"Like where?" Moth asked.

"I don't know," Bertie said, biting her lip. "Somewhere with kings and queens and political intrigue, but with plenty of wiggle room for fabulous costuming and sets. Like . . . Egypt!"

"Egypt." Nate sounded less than convinced now.

"Ancient Egypt," Bertie said with a bounce. "It's perfect."

Nate shook his head. "Yer definition o' 'perfect' an' mine must be diff'rent. An' 'tisn't goin' to be easy t' convince ev'ryone. Change isn't in th' Players' nature."

"It's in mine!" piped up Cobweb. "Could we wear spandex and blow things up?"

"That would be wicked!" said Moth. "Are there going to be explosions, Bertie?"

Bertie imagined the Stage Manager's face when he heard about the plan. "Most likely. We need to recruit support."

Nate nodded. "Sympathizers, aye. Where d'ye want t' start?"

"We need all the departments on board before we go to the Theater Manager," Bertie said. "Let's start with the easiest and work our way down."

"Mrs. Edith it is, then!" Mustardseed said, flying ahead of the group with a burst of speed and sparkles.

"You really think so?" Bertie weighed their options as they stampeded down the hall. "I would have said Mr. Hastings."

"Mr. Hastings likes you, but Mrs. Edith loves you," Peaseblossom said. "I know that's difficult to remember, when Mr. Hastings lets you run rampant through the Properties Department and Mrs. Edith tries to make you behave yourself, but it's true."

"Fine," Bertie said, "we'll start with her."

"Ye might want t' think up a way t' explain yer hair before we get down there," Nate suggested. "Unless ye actually asked permission afore ye pilfered her drawers."

Bertie put a hand up to her hair and muttered, "I'd forgotten about that."

Nate gave her a sardonic look. "Ye could always lead wi' th' news th' Theater Manager's kickin' ye out. It might take her mind off yer head."

Walking into the Wardrobe Department was like opening an antique steamer trunk only to be buried alive in silk charmeuse, bobbin lace, and a.s.sorted bits of millinery. Adding to the whirl of color and fabric, Moth immediately sat upon the bra.s.s control for the overhead conveyor. A thousand years of history swept past Bertie on wooden hangers, gliding along the circuitous iron track overhead before disappearing into the cavernous storage closet.

Nate ducked his head and disappeared into the swirling vortex of frock coats, bustle skirts, and flapper dresses. "I need t' look fer somethin'. I'll be right back."

"What? Wait . . . Moth, get off of that!" Bertie nudged the fairy off the control b.u.t.ton.

By the time the sweeping dance of costumes glided to a halt, Nate had disappeared. The hiss and sputter of the coal furnace at the far end of the room replaced the hum of the conveyor. Heat poured off the boiler in waves, its steam powering the sea of sewing machines and flatirons as well as maintaining the dye vat at an eternal simmer.

Mrs. Edith sat at the long, work-scarred table with a lapful of copper taffeta that gleamed when she moved. While the rest of the theater bespoke the easy grace and artistic flourishes of the art nouveau period, the Wardrobe Mistress remained a stiffly starched Victorian, from the high, severe collar of her shirtwaist and the wide leg-of-mutton sleeves, down to the hem of her floor-sweeping skirts. The only concession to her grudgingly admitted artistic nature was a broach of rose gold, rumored to be a gift from the queen. She could cow the most insolent of Chorus Girls with a single look, and her spectacles served as an indicator of her mood; just now they were perched on the end of her nose, permitting her gaze to skewer both her work and her ward.

"Do you have something you want to tell me?" The needle she held was more threatening than a sword.

Bertie flattened her back against the door, searching the darkest recesses of her brain for the correct answer. "Do you think I have something I should tell you?"

Mrs. Edith a.s.sessed Bertie's head and pursed her lips. "Cobalt Flame?"

Bertie relaxed a fraction of an inch and nodded. "Do you like it?"

"Strange as it is to say, it does suit you, although if you keep using stuff as strong as that, you'll be lucky not to go as bald as an egg."

The fairies exploded with snickers, punctuated by "Hey, there, cue ball!"

Mrs. Edith set aside the topic of Bertie's hair as easily as she shifted the fabric to the table. "I missed the call to the stage trying to get this seam finished. What's going on?"

