"Nate warned me."

"He's the one who made you wear it."

"To keep me safe," Bertie amended.

"From stupid Ariel," Cobweb said.

"And all that disgusting kissing," Mustardseed said.

Peaseblossom patted Bertie on the shoulder. "Boys can be so dumb." That evoked a protest in three-part harmony, but Peaseblossom spoke over them. "It's true! You're dumb as rocks."

Bertie put her forehead against her knees. "This is all so screwed up," she said into her jeans. "Nate's been kidnapped, Ariel's vanished. The Book is missing. Management is going to kill me-"

In the middle of her quiet tirade, the lights died. Bertie looked up, startled, and the fairies froze. A low red glow came up onstage, accompanied by a violin's haunting protest. A gibbous moon rose slowly against the back wall as mist poured in from the wings.

Someone had called for a scene change.

Bertie put a finger to her lips, waiting to see who-or what-would enter. A trapdoor opened, and a figure rose to Center Stage.

"Through the house, give glimmering light by the dead and drowsy fire. A puff of wind is what we need to rouse the flames from slumber."

The newcomer snapped his fingers. A thousand fire-streamers leapt into the air to scorch the overhanging limbs of a gnarled tree. Smoke billowed from behind its trunk in chemical clouds, while a sudden wind tore through the room with grasping claws. In seconds, the blistering combination of heat and air dried everything from the dripping seats to the blue-smudged tangle of Bertie's hair.

"It's Ariel," she whispered. "He finally answered the call." Bertie saw then that he held The Book in his slim, white hands. Already it looked thinner, its leather cover set at a sad angle, and she wondered if the lighting onstage was indeed red, or if that was just murderous rage spilling over into her vision.

"What's the plan?" Mustardseed wanted to know.

"Now would be a good time to jump him," said Cobweb. "We still have the element of surprise."

"For once, you're making sense." Bertie exhaled hard through her nose. "You distract him, and I'll smash his head in with one of those rocks."

Peaseblossom shushed her. "He's going to say something."

"This Book has powerful magic, stronger than I ever could have imagined." Ariel hovered next to the stones containing the blaze, reflections of flames dancing in the liquid black of his eyes. The smoke rose and twisted about him, tugging at his hair and his clothes, shifting, then settling about his shoulders like a cloak.

Bertie clutched the medallion and focused all her hatred and concentration upon him.

Show me what you really are, Ariel.

His form wavered; one second he was a great winged creature with glowing eyes and claws bared, the next no more than a breeze stirring the leaves. Then he was as he'd always been: terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"Perhaps," he crooned to the open pages, "the power of the stage can overcome your hold over me." Moonlight painted him with a silver brush as he held The Book aloft. "I call upon the winds of the world to stir the oceans and cover the sky with clouds. Uproot the trees, unseat the mountains, and cause the earth to groan. We shall, like mighty magicians, release the dead from this grave." Thunder and lightning, but Ariel's voice rang clear over the din. "I am one of the dead; let nothing bind me."

He opened The Book to a random page, gripped it in his fist, and tore it out.

"No!" Bertie's scream of protest was lost as everything shuddered: the carved moldings, the proscenium arch, the ma.s.sive chandelier. She ran down the red-carpeted aisle and tried to make her voice heard over the noise. "Take your entrance page and go!"

Ariel looked both surprised and ashamed for all of a millisecond before a familiar half-smile slid into place. He shook his head. "Don't you think I've tried that? Mine is the only one that won't come out."

"I don't understand. . . ."

"No," he said softly, "you don't. Not about any of it."

"Ariel-"

"Hush," he interrupted, "I will show you." He turned the pages of The Book until he arrived at one that seemed brighter than all the others. His fingers curled under the edges, gripped it until his knuckles shuddered in protest. He wrenched at it with visible effort, but it wouldn't budge. When he released the paper, not a single wrinkle marred its surface. "Do you see?"

Bertie was afraid to ask, but the question voiced itself. "What will you do?"

Ariel didn't answer. Instead, he flipped through The Book, grasped another page. When he tore it out, the heavy curtains on either side of the stage fell in velvet puddles.

Bertie reeled as though he'd stabbed her. "Ariel, stop! The theater's magic is bound to The Book!"

