Mrs. Edith hesitated, and Bertie looked down in alarm.

"What? Am I coming out somewhere?"

"You . . . you just look so grown up." The older woman pulled an elaborately embroidered hankie out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

"Isn't that what we wanted?"

When Mrs. Edith didn't answer, Bertie forgot all the instructions about perfect posture and decorum. She threw her arms about the Wardrobe Mistress, inhaling the scents of lavender water, starch, and needle-thin silver; Mrs. Edith smelled of comfort and safety.

And home.

Bertie nearly choked on her fear. "What if he doesn't agree? What if I have to leave?"

Mrs. Edith's arms tightened around Bertie before the older woman pulled back far enough to look her in the eye. "That, my dear, is the worst-case scenario."

"Ariel said I should be excited," Bertie said. "That it's my chance to go find my mother."

Mrs. Edith's face tightened. "Ariel should keep his own counsel."

"That's what I told him," Bertie said.

"No, you didn't!" said Moth. "You told him to shut up."

"The only thing is-" Bertie paused, wondering how to word it, then gave up trying to be delicate "-if there's anything else you know, anything at all, about how I came here . . ."

Mrs. Edith took a deep breath and held it a moment. "I've told you all I can. You were left on the doorstep when you were very young."

"And you didn't see anyone, anything-"

"I would tell you more if I could." Mrs. Edith enveloped her in another swift, firm hug. "Now go on, dear. Break a leg."

Bertie had heard the phrase countless times over the years, but never directed at her. The well-wish settled alongside the carved bone disk, just between her collarbones.

"Posture!" Mrs. Edith admonished.

"Come on, let's go!" Bertie beckoned to the fairies. They rocketed to the door with handfuls of swiped sequins and beads.

"Miscreants!" Mrs. Edith narrowed her gaze at them and, by all the laws of physics, they should have burst into flames. The Wardrobe Mistress adjusted her gla.s.ses as though they were at fault and called to Bertie, "Remember, Management appreciates a well-polished presentation. Do your best to enunciate, and try not to stutter."

"I've never once stuttered!" Bertie said, indignant.

"Stage fright, dear," Mrs. Edith said. "It affects everyone, though you've never had the occasion to feel it before. Take deep breaths and you'll be fine!"

The door swung shut between them with a hollow boom that echoed down the hallway.

"Deep breaths." Bertie tried, but managed a quarter of a breath or perhaps a third. "Maybe she shouldn't have tightened my corset so much."

The five of them stood there for a moment. And another. Bertie shifted from one high-heel-shod foot to the other.

These shoes really are uncomfortable. It's no wonder the Chorus Girls are so cranky, if they have to dance in them.

"Are we going yet?" whispered Mustardseed.

"I think she's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her courage," said Peaseblossom, "to the sticking place."

"What are we sticking?" asked Moth.

"And where are we sticking it?" That was Cobweb.

"I think when we get there, you four should stay outside." Bertie set off down the hall at a purposeful clip.

The fairies protested as they flew to catch up. "But we didn't say anything rude yet!"

"Yet," Bertie repeated for emphasis. "The rude part is inevitable, and you're not the sort of supporting cast I need in a boardroom setting. We're talking about my future at the theater here, not a pie-flinging contest."

"There's going to be pie?" Mustardseed clapped his hands. "What kind?"

"She means she doesn't trust us to behave ourselves," said Peaseblossom. The hitch in her tiny voice was unmistakable as she landed on Bertie's shoulder.

"It's not that." Bertie tilted her chin toward Peaseblossom, taking care not to knock her off. "All right, maybe it is that. Just a little."

"Mostly the boys, though, right?" Peaseblossom whispered.

"Of course." Bertie pressed a hand to the cramp she was getting just under her ribs. "Walking in this thing is a pain in the-"

"Language," Peaseblossom said to cut her off.

"Spleen," Bertie finished.