"That's what I came to see you about." Bertie slid onto a stool next to the Wardrobe Mistress while wondering how best to break the news. Simply, without overdramatizing it. "The Theater Manager asked me to leave."

"That's not amusing, Bertie dear," Mrs. Edith said with a frown. "You shouldn't joke about such things."

"I'm not joking. He said I need to make my way in the world."

Mrs. Edith pursed her lips as she selected a gleaming pair of sewing scissors from the table, snipped an errant thread, and tossed it into the rubbish bin. "Why now?"

"I guess he's mad about the cannon." Bertie looked at her feet so that she didn't have to see the dire look on Mrs. Edith's face. She noticed small details: Her clunky Mary Janes were scuffed and needed polishing; her favorite pair of black-and-red striped socks sagged around her ankles. "But it wasn't just the hole in the roof. He said I don't have a place here. That I don't contribute anything."

Mrs. Edith reached for the ever-present teapot and poured herself a cup of oolong. "That hardly seems fair. You're just a child-"

Bertie shook her head. "That's the trouble. I'm not a child anymore."

The Wardrobe Mistress sighed into her tea. "No, you're not."

"He said that if I can find a way to contribute, I can stay."

"Did he promise it?" Mrs. Edith asked.

Bertie nodded. "I have until eight o'clock to get everything sorted out."

"By that, I a.s.sume you have a wild scheme already in place?" Mrs. Edith's cup returned to its saucer with a clink.

"I need to become a Director," Bertie said, "so I'm going to restage a play in a new time period and setting. I want to move Hamlet to Egypt."

The gleam in Mrs. Edith's eye was a welcome sight; it signaled the coming of pleated linen robes and gold embroidery. "You'll need costumes. When will this performance take place?"

"I'll ask for as much time to prepare as possible," Bertie said. "I should think I'll need at least a month."

"If not two," Mrs. Edith mused. "Write out a list and you'll get what you need."

Bertie threw her arms around the older woman's neck and pressed a kiss to her wrinkled cheek. "Thank you!"

Mrs. Edith was about to answer when Ophelia wandered in, still dripping water. "Oh, had you heard then already? I came to tell you the news."

"Yes, Bertie's told me all about it." Mrs. Edith eyed Ophelia's sodden dress. "You're going to catch your death. Let's get you into some dry clothes." She reached for the bell pull; before it finished tinkling, half a dozen a.s.sistants hurried into the room, carrying a clean gown, mops, and buckets of soapy water. They shoved Nate out ahead of them, making shooing gestures with their fingertips.

Bertie glared at him, wondering why he'd left her alone to plead her case. "What were you looking for?"

"It doesn't matter, as I didn't find it," Nate retorted. He dashed past her, gesturing to the fairies to follow as he whispered, "I'll explain later!"

"We have to go," Bertie said, edging for the door. "I still need to convince Mr. Hastings and Mr. Tibbs before I go to the Theater Manager with my idea."

Mrs. Edith, busy getting Ophelia changed, spared a moment to fix Bertie with a stern look. "You come back here before you go, and I'll see you're properly attired for a meeting with Management."

Bertie blanched, wondering what Mrs. Edith's idea of "proper attire" would encompa.s.s. "Yes, ma'am."

"And, Bertie?"

"Yes?"

"In my professional opinion," Mrs. Edith adjusted her gla.s.ses, "the blue hair would look smashing if you tinted the ends black."

As it turned out, they didn't have to go all the way to the Properties Department to find Mr. Hastings. Out of his natural habitat, the Properties Manager had the wizened look of a plant kept too long in a cupboard. The gla.s.s in his spectacles was cloudy with age, and the wire frames were worn thin from rubbing against his nose and ears, both of which had hair growing out of them. Every bit of his clothing, from the tweedy jacket to his corduroy pants, was infused with a thousand years of dust. Today he scuttled along, the awkward weight of an iridescent green gla.s.s hookah bouncing against his hip. Perched in Mr. Hastings' arms, with all its metallic bits and coiled hoses, it looked more like an enormous beetle than a water pipe.

"Give that t' me, Mr. Hastings." Nate a.s.sumed the burden of the hookah with a good-natured smile. "Steal this back from th' Scenic Dock, did ye?"

