"I liked it better when you were a fairy changeling," said Moth as the scenery shifted yet again.

"That was six drafts ago," Mustardseed reminded him.

"Besides, how could she be a fairy changeling, stupid?" asked Cobweb. "She doesn't have wings!"

"Don't call me stupid, half-wit."

"Being a fairy changeling just didn't feel right," said Bertie. "This is my story, and I'll edit it however I please. It's more romantic to travel in a caravan. So shut up!"

"The Mistress of Revels did not immediately take me to the Theatre, as she'd promised my mother," she continued. "No, along the way I learned to dance and sing and tumble-"

"When ye were six months old?" Nate interjected.

"After that," Bertie hedged.

"Oh, aye, when ye were nine months old."

"The journey," Bertie said over him, "was fraught with danger."

The caravan began to cross the stage.

"They hit a pothole!" shouted Moth.

The caravan hit a pothole with a ma.s.sive thump and the screech of protesting wood. The rear wheel on the downstage side of the cart rolled into the orchestra pit.

"Then the horses stampeded and drove over Verena with their big, metal-shod hooves!" added Mustardseed.

The horses leapt forward and flattened the Mistress of Revels against the floorboards.

"They were set upon by brigands!" yelled Cobweb.

Two dozen extras dressed as highwaymen leapt from the catwalks onto the stage, brandishing swords and twirling their moustaches.

"And then the caravan burst into-"

"No!" Bertie interjected before they needed a fire extinguisher. "No flames! Absolutely nothing caught on fire or exploded. Stop it, right now. You know how I feel about you sticking things into my narrative!"

Verena cleared her throat. "Excuse me, but about the brigands-"

Bertie shook her head. "There were no brigands!"

The group in question looked at each other, and their leader sidled to the edge of the stage. "What do you want us to do, then?" he said in a loud whisper.

"Shove off!" Bertie said. "You were never supposed to be here in the first place."

"All we want is a few minutes of stage time!"

"Fine, then. Have it your way." Bertie raised her voice and pretended to read, "The brigands met a terrible fate at the hands and feet of the Mistress of Revels, for though she didn't look it, she was a black belt in jujitsu."

Cobweb laughed as Verena landed a series of flying side kicks. "I don't think you've ever used that line before."

"Violence makes for good theater," Bertie said. "Now, while there were no brigands, no potholes, no stampedes, and certainly nothing burst into flames, the journey was still fraught with danger. Near the city limits, Verena took sick with a Mysterious Ailment."

"Dying makes good theater, too!" That was Mustardseed. "Is she going to die?"

"Now you've ruined the surprise!" Cursing mightily, Bertie jumped from the stool and glared at the fairies. "You all had better shut your pieholes until I'm done with this scene, or so help me, I'll never steal you another snack cake as long as you all shall live."

There was no back talk this time, just the sound of crickets chirping.

Satisfied, Bertie cued the last scene change. The caravan approached a wooden flat painted to look like the facade of the Theatre. The Mistress of Revels descended slowly, carrying a basket.

"She left me on the doorstep of the Theatre," Bertie said, "with only a note and my mother's best intentions."

"Dear Sir or Madame," Verena intoned. "I entrust this child to you. Her name is Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, and her destiny lies within this theater."

Bertie flapped her hand at her. "Just leave me on the doorstep already."

The Mistress of Revels nodded before setting the basket against the door.

"Blackout!" the fairies called, and the lights obeyed. "Curtain down!"

Nate's voice drifted out of the darkened auditorium. "I liked that version, especially th' bit wi' th' thieves."

Bertie stowed the prop copy of The Book backstage and lifted the Stage Manager's headset. "House lights up, please."

"I was just thinkin'," Nate said, "about how yer mother is out there, somewhere. Mayhap now's th' time t' seek her out."

While his tone didn't challenge her, his words certainly did.

"I could wander forever and never find her." Bertie looked to the back of the auditorium, at the faint phosph.o.r.escence of the Exit sign as she went to join the others.

