Eyes Like Stars Part 8

"You don't have to remind me," Bertie said as she opened the door and eased inside the Scenic Dock. "Yoo-hoo, Mr. Tibbs!"

The Scenic Manager's lair was as tall as it was wide, storing the flats and backdrops of every set imaginable. Frosted gla.s.s windows spanned the length of the room, and sunlight flowed like molten gold over projects under construction. Just now, the room was eerily quiet, with a distinct lack of hammering, sawing, or any of the other thousands of noises normally a.s.sociated with set production.

Bertie turned in a slow circle. "Everyone must be on a break-"

"What do you want?" a voice like an air horn blasted behind her. Bertie leapt aside, and Mr. Tibbs brushed past her as though she smelled.

If Mr. Hastings was a pale and shrunken stalk of celery, Mr. Tibbs was a livid beefsteak tomato. The Scenic Manager was round and red of face; he had plump cheeks and a wide slit of a mouth usually opened in a roar or, as it was at this moment, clamped around a malodorous cigar. He wore coveralls, trailed sawdust wherever he went, and the one time Bertie had seen him without his battered newsboy cap, she'd been simultaneously appalled and awestruck by the three strands of hair plastered over his bald spot. Today, she was glad to see his hat was affixed firmly in place.

"Well?" he bellowed in her face.

"I . . . er . . . that is . . ." Bertie stammered.

"Get out, get out," he said. "I have a schedule to maintain. Maintenance and production, replacement and refurbishment. You'll only be in the way."

"In th' way o' what?" Nate asked. "There's no one here an' nothin' t' do at th' moment."

"Shouldn't you be packing your things, young lady?" Mr. Tibbs stomped over to a half-painted flat and scowled at the bucket abandoned on the concrete floor.

"So you've heard," Bertie said.

"I heard, and it's about d.a.m.n time."

"Probably," Bertie agreed.

The others looked at her as though she were crazy, while Mr. Tibbs exhaled smoke and suspicion. "What foolishness are you up to?"

Bertie didn't tie up her pitch with pretty words or a winning smile, knowing full well that neither of those things would have the slightest effect on him. Mr. Tibbs listened to the entire speech, s.h.i.+fting his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

"Hamlet," he said finally.

"In Egypt. Yes."

"Huh. That's quite the harebrained scheme. Nice try, girlie, but you're wasting my time. The Theater Manager will never give you permission for that."

Bertie felt her cheeks get hot. "He might, if I had your support. I have Mrs. Edith's already."

"And Hastings?" Mr. Tibbs demanded.

"He's agreed to help me."

"Oh, he did, did he?" The Scenic Manager glared at the suns.h.i.+ne as though it offended him, too. "Run along, and take your ridiculous plotting with you!"

About to burst with ill-timed anger, Bertie had a stroke of diabolical genius. "It's all right, Mr. Tibbs. I understand. In fact, I'm not even surprised."

"You're not, eh?"

"Oh, yes. Mr. Hastings said you'd be against it."

"He did, did he?"

Nate cut in smoothly. "Aye. He said that ye were stuck in yer ways, an' that ye wouldn't know a good idea if it bit ye on yer a.r.s.e."

"Is that SO?" Mr. Tibbs demanded.

Bertie took a deep breath, crossed her fingers behind her back, and added her coup de grace. "Mr. Hastings said not to worry, he'd manage the set decoration alone."

Mr. Tibbs nigh on exploded when he heard that. "What?!"

Bertie nodded, striving to appear both earnest and innocent. "He said something about obelisks being the responsibility of the Properties Department."

Not a lie! Even better!

If Bertie thought she'd heard every curse there was to hear in the Theatre, she'd been wrong. Mr. Tibbs put the pirates to utter shame as he shouted that he wouldn't be bossed about and who did Mr. Hastings think he was anyway, his tirade punctuated by profanity and expletives the likes of which curled Peaseblossom's hair and left even Nate wincing.

"You'll have your obelisks!" Mr. Tibbs's shout rattled the wrought iron curlicues that framed the windows. "Courtesy of the Theatre Illuminata Scenic Department, and THAT is FINAL."

Bertie grabbed him by the hand and was shaking on it before Mr. Tibbs could realize he'd been had. "A pleasure to hear it, sir. You won't regret it, I promise!"

And then they ran for it, down a hallway that seemed far less gloomy and foreboding than it had only a short time ago. The fairies laughed and swooped, shoved at each other and dive-bombed Nate's head.

"Brilliant," Bertie shouted, holding out her arms and pretending to fly, too. "That's all major departments accounted for."

"That were a wicked bit o' trickery, my miss," Nate said, punching at the air. "Ye should be proud o' yerself."

The fairies whooped their approval as Nate gathered Bertie up to swing her about in triumph. Overcome by his enthusiasm, she gave him a loud kiss on his scruffy cheek.

He tastes like the ocean. And sweat. And- Nate turned his head, his sandpaper bristles rubbing against her face. He inhaled very slowly, but a gust of cold air hit the two of them before he could say or do anything more.

Bertie twisted about in his arms, searching for the one she knew was listening. "Ariel."

Nate set her down and reached for his cutla.s.s, but no one appeared to challenge them. "He's not goin' t' be happy yer fightin' t' stay."

"Isn't that a tragedy?" Cobweb said.

