Eyes Like Stars

by Lisa Mantchev

  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 siècle 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 space 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 buttered 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 Théâtre would be better off without me.” Bertie patted his arm in what she hoped was a reassuring 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.

  “I have to make a contribution to the theater,” Bertie said. “So I’m going to be a Director, which means mixing things up a bit.”

  “Ah, I see,” Mr. Hastings said. “And once you’ve ‘mixed it up,’ as you say, you’ll be allowed to stay?”

  Bertie nodded. “The Theater Manager promised.”

  Mr. Hastings set off at a brisk trot, indicating they should follow. “We’ll need Egyptian artifacts, then. Third row on the left.”

  Bertie gloried in the golden treasures that filled the shelves, easily imagining the feline statuary and canopic jars sitting in pools of bronze and turquoise light. Mr. Hastings patted the wrappings on an ancient, dusty mummy.

  “Isn’t he a lovely thing,” he said, then admonished the fairies, “Mind the dearly departed, please.”

  He shifted a layer of linen and released a cloud of gold-flecked particles. The fairies sneezed in unison, flying backward into the open sarcophagus with such force that the lid swung closed and locked them inside.

  “I think they’ll make excellent mummies as they’ve already had their brains removed,” Bertie said, her voice raised for their benefit. There was much shrill, muffled protesting and thumping from within.

  “My dear,” said Mr. Hastings, “I doubt that esteemed gentleman wants company in his final resting place.”

  “Not exactly very restful if you keep opening it to admire him, is it?” Bertie released the catch, and the fairies escaped, vibrating like hummingbirds.

  “Did you know there was a piece of bread inside that thing?” Mustardseed asked.

  Mr. Hastings frowned behind his glasses. “That piece of bread was four thousand years old and came from a mortuary temple in Western Thebes.”

  Moth picked at his teeth. “It did taste a bit stale.”

  “Yes, and it was full of sand,” said Peaseblossom.

  Mr. Hastings retrieved the gnawed crust and sighed. “My dear, your friends are very hard on the antiquities.”

  Bertie gave the fairies a pointed look. “Sorry about that. It won’t happen again. Now, about the play?”

  “We’ll start with the sarcophagi. Obelisks to the ceiling, although Mr. Tibbs will claim that’s his department. I must get my papers in order.” Mr. Hastings slammed the coffin lid shut again, then apologized to the long-dead with absentminded civility. “Sorry, my dear.”

  The fairies snickered behind their hands, but Mr. Hastings didn’t notice their mirth as he strode past them.

  “Come along, all of you. No reason to dawdle. I need to locate the appropriate inventory lists and begin to cross-reference the artifacts. There are all the pieces from Antony and Cleopatra to unearth. . . .”

  Bertie skipped happily as she followed him, clapping her hands, though Nate laughed at her ill-contained exuberance.

  “I’m going to put the kettle on,” Mr. Hastings said over his shoulder. “Would you all care to join me for a cup of tea?”

  Bertie wavered, loath to diminish their momentum but tempted by the promise of nourishment. “I still have to secure Mr. Tibbs’s support, and he’s sure to be difficult.”

  “Perhaps some hot, buttered toast before you brave the lion’s den?” Mr. Hastings suggested.

  That decided it. Better to make her entreaty with a full belly. “Yes, please. That would be lovely.”

  “Actually,” Nate said, “I have a small favor t’ ask of ye, Mr. Hastings.”

  “What do you need, my pirate friend?” Mr. Hastings filled the kettle and set it on a hot plate.

  “Bertie needs a talisman,” Nate announced in the same way he might ask for a drink of water.

  She looked at him askance. “I need a what?”

  “I can’t keep my eye on ye every second o’ th’ day, so ye need something for good luck an’ protection.”

  “Just what do I need protection from, pray tell?” Bertie set her fists on her hips.

  “Mostly yerself.” Nate turned back to the Properties Manager. “Can ye think of anythin’ that ye might have?”

  Mr. Hastings blinked at the question, took his spectacles off, rubbed them around with his handkerchief, and returned them to his face. “I’m sure I can, except I’m not quite certain I understand—”

  “She’s goin’ t’ need a powerful charm t’ pull off this crazy scheme, don’t ye think?” Nate said.

