Eyes Like Stars

by Lisa Mantchev

  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 façade of the Théâtre. The Mistress of Revels descended slowly, carrying a basket.

  “She left me on the doorstep of the Théâtre,” 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 phosphorescence 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 Révolution!” 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’ Théâtre’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.”

  “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 assorted bits of millinery. Adding to the whirl of color and fabric, Moth immediately sat upon the brass 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 button.

  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 assessed 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 assume 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 assistants 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 encompass. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And, Bertie?”

  “Yes?”

  “In my professional opinion,” Mrs. Edith adjusted her glasses, “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 glass 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 glass 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 assumed 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 peacock with only slightly less strut.