Eyes Like Stars

by Lisa Mantchev

  “Whoa, wait just a second,” their leader started to protest. “Where did all this come from?”

  “It’s there because I wanted it to be there,” Young Bertie explained. She held up her drawing. “See? I put the word on paper, so it’s true. Would you like to see me spell ‘avalanche’?”

  The Brigands stormed out Stage Left, crawling over one another in their eagerness to flee.

  “You always had a way with words,” Mrs. Edith said. “Anywhere you thought to go, we went: the mountains, the valleys, the mystical places, and the mundane. But over and over again, you were drawn to the sea.”

  The shifting kaleidoscope of gray returned, but this time, Bertie could make out the call of gulls and waves smashing against the rocks. Chalk-white cliffs rumbled into place.

  “This is where I went with your father.” Ophelia peered at the set with luminous eyes.

  Bertie’s heart thudded. “You remember this place?”

  Ophelia twisted her hands together in a knot. “I . . . I think so!”

  “But that’s good!” Bertie’s heart leapt at the thought that something had triggered Ophelia’s memory. “I wonder—”

  “Bertie!” Ariel spun her around in time for her to see her younger self climb to the top of the towering wooden cliffs and stand facing the audience.

  Young Bertie looked over the edge, down into the orchestra pit. “I wonder.”

  “What do you wonder, dear heart?” Mrs. Edith asked her, trying to catch up.

  “I wonder if I can fly.”

  Mrs. Edith held out her hand. “Come back, dear. You’re making me very nervous.”

  Bertie started to shout that it was making her nervous, too, but she couldn’t manage it. The scrimshaw hummed, and Bertie stood in two places at once: next to Ariel on the stage, and atop the cliff, looking down, not at the musicians, but at the frothing churn of a restless ocean. She’d never before been afraid of heights, but vertigo seized her. “Step back!”

  Young Bertie only grinned. “Why?”

  Mrs. Edith answered the question. “Birds fly, my darling, not little girls.”

  Instead of obeying, Young Bertie put her bare toes over the edge. “Maybe I’m not a little girl. Maybe I’m a bird, too.”

  Mrs. Edith shook her head, a desperate note creeping into her clipped tones. “You’re not. Come away from the edge.”

  “Come away from the edge,” Bertie echoed.

  Bertie’s younger self looked directly at her older incarnation, smiled sweetly, spread her arms . . .

  And jumped.

  Everyone in the audience screamed as the stage plunged into a blackout. When the lights faded up to half, Mrs. Edith sat upon the caravan once more, holding a sodden and limp child-Bertie in her arms.

  “What happened?” Bertie whispered. “After I jumped?”

  The Wardrobe Mistress’s expression was both grim and determined. “By some miracle, you survived, and I took you straight back to the theater.”

  The curtain painted with the Théâtre’s façade skimmed into place. Mrs. Edith climbed down from the caravan as the child sat up and rubbed her eyes.

  “What is this place?”

  Mrs. