"Yes, I suppose I did."

"But Marie Antoinette's chaise! And this cushion!" Mr. Hastings rearranged his gla.s.ses 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 a.s.sessed 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 Theatre 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 bra.s.s handle.

"Out of the way." Bertie applied her upper-body strength and growing desperation to the sticky drawer, 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 sc.r.a.p 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 pa.s.sersby 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 bra.s.s 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 phosph.o.r.escent 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 s.p.a.ce 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"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 a.s.sault, Bertie stepped back seconds before something smashed into the spot where she'd been standing. "What the h.e.l.l?"

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 st.u.r.dy 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 b.u.t.terflies. "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 a.s.sortment 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 advice 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."