"Precisely why I am going to tear the pages out, one by one, until its magic is broken, until it can no longer hold me."

Bertie threw out her hand as though she could summon The Book to her by will alone. "Give it to me, Ariel, before I break every bone in your body!"

"Every bone!" echoed the fairies as they rushed forward.

"Tell them to stay back, Bertie," Ariel said. "Or I'll summon a wind merely for the pleasure of pulping your friends against the nearest wall."

"Do as he says." Bertie never took her eyes off Ariel.

The fairies ducked behind a chair with great reluctance, but Bertie took deliberate steps toward him. Ariel held up his hand, gathering the winds behind him. She fought against the rising vortex of noise and chaos, but the power rushed over his shoulders to shove at her as though every wind fan and storm machine had been turned on.

"I said stay back!" he warned her.

"So help me," she screamed into the tempest, "I'll see you in chains before I let you destroy this place!"

Ariel shouted something in response as he disappeared behind the ma.s.sive, wooden waves that rolled in from Stage Right. Bertie tried to crawl over them, then around, but the water rose higher as wheels and gears spun and clanked.

"Come back here!" she shouted.

"Pull for sh.o.r.e, sailor!" cried an offstage voice. A boat filled with oar-wielding Mariners entered Stage Right.

Prospero, wizard hat askew and beard streaming in the wind, pointed a bony finger at Bertie. "Have you seen Ariel, girl-child?"

"Yes!" She punctuated the word with wild gesticulating. "He went behind that wave! Someone grab him!"

Prospero peered over the scenery. "There's no one there. Don't play games with me! Do you know who I am?" He puffed out his chest with self-importance.

The fairies landed on Bertie's shoulders, no longer obliged to stay back.

"You're supposed to be Ariel's master," Moth said.

"If this was a cla.s.s, you'd be flunking," said Cobweb.

"What are these creatures babbling about?" the wizard sputtered.

"Ariel stole The Book," Bertie said. She heaved herself over the side of the boat and landed in a tangle of hemp rope tied in intricate knots. "I need to get it back."

The Mariners shrank away from her. "Wummin aboard's bad luck!" As one, they jumped out, shouting, "Splash!"

Without anyone to row, the boat shuddered to a halt. After a series of ominous creaks, it fell thoroughly apart, disgorging its two remaining pa.s.sengers onto the stage. Bertie landed hard on her backside, but Prospero somehow managed to leap clear of the wreckage with a dexterous swirl of pale blue robes.

"What sort of foul spell was that?" he demanded.

"It wasn't me!" Bertie stood with a wince, though she had more to worry about than a few bruises on her elbows and b.u.m. "Ariel's tearing out the pages, and it's destroying everything. A sandbag already tried to kill me."

"The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance." Prospero stroked his beard, trying to look wise.

"Try telling Ariel that," Mustardseed said.

"Never mind that vengeance is more satisfying," Moth muttered.

"Tearing the pages out, you say?" Prospero asked.

The walls shuddered again. Dust sifted over them as ancient boards shifted and settled.

"He's trying to free himself." Goose b.u.mps crawled down Bertie's arms. "He was penned as your servant. Your slave. Maybe he can't get his page out because you need to set him free?"

"Pah!" Prospero's exclamation involved quite a bit of spit. "You speak folly, girl-child. I set Ariel free every performance."

"It's not enough for him." Bertie wanted to scream and stamp her foot at him, but with her shoes off, there wasn't really a point. "He wants the freedom to come and go as he pleases."

"Mostly to go," Peaseblossom said.

"Ah." The word rolled out of the wizard like an incantation. "Our revels now are ended. These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air."

"Please," Bertie implored, "just use whatever magic you have to release him."

Prospero held up his hand in a gesture intended to command the attention of the audience, to halt the breath in every chest. "Graves, at my command, have waked their sleepers, opened, and let them forth!"

"Big deal," Cobweb said. "Everyone in a grave here is a Player!"

"Then I shall raise the dead elsewhere." Prospero marched to the edge of the stage and took a suicidal leap into the orchestra pit.

"Wait!" Bertie called. "Where are you going?"

He strode up the red-carpeted runner. "I would see the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself!"

"No, no, no!" Bertie shrieked. "You're taking that line out of context!"