"I have the paperwork right here in my pocket," the Properties Manager said, a wee bit breathless. "The Stage Manager checked it out for the Caterpillar scene in Alice in Wonderland three weeks ago." He reached under his arm with his newly freed hand, presumably for the signature sheet. Instead, he produced a fan with a carved ivory handle and three-foot-long ostrich plumes that molted exotic puffs of white and pink. "Wait, no, that's from the last number the Ladies' Chorus performed. All bare legs and high kicks, it is."

Bertie laughed and got a feather up her nose. "Where's the hookah been since Alice closed?"

"Seems as though the Chorus Boys thought to open a hubbly-bubbly bar in one of the back dressing rooms." He scrutinized Bertie's face. "You weren't down there, were you?"

Peaseblossom looked scandalized. "She most certainly was not!"

Moth kicked at the twirling bits of down. "Yeah, we miss all the fun stuff."

Mustardseed eyed the hookah with due consideration. "We should try that out."

"Don't let me catch any of you touching this lovely thing." Mr. Hastings patted the water pipe with gentle affection. "My dear, could you please get the door?"

Bertie pushed it open with a small, happy sigh. The Properties Department was her true sanctuary, free from the threat of a scene change anytime the Stage Manager wanted to be tiresome. In fact, it was as far removed from the hot lights, the ever-shifting scenery, and the Stage Manager as she could possibly get.

The ceilings were low, the lighting dim, and no matter where she stood, Bertie couldn't see to the end of the room. The larger pieces of furniture were arranged closest to the entrance, thrones next to sideboards, steamer trunks next to rose-bedecked arbors. Beyond that, row upon row of metal shelving marched for miles. Bits of labeled masking tape and crumpled inventories adorned each shelf. Candelabras, platters of wax fruit, rolls of parchment, silver cigarette cases, and a hundred thousand other curiosities resided therein.

"This way," Mr. Hastings said.

Nate obliged and followed him down the aisle, lugging the hookah and hindered by the fairies' attempt to help him.

"I'll hold this hose," Moth said.

"No, let me!" Cobweb tried to elbow in front of him.

"Just get out o' th' way," Nate barked.

"Come along, Nate. Stop dragging your feet." Mr. Hastings scattered more feathers in his wake, having forgotten the fan under his arm, which trailed behind him like the back end of a peac.o.c.k with only slightly less strut.

The fairies slashed and parried at the dancing plumes as the unusual parade made its way down the aisle, past Victorian statuary jammed higgledy-piggledy next to fin de siecle French perfume vials and Babylonian pottery.

Bertie nearly fell over the fairies when Mr. Hastings paused mid-aisle to consult the clipboard pinned to the shelving.

"Here we are," he said. "49B. Shoehorns, devils' pitchforks, hookahs."

Nate heaved his burden into the empty s.p.a.ce between its glittering sisters of gold-on-rose and midnight-blue-and-silver. On the neighboring shelf sat Alice's "Drink Me" bottle. Bertie slanted a look at it; Mr. Hastings had let her sniff the contents once, and she'd never forgotten the combination of triple apple, rose, mango, Arabian coffee, cantaloupe, cola, licorice, and mint.

All that's missing is the hot b.u.t.tered toast.

Bertie's stomach gurgled at the thought. As Mr. Hastings transcribed mysterious hieroglyphs onto the inventory sheet, Nate nudged her with his elbow and nearly sent her sprawling.

"They're all so beautiful," she said with a sideways glare for her cohort. "Maybe you'll let me pick a souvenir to take with me when I go?"

"What's all this now?" A frown cut Mr. Hastings' forehead nearly in half. "Where are you going?"

"The Theater Manager's asked me to leave," Bertie said.

"She's being thrown out into the cold, cruel world," Peaseblossom said in a funereal tone.

"Goodness gracious!" Mr. Hastings clasped his clipboard to his thin chest like a shield. "That's terrible! Whatever is he thinking?"

"He's thinking that the Theatre would be better off without me." Bertie patted his arm in what she hoped was a rea.s.suring fashion. "I have one chance to change his mind. I just have to mount a production the likes of which they've never seen before!" She gave the Properties Manager her most winning smile. "How would you like to use all your Egyptian bits in a new staging of Hamlet?"

CHAPTER SIX.

Window

Dressing

My dear, you're not making a speck of sense," Mr. Hastings said with a frown. "Hamlet was from Denmark."

"Not in my version, he's not. Picture it: all the court intrigue-"

"With asps in baskets!" added Moth.

"Mummies everywhere!" said Cobweb.