!” Bertie beckoned to the fairies. They rocketed to the door with handfuls of swiped sequins and beads.

“Miscreants!” Mrs. Edith narrowed her gaze at them and, by all the laws of physics, they should have burst into flames. The Wardrobe Mistress adjusted her glasses as though they were at fault and called to Bertie, “Remember, Management appreciates a well-polished presentation. Do your best to enunciate, and try not to stutter.”

“I’ve never once stuttered!” Bertie said, indignant.

“Stage fright, dear,” Mrs. Edith said. “It affects everyone, though you’ve never had the occasion to feel it before. Take deep breaths and you’ll be fine!”

The door swung shut between them with a hollow boom that echoed down the hallway.

“Deep breaths.” Bertie tried, but managed a quarter of a breath or perhaps a third. “Maybe she shouldn’t have tightened my corset so much.”

The five of them stood there for a moment. And another. Bertie shifted from one high-heel-shod foot to the other.

These shoes really are uncomfortable. It’s no wonder the Chorus Girls are so cranky, if they have to dance in them.

“Are we going yet?” whispered Mustardseed.

“I think she’s screwing her courage,” said Peaseblossom, “to the sticking place.”

“What are we sticking?” asked Moth.

“And where are we sticking it?” That was Cobweb.

“I think when we get there, you four should stay outside.” Bertie set off down the hall at a purposeful clip.

The fairies protested as they flew to catch up. “But we didn’t say anything rude yet!”

“Yet,” Bertie repeated for emphasis. “The rude part is inevitable, and you’re not the sort of supporting cast I need in a boardroom setting. We’re talking about my future at the theater here, not a pie-flinging contest.”

“There’s going to be pie?” Mustardseed clapped his hands. “What kind?”

“She means she doesn’t trust us to behave ourselves,” said Peaseblossom. The hitch in her tiny voice was unmistakable as she landed on Bertie’s shoulder.

“It’s not that.” Bertie tilted her chin toward Peaseblossom, taking care not to knock her off. “All right, maybe it is that. Just a little.”

“Mostly the boys, though, right?” Peaseblossom whispered.

“Of course.” Bertie pressed a hand to the cramp she was getting just under her ribs. “Walking in this thing is a pain in the—”

“Language,” Peaseblossom said to cut her off.

“Spleen,” Bertie finished.

Peaseblossom snickered. “I’ll try to keep the boys occupied during your meeting, but you know how they are.” She
chased after the others, who’d raced ahead, reached the end of the passage, and disappeared around a right-hand turn.

“Yes,” Bertie said, trying to keep up. “I know how they are.”

“Beatrice.”

Ariel’s voice was ice down her back, despite its attempt at warmth, and his slim fingers wrapped about her wrist before she realized how close he was.

“That is quite the ensemble,” he said. “Are you joining the Ladies’ Chorus?”

“No.” Bertie attempted to recover her hand from his grasp, but didn’t quite manage it.

“A tryst, perhaps? A secret assignation?” Ariel tilted his head to one side, as though he needed one eye to be a quarter of an inch higher than the other to ponder the great mystery of her destination. “Tsk. Mrs. Edith will be disappointed all her hovering didn’t succeed in strangling your puberty into submission.” He led her in a turn, whistling soft and low. “Who are you meeting with, dressed as you are?”

“Nate.” Bertie pulled back as far as she could. “We have a hot date aboard the
Persephone
, and I couldn’t find a wench costume.”

Ariel shook his head. “Try again.”

Bertie remembered Mrs. Edith’s admonitions about posture and drew herself up. “The Gentlemen’s Chorus offered to help me remain at the theater if I gave them each a kiss.”

Ariel tried on a smile and stroked her hand. “That’s two missteps in this charming dance. Would you care to attempt a third?”

Bertie glared at him; if looks were blowtorches, he wouldn’t have any eyebrows left at all. “I have a meeting with Management, remember?” She tugged again at the hand trapped in his. “Kindly let me go.”

“Ah, Management.” Ariel laced his fingers through hers, tucked her arm under the crook of his elbow, and began to stroll as though they were in a Promenade scene, French Countryside. Bertie sucked in a breath at the intimacy of the gesture, but he continued, “Have you ever been up to the Manager’s Office before?”

“Once or twice,” Bertie admitted.
Perhaps more. Perhaps every time the Stage Manager led me there by the ear to await judgment. And perhaps there’s a wooden chair with grooves worn into it that exactly match the contours of my backside.

Ariel laughed, soft and low. A cool breeze teased around the edges of Bertie’s very short skirt, and when she inhaled, she could smell autumn leaves. She hazarded a sideways glance at him, watching the frosted fall of his hair shift over his shoulders. It was restless. Wild.
Just like him.
The tiny hairs on Bertie’s arms stood on end.

Of course he noticed. “Am I making you nervous, Beatrice?”

“No,” she managed, pleased she could match his cool tone.

Ariel laughed again, and now her goose bumps had goose bumps. “I think I am.”

Troubled to realize he
was
making her nervous, Bertie reached up to touch the scrimshaw for comfort.

She’d heard of people who saw double after hitting their head or, in the case of the pirates, imbibing too much rum. Though she’d done neither, her vision blurred a bit, as if she were looking at Ariel through saltwater. He still held her arm, still had his head at an earnest tilt, but beyond that mask of calm and elegance was an Ariel-shaped mass of writhing, snakelike tendrils. Scarves and streamers moved swiftly, weaving in and out among each other, reaching out to tug at her clothes and pull her toward them. They spoke in silk-hisses of the desperate need roiling under the surface of his skin, and their whispers stole the breath from her lungs.

“Let me go!” Bertie pinched the fleshy inner curve of his arm with her fingernails until he released her.

“Whatever is the matter with the girl?” Ariel asked the empty hallway.

“I’m not falling for your Prince Charming act.” She didn’t back away, though she very much wanted to.

“Act?” Smooth as cream. “Am I not your handsome prince, ready to save you from this mundane existence?”

“I hadn’t realized how badly you want your freedom.” The corset helped put steel in her spine; Bertie felt very tall, very thin, and very much in control. “I’m sorry, Ariel, but
Players can’t leave the theater, and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“I don’t believe you.” The air warmed with the promise of a summer storm. What little distance there was between them disappeared as he stepped even closer. “Aren’t you trying to change things so that you can stay?”

Bertie opened her mouth to argue and realized he spoke the truth.

“I see the lady is speechless, for once.” His lips twitched with the faintest suggestion of a sneer as he permitted his gaze to come to rest on her cleavage. “Such a pity your intellect didn’t blossom with the rest of you.”

Mrs. Edith had told her once that the costume made the character, but only now did Bertie understand what she’d meant. The corset was dainty, demure, pin-striped, and it wanted her to slap Ariel across the face.

But Bertie was more than the sum of her clothing, so she cocked her arm and punched him as hard as she could in the stomach.

Ariel staggered back, unprepared for such an assault. They stared at one another, Bertie ready to duck and weave if he decided to return the favor and Ariel holding a hand to his solar plexus until the air returned to his lungs.