  “I cannot argue with that notion, but I’ll have to check my lists for the most appropriate choice.” Mr. Hastings crossed to the ceiling-high file cabinets arranged on either side of his rolltop desk. Opening the first drawer of the eighth tower, he extracted a single sheet of paper. “Let’s see. Under ‘talismans,’ we have amulets, four-leaf clovers, money trees, mystic stars, rabbits’ feet—”

  “Ew. I’m not wearing some dead animal’s paw around my neck,” Bertie stated firmly over the appalled shrieks of the fairies.

  Mr. Hastings continued, unperturbed. “There are also rosaries and scarab beetles.”

  “What are you playing at?” Bertie muttered at Nate, well aware that Mr. Hastings could research for hours, and she had no intention of listening to his entire catalogue in alphabetical order, cross-referenced by production use, purchase date, and historical significance.

  “ ’Tisn’t playin’.” Nate might have said more, but Mr. Hastings made a pleased noise of revelation.

  “What about a scrimshaw?”

  The pirate grinned, his teeth a flash of white against the bronze of his face. “That’d be particularly appropriate, I think. I’ll nip back an’ fetch it, if ye’ll tell me where ’tis.”

  Mr. Hastings squinted at the paper. “Aisle 88F.”


  Nate set off at a jog. Bertie shook her head over the entire idea as she retrieved her favorite toaster from the collection on a nearby shelf. Victorian vertical stands required open flames, and later electric models lacked the ornate worksmanship and array of push buttons she found most intriguing, though the fairies always moaned that this particular nickel-plated box took too long and sometimes burned the toast.

  Bertie plugged it in and reached for the bread, safeguarded from both vermin and fae in a tin picnic basket. “I really don’t need a . . . what’s it called?”

  “Scrimshaw,” Mr. Hastings said.

  “Scrim, like the curtain?” Moth said, his forehead wrinkled with concentration.

  “And Shaw is a playwright!” Cobweb added with a bounce. “Good ol’ George Bernard.”

  “No.” Mr. Hastings tapped the file in his hand. “All one word: scrimshaw. A carving on bone, an artform made popular by whalers in the nineteeth century.”

  “That would explain how Nate knew what it was,” Bertie said, fitting slices into the toaster’s mesh baskets. “Did he carve this one?”

  “I did not.” Nate had returned. A chain of dull, heavy metal dangled from one finger, its circular pendant gleaming in the late afternoon sunshine.

  “Oh!” Bertie held out her hand.

  Nate lowered the scrimshaw into it. The chain slithered over her fingers, significant and serpentine, and the bone disk settled against her skin, immediately warming to her touch. Whorls of gold ran through the medallion’s rich patina and accented an engraving of the Théâtre’s art nouveau façade.

  The likeness of the building, reproduced on thick cream card stock for every program, every ticket, had been rendered on the bone with an expert eye to detail. There was the dome-roofed ticket booth, flanked by massive revolving doors likewise inset with stained glass and blooming vines of wrought iron. With robes flowing and never-to-fade flowers framing their lovely faces, gracious gilded statuary held the portico aloft in delicate hands.

  Bertie rubbed her thumb over the scrimshaw’s surface and marveled at the infinitesimal crosshatches that created the illusion of depth and shadow. “It’s gorgeous.”

  Nate took the medallion back from her, swept her hair aside, and fastened the chain about her neck. The fairies and even Mr. Hastings crowded close to get a better look.

  “It’s pirate booty!” said Cobweb from Bertie’s shoulder. He reached for it, but she shook her head at him.

  “You’re all sticky,” she said. “Don’t touch it.”

  “I’ll give ye a warnin’, too,” Nate said. “Don’t get it near saltwater.”

  “I’ll have to stay away from the Little Mermaid set. The Stage Manager will be thrilled.” Bertie started to laugh, but trailed off when he didn’t join her. “What makes you say that?”

  “Saltwater will call her.” Nate reached out and stroked the scrimshaw’s surface with his fingertip.

  Bertie peered up at him. “Why are you being so cryptic? Who will the water call?”

  Nate glanced at Mr. Hastings. “Th’ Sea Goddess. Th’ real one. That scrimshaw’s carved from a bit o’ her bone.”

