Bertie turned and studied the gilt-framed Call Board as the boys whined about wanting a snack. Normally the cork would be peppered with schedules and notices, appointments for costume fittings and personal missives from one Player to another. All that had been cleared off so that only a single piece of official Theatre stationery was affixed in the center with a bra.s.s tack: ALL PLAYERS TO THE STAGE. TEN O'CLOCK.

Thousands of costumes rustled as the Players answered the summons. Bertie had once asked Nate where he was, when she couldn't find him onstage or in any of the various departments.

"Ye know," he'd answered, "I couldn't really say. 'Twould be like tryin' t' describe th' place ye go t' when ye sleep."

But no one slumbered now. Fools and martyrs, companions and consorts, the damsels, dilettantes, and Don Juans all crowded the hallway, queuing up to file through the door that led backstage. They whispered behind hands, masks, and feathered fans, trading speculations like an invisible currency.

"You're going to be late," Peaseblossom fretted, tugging Bertie's clothes into some semblance of tidiness.

"The Theater Manager's lecture can wait," Bertie said. "I want to know what the announcement is all about. Now where did the boys go?"

Peaseblossom jerked her thumb at the door adjacent to the Call Board. "To get something to eat."

Bertie often thought that if she had a grandmother, and that grandmother had a parlor, and that parlor perpetually awaited the vicar's arrival for tea, it would be just like the Green Room. Spikes of painted iris grew up the wallpaper, and the sofa's moss-velvet was rubbed so thin in places as to be nearly gray and kitten-soft. The mica window set into the pet.i.te cast-iron stove revealed the cheerful glow of burning coals. Tiny, unexpected posies bloomed in forgotten corners, while an enormous clock tick-tick-ticked away the seconds until showtime.

The refreshment selection varied wildly according to the Theatre's whims, with cuc.u.mber sandwiches curling up their crustless edges in mortification one day while the next the table might boast flaming Christmas pudding and treacle roly-poly.

"Come on," Bertie hissed at the boys. "Your behavior can't possibly benefit from a ma.s.sive intake of sugar, grease, or caffeine right now."

"Says you!" Cobweb protested. "Here! Have a doughnut!"

"Aren't you supposed to be upstairs?" Moth dove head-first into one of the cupcakes.

The horn speaker clicked on, its translucent bell trembling as it announced, "All Players to the stage, please. Repeat, all Players to the stage."

"I'm coming with you guys," Bertie said. "You can't ignore a call, so let's go."

"We shall resist until we have sated our appet.i.tes and slaked our thirst!" Mustardseed wriggled down the neck of a tall, gla.s.s bottle to guzzle fizzy orange drink.

"Stay here to stuff your faces, then!" Bertie ducked into the corridor, threaded her way through the Ladies' Chorus, turned a corner, and set off down the empty hallway at a half-run.

"Why are we going this way?" Moth licked the frosting off his arms as he caught up.

"I have to find another way in," Bertie said. "The Stage Manager's sure to be standing guard at the other door, but he won't think to check the catwalks."

"Hey, Mustardseed took a bag of jelly beans!" Cobweb whined, far less concerned about access to the stage than stolen snacks.

"You can have the black one."

"But I wanted the red one!"

A m.u.f.fled noise, then, "Now it's up my nose. Still want it?" followed by a very sulky "No!"

"That's why I don't eat the green ones." Bertie turned another corner only to collide with Ariel.

"Beatrice." The word was molten magic poured from his mouth. Today, his voice was smoke in the breeze, banners caught by the wind. "Do mind where you're going, please."

Bertie flapped her hand at the b.u.t.terfly familiars that followed him everywhere. "I'll do that if you take care of the bug infestation."

Ariel snapped his fingers, and the tiny creatures flocked to his hair. Their red and yellow wings winked at Bertie, opening and closing in time with the pulse at the hollow of his throat. When he swallowed, they disappeared under the white silken neckline of his shirt, summoned within.

Some of the Chorus Girls would love to follow those b.u.t.terflies, Bertie knew. She'd heard them whispering in the dressing rooms, cooing over Ariel's fair complexion and the silver hair that tumbled over his shoulders. Never mind that he was also tall and lean, with high-cut cheekbones and not a superfluous ounce of flesh on him anywhere. . . .