Peaseblossom snickered. "I'll try to keep the boys occupied during your meeting, but you know how they are." She chased after the others, who'd raced ahead, reached the end of the pa.s.sage, and disappeared around a right-hand turn.

"Yes," Bertie said, trying to keep up. "I know how they are."

"Beatrice."

Ariel's voice was ice down her back, despite its attempt at warmth, and his slim fingers wrapped about her wrist before she realized how close he was.

"That is quite the ensemble," he said. "Are you joining the Ladies' Chorus?"

"No." Bertie attempted to recover her hand from his grasp, but didn't quite manage it.

"A tryst, perhaps? A secret a.s.signation?" Ariel tilted his head to one side, as though he needed one eye to be a quarter of an inch higher than the other to ponder the great mystery of her destination. "Tsk. Mrs. Edith will be disappointed all her hovering didn't succeed in strangling your p.u.b.erty into submission." He led her in a turn, whistling soft and low. "Who are you meeting with, dressed as you are?"

"Nate." Bertie pulled back as far as she could. "We have a hot date aboard the Persephone, and I couldn't find a wench costume."

Ariel shook his head. "Try again."

Bertie remembered Mrs. Edith's admonitions about posture and drew herself up. "The Gentlemen's Chorus offered to help me remain at the theater if I gave them each a kiss."

Ariel tried on a smile and stroked her hand. "That's two missteps in this charming dance. Would you care to attempt a third?"

Bertie glared at him; if looks were blowtorches, he wouldn't have any eyebrows left at all. "I have a meeting with Management, remember?" She tugged again at the hand trapped in his. "Kindly let me go."

"Ah, Management." Ariel laced his fingers through hers, tucked her arm under the crook of his elbow, and began to stroll as though they were in a Promenade scene, French Countryside. Bertie sucked in a breath at the intimacy of the gesture, but he continued, "Have you ever been up to the Manager's Office before?"

"Once or twice," Bertie admitted. Perhaps more. Perhaps every time the Stage Manager led me there by the ear to await judgment. And perhaps there's a wooden chair with grooves worn into it that exactly match the contours of my backside.

Ariel laughed, soft and low. A cool breeze teased around the edges of Bertie's very short skirt, and when she inhaled, she could smell autumn leaves. She hazarded a sideways glance at him, watching the frosted fall of his hair shift over his shoulders. It was restless. Wild. Just like him. The tiny hairs on Bertie's arms stood on end.

Of course he noticed. "Am I making you nervous, Beatrice?"

"No," she managed, pleased she could match his cool tone.

Ariel laughed again, and now her goose b.u.mps had goose b.u.mps. "I think I am."

Troubled to realize he was making her nervous, Bertie reached up to touch the scrimshaw for comfort.

She'd heard of people who saw double after hitting their head or, in the case of the pirates, imbibing too much rum. Though she'd done neither, her vision blurred a bit, as if she were looking at Ariel through salt.w.a.ter. He still held her arm, still had his head at an earnest tilt, but beyond that mask of calm and elegance was an Ariel-shaped ma.s.s of writhing, snakelike tendrils. Scarves and streamers moved swiftly, weaving in and out among each other, reaching out to tug at her clothes and pull her toward them. They spoke in silk-hisses of the desperate need roiling under the surface of his skin, and their whispers stole the breath from her lungs.

"Let me go!" Bertie pinched the fleshy inner curve of his arm with her fingernails until he released her.

"Whatever is the matter with the girl?" Ariel asked the empty hallway.

"I'm not falling for your Prince Charming act." She didn't back away, though she very much wanted to.

"Act?" Smooth as cream. "Am I not your handsome prince, ready to save you from this mundane existence?"

"I hadn't realized how badly you want your freedom." The corset helped put steel in her spine; Bertie felt very tall, very thin, and very much in control. "I'm sorry, Ariel, but Players can't leave the theater, and there's nothing I can do to change that."