"He'd better not try anything, or we'll let him have it, but good!" Mustardseed said.

Peaseblossom flew back to alight on Bertie's shoulder. "What are you going to do about him?"

"I don't have time to worry about Ariel now," Bertie said. "We still have to convince the Theater Manager, and I have an appointment for eight o'clock on the dot."

Nate looked from her disheveled hair to her dye-splattered s.h.i.+rt. "First, I think ye need t' consider a costume change."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Straitlaced The meeting will go well," Mrs. Edith said around a mouthful of pins. "I feel it in my bones."

"I'm glad you feel it in your bones," said Bertie. "Because my bones aren't the least bit certain about it."

"Tsk, dear. You're too young to be so cynical. Turn a bit to your left."

"Do you often feel things in your bones, Mrs. Edith?" Bertie wrapped her fingers around the scrimshaw and tried to ignore the jabbing of needles near her backside.

"All the time, dear. Theater people are a superst.i.tious lot, and my bones are quite reliable, I a.s.sure you."

Bertie screwed her eyes shut and rubbed her thumb over the medallion.

Nate thought this would make a good luck charm. So let's see it do some magic.

"What do you think of our handiwork?" Peaseblossom demanded.

Bertie opened her eyes and confronted her reflection in the full-length mirror, which told her that the scrimshaw's luck had yet to have any influence in matters of fas.h.i.+on. "I thought we were going for something professional."

"It's pin-striped," Peaseblossom said, weighted down by a long strand of pearls and an offended expression.

"Cla.s.sy!" added Moth.

"Like a lawyer going to court," said Cobweb with a nod.

"I guess," Bertie conceded. "But it's still a corset. And the skirt?"

"It's a bit short, but it's the best we could do with so little notice." Mrs. Edith tugged on the hem. "It's more decent than the costumes for the musical numbers, at least. Face front, please, and raise your arms over your head."

"Hold on." Bertie pulled the scrimshaw out of the way and obeyed, instantly sorry when the Wardrobe Mistress tightened the strings on her bodice. "Oooof!"

"The laces have stretched since you first put it on," Mrs. Edith said.

"No problem. I wasn't using that oxygen." Bertie thought of the almost-kiss she and Nate had shared in the corridor. He said I needed to change clothes, but I doubt this is what he had in mind.

"Stand up straight," Mrs. Edith said. "Shoulders back and tummy in." She took the pearls from Peaseblossom and went to fasten them around Bertie's neck, encountering the scrimshaw hanging there already. "What's this?"

"My good-luck charm from Nate." When Mrs. Edith narrowed her eyes in scrutiny, Bertie amended, "Well, not really from him. He got it in the Properties Department."

Mrs. Edith sniffed her disapproval of both Nate and the scrimshaw's origins. "Anything a Player wears belongs to Wardrobe."

"What if it was an eye patch?" Moth asked.

"Wardrobe," Mrs. Edith said.

"And what about a baldric?" Cobweb wrapped a bit of twine about his waist. "For carrying a sword."

"That's a kind of belt, so it's Wardrobe."

"What about the actual sword?" Mustardseed said, his little eyes squinched up with concentration. "If it's sheathed, it's being worn."

"But if it's being used, it's a prop," Peaseblossom said.

"Some items," Mrs. Edith conceded, "are subject to interpretation." She nodded at the medallion. "You should take it off, dear. It interrupts the flow of your ensemble."

Bertie closed her hand over the scrimshaw. "I prefer to keep it on. I'm superst.i.tious, too."

"Since when?"

"Since I might be homeless."

Mrs. Edith peered at Bertie over her spectacles. "We shan't let that happen."

Bertie sniffed heroically. "No, we shan't."

"That's right, my girl. Stiff upper lip." Mrs. Edith made her final adjustments to Bertie's clothes and posture. "Now, when you sit-"

Bertie put a hand to her waist. "I don't think I'll be sitting in this thing."

"Nonsense, of course you'll sit. Ease yourself into the chair and do your best to perch on the edge."

"Perch. Right." Bertie tugged at the front of the bodice and got her hands slapped for her trouble. "Anything else?"

"Spectacles!" Cobweb handed her a pair of cat's-eye gla.s.ses set with twinkling rhinestones.

"They don't even have lenses in them!" Bertie poked her fingers through the empty holes in the rims and waggled them at her accomplices. "Anything else?"

Mrs. Edith held up white gloves.

Bertie balked. "No way. The gla.s.ses are bad enough."

"You said the heels were bad enough!" said Mustardseed with a giggle.

"The heels were bad enough," echoed Bertie. "I wanted to look presentable, not like a Gal Friday."

Mrs. Edith didn't say anything, but she looked a thousand sorts of awful.

Aware further protests would be useless, Bertie took the gloves and smoothed them on, one at a time. The corset prevented her from heaving a long-suffering sigh. "When I swoon from lack of air, someone is going to have to cut me out of this thing."

Mrs. Edith looked to Peaseblossom, the least irresponsible of the four. "If she faints, cut her out from the back. Replacing the laces is simple, but if you slice through the boning, I will see that your wings are removed. With tweezers."

All four fairies paled. "Yes, ma'am!" they answered in one voice.

"Good. And as for you, my miss-"

Bertie pivoted on one heel and flashed her most mature, serene smile at the Wardrobe Mistress. "Yes?"