Bertie was about to sigh like a lovelorn schoolgirl when she realized that he was using his powers of persuasion on her and stiffened. "Save it for the stage, Ariel."

He blinked, unaccustomed to such a reaction, but when Bertie went to sidestep him, he blocked her way with one arm. Although the fairies hissed a warning, he didn't relax his gaze upon her. "I was looking for you."

"And you found me. Now if you would be so kind as to get out of my way-"

"Why must you be difficult?" His sigh raised the hair on her arms.

Bertie rubbed at them and scowled. "Why are you even speaking to me, Ariel? Won't the Theater Manager be displeased if someone sees us together?"

Never mind Mrs. Edith.

The Wardrobe Mistress had made her thoughts about Ariel very clear years ago.

MRS. EDITH.

(entering the Wardrobe Department with a swish of heavy skirts) Bertie, dear. Put that tiara down this instant and come here.

BERTIE, AGE 10.

I wasn't hurting it.

MRS. EDITH.

I told you to polish it, not try it on and prance about the Wardrobe.

(She stands with uncharacteristic stillness, gathering the threads of Bertie's attention until her ward cannot look away.) The Theater Manager just called me to his Office to tell me that you've been seen consorting with Ariel again. I thought we had an understanding.

BERTIE.

(studying the pattern on the floor with great interest) We only played on the panpipes together. (defiantly) He has a very nice singing voice.

MRS. EDITH.

Yes, but what did we discuss? Do you remember?

(BERTIE sighs loudly and refuses to answer. MRS. EDITH lifts BERTIE's chin with her thin fingers and fixes her with a martinet's gaze.) Ariel is difficult, dear, difficult to understand, difficult to control. And the more time he spends with you, the more headstrong and willful he becomes. The Theater Manager's orders were clear. You are to keep your distance from Ariel. Do you understand me?

BERTIE.

(with tears in her eyes) Yes, ma'am.

Until Management intervened, Ariel had been her boon companion and the King of All Games. It was he who'd taught her to fly in a harness for the first time and bore the brunt of the Stage Manager's anger over letting a seven-year-old into the catwalks.

Bertie had pleaded with him not to yield to Management's decree.

BERTIE, AGE 10.

(grasping his sleeve) No one ever needs to know. We'll have clandestine meetings, like robbers in a cave by the sea.

ARIEL.

(His voice lowers to a soft breeze through her hair.) What did Mrs. Edith say, exactly?

BERTIE.

(balling her hands into fists) Stupid stuff.

ARIEL.

Don't fret, little one.

(He bends forward to place a gentle kiss on her cheek, no more than the brush of one of his b.u.t.terflies' wings.) I doubt you'll even miss me.

He'd been wrong about that. The desertion had cut deep, and Bertie still hated him for it seven years later. "Would you kindly get out of my way?"

"I suppose you're trying to find an alternate route into the auditorium?" When she didn't answer, Ariel bowed. "I can aid thee in thy efforts, Mademoiselle."

"I don't need your help." Bertie pulled a clove cigarette out of her pocket and lit it with the silver lighter she'd also lifted from the Properties Department.

One languid movement flicked the smoke out of his eyes. "The Stage Manager's blocked off access to the catwalks and the balconies."

A curse slipped out before Bertie could stop it.

"Follow me. You can use my trapdoor. But first . . ." Ariel plucked the cigarette from Bertie's hand and closed his fingers around it. When his hand opened, only a plume of wildflower-scented smoke remained.

Bertie scowled. "What did you do that for?"

"It's a fire hazard and disgusting besides." He peered at her head. "What have you done to your hair?"

Heat crept across Bertie's cheeks. "Just colored it."

"Blue?" The word climbed an entire scale without visible effort.

Bertie bristled. "I like it."

"Not a surprise, considering your abominable taste. Hold still." When Ariel exhaled, gentle currents straightened her clothes and finished drying her hair.

Bertie closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of sunrise and spring. Something darkly tempting and longing-filled bloomed under the sun-warmed gra.s.s and damp earth. She opened her eyes, wanting to ask a question she didn't yet know, but before she could find the words, Ariel turned away.

"Are you coming?" he asked over his shoulder.