  “Really?” Mr. Hastings began to flip through his paperwork. “That’s fascinating!”

  “That’s not fascinating, it’s disgusting!” The medallion’s weight dragged at Bertie’s neck. She reached for the clasp and did a frantic sort of dance. “Take it off.”

  “I won’t, an’ neither will ye,” Nate said. “That’s th’ most powerful talisman I have ever seen. Close yer eyes a moment an’ listen. What does it tell ye?”

  “Are you drunk?” Bertie sputtered. “Have you been in the rum again?”

  “Jus’ do it.” Nate used his sternest Giving Orders voice.

  Without meaning to, Bertie let the rest of the room fade into the background. When she focused all of her attention on the medallion, something crawled over her skin and left it spangled with salt. “It feels very old and very sad, somehow.”

  “Duh!” said Mustardseed. “It’s ivory from a dead animal. Of course it’s sad!”

  “Not in death, but in life,” Bertie said, unable to look away from the engraving of the Théâtre. “The sadness seeped into her very bones and was locked inside.”

  “Exactly,” Nate said. “I’ll tell ye her story later. Just know fer now that a bit o’ Sedna’s bone is th’ best protection ye could possibly have.”

  “Fine. Whatever. I don’t have time to argue with you.” An acrid odor alerted Bertie—too late!—to the toast. The fairies wailed over its loss, but Bertie shook her head. “Leave it. We have to go convince Mr. Tibbs that I’m not a hooligan. Will you be all right on your own, Mr. Hastings?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” The Properties Manager frowned, rifling through papers at a startling speed.

  “Are you certain?” Bertie asked, already halfway to the door.

  He didn’t reply as he turned back to his filing cabinets and straightened his glasses. “I will have to make a notation. I don’t seem to have the provenance for that particular scrimshaw in my paperwork. . . .”

  “So?” Bertie held onto the doorframe.

  Mr. Hastings looked up, startled. “Hm? Oh, are you still here, Bertie dear?”

  Wholly accustomed to his absentmindedness, she shook her head and waved. “Never mind. We’ll be back later . . . and see if you can find me a basket of asps!”

  “Are you insane?” Cobweb demanded as they headed for the Scenic Department.

  “For requesting asps?”

  “For burning the toast!”

  Bertie skimmed down the hall, fueled by success and adrenaline. Sconces poured warm light on the rich mahogany paneling, but shadows, like creatures long of tooth and nail, gathered in the narrow places. “We’ve more important things to worry about right now than food.”

  Mustardseed said reproachfully, “I’m certain you don’t mean that.”

  “She’s under duress,” Peaseblossom said.

  “I don’t care if she’s under duress, over it, or alongside it,” Moth said. “Nothing in this world supersedes cake.”

  “Pie does,” Cobweb corrected.

  Moth glared at him. “Are you under duress, too?”

  Bertie did her best to ignore both the fairies and the insistent thumping of the scrimshaw against her skin as she planned her attack upon the Scenic Department. She would need all her wits if she was going to convince Mr. Tibbs to help her.

  Considering the ongoing dispute between the Properties and Scenic Departments, it didn’t help that Mr. Hastings had always favored her.

  MR. TIBBS

  (yelling)

  If you can pick it up with your hands and move it, I’ll agree it’s a prop! Anything too heavy to lift is a piece of dash-blasted scenery and therefore belongs to me.

  MR. HASTINGS

  (standing his ground)

  With enough leverage, anything can be lifted and moved, my dear Mr. Tibbs.

  MR. TIBBS

  I’m not your dear anything, you upstart nincompoop!

  MR. HASTINGS

  Be that as it may, you bullying chimney stack, the vase from the third act of The Lake most assuredly belongs to the Property Department.

  (He pulls out reams of paperwork.)

  I will direct your attention to line 45A and the Stage Manager’s signature. . . .

  MR. TIBBS

  Signature or no, that vase is coming with me.

  “Ye goin’ t’ need t’ charm him,” Nate said. “He still carries a grudge against ye fer all th’ times ye painted yer room.”

  “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 glass 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 ham
mering, sawing, or any of the other thousands of noises normally associated 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 damn 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, shifting 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.”