"But if ye stay here-"

"Not 'if' I stay. I'm staying." She offered Nate her hand and heaved him to his feet. "So that when my mother comes looking for me, I'll still be here to find."

CHAPTER FIVE.

Sedition Amongst

the Ranks

Bertie looked up at Nate through the blue fringe of her bangs. "Will you help me?"

He nodded. "With my last breath."

"A plan! We need a plan!" said Cobweb.

"Vive la Revolution!" cried Moth and Mustardseed as they jumped to attention.

Bertie held up both her hands. "If either of you start singing something from Les Mis, I'll drop-kick you into next week."

"Can we build a barricade?" Moth demanded.

"Not until I think of a way to become invaluable." Bertie paced the aisle runner between the velvet-upholstered seats. "What jobs are vacant?"

The fairies put on their thinking caps, which were red and pointy.

"You could do a lot of things!" Peaseblossom said after a moment. "Maybe Mr. Hastings needs help dusting the props?"

"I guess," Bertie said, unconvinced. "But Official Duster doesn't sound impressive."

"You could put spangles on costumes!" Cobweb said.

Bertie shook her head. "I can't sew without stabbing myself. Mrs. Edith wouldn't want blood on the fabric."

"You're good with hair," Mustardseed said. "Maybe you could try your hand at wig styling?"

"I don't think that could be considered an invaluable contribution," Bertie said. "Think harder."

After a few moments, Moth wriggled his toes disconsolately. "I'm afraid nothing more important springs to mind."

"Besides, there are no small parts," Cobweb admonished Bertie, "only small actors."

"I don't know about that," Mustardseed said, giving him a shove. "You're pretty small."

"What about yer play?"

Bertie turned to look at Nate. "My play?"

"How ye came t' th' theater. It's a play, no?"

She thought about it a moment. "I . . . I guess so."

Nate folded his arms in triumph. "That makes ye a playwright, then."

The idea had never occurred to her before, and it tickled like a quill pen. "A playwright?"

"Aye. Ye could be th' Theatre's wordsmith," Nate said, looking mightily pleased with himself.

"Scribble something with dragons!" Moth crowed. "I always wanted to ride a dragon!"

"I don't have time to write an entire play from scratch," Bertie said, possibilities switching on like spotlights nonetheless.

Nate laughed. "Then ye start wi' how ye came t' live here. It's nearly done, ye said it yerself. Ye just have t' write it out an' show th' Theater Manager."

Bertie scowled. "There's no sense in showing him something that isn't finished. He'd toss me out on my backside."

"You didn't just write the play, Bertie," Peaseblossom said suddenly. "You ordered the Players about, shouted, and threw an artistic hissy fit. Do you know what that makes you?"

"A temperamental fusspot?" Mustardseed guessed.

"Crazier than a bag full of crazy?" Moth said.

"Close," Peaseblossom said. "It makes her a Director."

Cobweb scratched his head. "That person dressed in black, who sits in the back, smoking and giving everyone their motivation?"

"Wow," Moth said. "We've never needed one of those before."

"A Director." Bertie's skin tingled. "But what could I direct?"

"You want to start with something dramatic," Peaseblossom advised. "Something with impact."

"Somethin' yer fair familiar wi'," Nate said.

"Something funny," Moth added.

"No," Bertie said, "something tragic. The most famous of all of the Shakespearean tragedies-"

Mustardseed jumped up and down. "Your hair!"

"Shakespearean tragedy, Mustardseed."

"Oh, sorry about that. Hamlet, duh."

"But why would Hamlet need a Director?" Peaseblossom asked. "The Players have performed it thousands of times."

"Precisely the reason it needs a Director!" Bertie said. "It's tired. It needs to be made over into something spectacular. Something that will fill the seats and have patrons queued up in the street and put 'Sold Out' signs in the windows of the Box Office. That would be a real contribution, wouldn't it?"

"I guess so," said the fairy, unconvinced.

"Trust me, it will be brilliant," Bertie said. "We'll take Hamlet, and we move the production to a new time period and location."