"Yeah!" yelled Moth. "The next bit is about it all being an insubstantial pageant!"

"And such stuff dreams are made on!" Peaseblossom said. "The outside world isn't about dreams!"

"Not good ones, at least," Cobweb said.

But Prospero didn't mark them as he shoved open the door under the green Exit sign. Blinding white light cut through the semi-gloom, and everyone blinked at it as the outer doors revolved with whispers. The lobby door slammed shut, and Prospero was gone.

Bertie closed her eyes and shuddered. "How far do you think Ariel's gotten? Tearing out the pages, I mean."

"I'll see thee hanged on Sunday first!" screamed an offstage voice. The words were followed by one of Bertie's shoes, launched at the head of a laughing man in a shabby crimson doublet.

"The Taming of the Shrew, I think," said Peaseblossom.

Petruchio kissed his fist and waved it at the disembodied voice screaming epithets at him in Italian. "Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret; I will be master of what is mine own!" When he turned to Bertie, his expression altered not a whit. After an elaborate bow, he grasped her by the hand and pulled her close. "But ho, what a comely la.s.s waits here. Perhaps you are a flower waiting to be plucked."

Bertie turned thirty shades of red and wondered just what he would do if she slapped him a good one across his florid cheek. She tried to withdraw her imprisoned hand. "I think perhaps your attention is misplaced."

Petruchio only leered harder, if that were possible, and leaned close, ruddy whiskers all abristle and breath reeking of cheap wine. "Kiss me, little flower, and let me sup of your sweet nectar."

Two great, beefy lips headed for Bertie's cheek. Recalling the Mistress of Revels and her jujitsu skills, Bertie screamed, "Kee-yaw!" and drove her foot sideways into his kneecap. Petruchio's leg, unappreciative of the onslaught, went out from underneath him at what appeared to be a most uncomfortable angle. The fairies cheered while Bertie stared at the writhing Player, both appalled and impressed by the outcome of her defensive maneuver.

"Let that serve as a reminder to you," she said, "to mind your d.a.m.n manners."

"Strumpet!" Petruchio cried, struggling back to his feet. "Spongy milk-livered canker blossom! Jarring dog-hearted flirt-gill!"

"Wow," Moth said in appreciation.

Encouraged by the feedback, Petruchio added, "Currish rude-growing baggage!"

Bertie towered over him when she stood up straight. "That's enough name-calling from you, pipsqueak."

Still muttering all manner of ill-natured insults, Petruchio hobbled from the stage, down the runner, and jerked open the Exit door. He, too, disappeared into the blinding light, no doubt in search of a blossom more amenable to sharing her nectar.

Another shudder underfoot. The fountain pen, forgotten in the interim, rolled onstage and came to rest by Bertie's stocking-clad toes. She bent to pick it up, her mind fuzzy with shock, adrenaline, and despair, but then an idea flared like a white-hot spotlight. "I need more paper."

"Another note?" Moth said with a groan.

"No," Bertie said as her thoughts tumbled over each other like drunken acrobats. "Another script. I can't change what's been done, but if I write down what I want to happen, it might come true!"

"The Players do what's in the script." Peaseblossom sucked in her breath.

Bertie paced the length of the stage, unable to keep still. "I'll do it the same as I did for my own play. It really isn't any different from How Bertie Came to the Theater, right?"

"Sure!" Moth said, covering his head. "Well, except where the bits of the ceiling keep falling on us."

"No need to add the potholes this time," Cobweb said. "I think Ariel's got the destruction angle covered."

"Just try to do better than you did on the script for the tango scene," Moth said, "because that didn't work out very well for anyone."

Bertie staggered to a halt. Caught up in the chase, she'd banished the horror of Sedna's appearance and Nate's kidnapping to the farthest recesses of her brain. Pain flared up at the memory, and for a moment Bertie thought that she might be sick all over the stage. "Nate-"

"Focus!" Peaseblossom smacked her lightly on the cheek. "Recover The Book, then we'll think of a way to get Nate back. You'll have to keep your wits about you. This will be a sword fight, but with words."

"Even if Ariel doesn't show up for the duel," Bertie said, her pen at the ready, "I have to try to guide what happens next, without plague, pestilence, or potholes."