Bertie hesitated only a second before falling in step with him, chin up, head high, taking care to look unconcerned about the silence that hung between them like a curtain drawn over their past. Every other sound was amplified: the echo of her footsteps, the low whir of the fairies' wings, the soft sound of Ariel's breath pa.s.sing over his lips, until they reached a tiny door, tucked in a corner like an afterthought. Ariel pointed his fingers at the iron pull, and a breeze tugged the door open. The fairies flew into the darkness with whistles and catcalls.

"Mind where you put your feet," Ariel said, steering Bertie into the dimly lit s.p.a.ce under the stage.

Only his hand at the small of her back kept her from falling into the sea of black as her eyes struggled to adjust. She peered at the light that filtered through the cracks in the creaking boards; above them, the Company moved about, their murmurs no more than the rustle of oak boughs in the wind.

"Everyone's up there?"

Ariel stepped onto a platform. "Having second thoughts about sneaking in?"

Yes. "No."

Bertie ignored his outstretched hand and planted her feet. The trapdoor opened and the platform glided up, depositing them at the back of the ama.s.sed crowd. Bertie winced as the stage lights a.s.saulted her eyes.

Ariel stepped into the brilliant pool without even blinking. "I shall leave you to your skulking, then."

Not wanting to call attention to herself, Bertie skipped making a rude gesture or telling him where he could stick his skulkery. Instead, she eased around the edge of the nervous chatter, doing her best to blend in while the fairies dogged her like four miniature, incandescent shadows. It was difficult to move at all, much less with stealth; Players filled the stage as well as the aisles, the orchestra pit, and every seat in the auditorium.

"How about over there?" Moth pointed at the revolutionaries from Les Miserables, who rubbed elbows with the buccaneers from Peter Pan. Jostling each other, they swapped tall tales and periodically brandished their weapons.

Peaseblossom wrinkled her nose. "The Stage Manager's going to have a fit. They're spitting tobacco juice on the floor."

"Then watch where you fly. You don't want to end up a target." Bertie stood on her tiptoes in time to catch a glimpse of Nate headed in her direction.

"I should have known ye'd sneak back in," he said.

"I don't take orders from that little Napoleon."

Nate didn't have time to interrogate her further, because the "little Napoleon" had entered Stage Left and climbed atop a box so he could be seen by one and all. Conversation died and movement stilled until silence settled over the auditorium.

The Stage Manager, aware that, for perhaps the first time in the history of the Theatre Illuminata, he had the attention of the entire Company, held up his hands and cleared his throat. "The Management extends its thanks for your swift a.s.sembly."

"We hear there's to be an announcement." Bertie pitched her voice in the falsetto used by half the Chorus Girls.

The Stage Manager glared around the room, eyebrows bristling, but didn't spot her all the way in the back. The shadows did their job nicely.

"All in good time, all in good time," he said.

Bertie exhaled through her nose. If he took much longer, she'd never be able to explain away her tardiness to the Theater Manager. That long-suffering gentleman had heard all of her excuses before, so "I got lost" or "was that supposed to be this morning?" wasn't going to work. But Bertie was the self-appointed Queen of Improvisation; no doubt she'd think of something to mollify him. . . .

The Stage Manager puffed up with self-importance. "Some of you might have been present yesterday when the pyrotechnic cannon was discharged."

A few of the Players shuffled their feet, but none hastened to admit they were part of the crowd cheering Bertie on. Her stomach turned over, as though she'd gobbled down a dozen chocolate cupcakes and topped that off with a fizzy orange drink.

"The damages were considerable," the Stage Manager continued, "and this is only the most recent in a series of destructive and negligent acts committed by a single person."

"Bertie," the Players said with one voice.

Nate shivered. Bertie had never seen a pirate covered in gooseflesh and didn't take it as a good omen. Someone must have cued the orchestra; violins began to play with dark harmonics from the bra.s.s. The melody tickled at the back of Bertie's throat, and she shuddered as the music added layer upon layer of tension to the room. The surrounding lights dimmed until the only thing that existed in their universe was the Stage Manager.

"We have done all we could to raise her since she arrived here, a foundling child with neither family nor friends." The Stage Manager put a hand to his heart, as though it pained him to say this, though his mouth quirked with ill-concealed glee. "But the time has come for a change."