"I don't believe you." The air warmed with the promise of a summer storm. What little distance there was between them disappeared as he stepped even closer. "Aren't you trying to change things so that you can stay?"

Bertie opened her mouth to argue and realized he spoke the truth.

"I see the lady is speechless, for once." His lips twitched with the faintest suggestion of a sneer as he permitted his gaze to come to rest on her cleavage. "Such a pity your intellect didn't blossom with the rest of you."

Mrs. Edith had told her once that the costume made the character, but only now did Bertie understand what she'd meant. The corset was dainty, demure, pin-striped, and it wanted her to slap Ariel across the face.

But Bertie was more than the sum of her clothing, so she c.o.c.ked her arm and punched him as hard as she could in the stomach.

Ariel staggered back, unprepared for such an a.s.sault. They stared at one another, Bertie ready to duck and weave if he decided to return the favor and Ariel holding a hand to his solar plexus until the air returned to his lungs.

Finally, he wheezed, "Given half a chance, I will free not only myself, but all who are imprisoned here. Know that."

Bertie jutted her chin at him. "Get out of my way, or I'll punch you in the jaw for an encore."

He bowed low, his eyes never leaving hers. "Milady."

"I am a lady, but I'm certainly not yours." Bertie pushed past him and ran up the stairs, two at a time in spite of her heels. She arrived on the landing gasping for breath, and when she strained her ears, she could make out the telltale echo of his mirthless laughter. Bertie exhaled as much of him as her lungs would release before setting off down the hall.

The fairies circled in a holding pattern outside the door to the Theater Manager's Office.

"Where have you been?" Moth demanded.

"We were just coming back to look for you," Cobweb said.

Peaseblossom reached out to blot a droplet of moisture off Bertie's forehead with a tiny bit of tissue. "Why are you all sweaty?"

"It's hot as h.e.l.l downstairs," Bertie said.

And I just dodged the devil.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The Manager's Office The door to the Theater Manager's Office was different from any other in the Theatre. Bubble-trapped gla.s.s gave the illusion of privacy while permitting dim light to filter through, and black lettering spelled out his full name, although Bertie had never dared use it. She reached for the ornate, wrought-bra.s.s doork.n.o.b that gleamed with hundreds of years of turning and polish, then hesitated.

"Go on," Moth said, picking his nose as he hovered next to her. "I believe in you!"

"We all believe in you, Bertie." Peaseblossom blew kisses that sparkled like flecks of fool's gold.

Bertie squared her shoulders and knocked. A seemingly infinite amount of time spiraled out between the final hollow echo and the voice that answered, "Yes?"

"It's B-B-B-Bertie." Mrs. Edith was right about the stuttering! She took a deep breath and measured out her words in careful increments. "May I come in, sir?"

"Yes, of course."

Bertie looked at the fairies as she opened the door. "Stay. Put." She slid inside the chamber and shut the door firmly behind her.

Now that she was under the threat of exile, Bertie took in the familiar surroundings with new eyes. There was the enormous twin pedestal desk, the piles of paperwork, and the shelves full of books. The worn, yellow chintz draperies hanging at the windows had been deemed too shabby for use onstage some previous season. Cut-gla.s.s decanters of liquor sat open on the sideboard, and the sharp sting of brandy snaked through the haze of cigarette smoke.

The Theater Manager had his back to her as he inquired, "Would you care for something to drink? A soda, perhaps?"

"No, thank you, sir. This isn't a social call."

He turned, and his mouth fell open at the sight of her ensemble. To his credit, he recovered within a split second, rearranging his features into a bland expression.

The same could not be said for the Stage Manager. "Why are you dressed like a-"

The Theater Manager cleared his throat. The Stage Manager swallowed whatever word he'd intended to say, making a face as though it tasted rancid.

Bertie inclined her head at the two of them, striving to project grace and decorum. "I apologize for interrupting, but I did have an appointment." She perched creditably on the edge of a leather-upholstered wingback chair and took a moment to adjust her gla.s.ses.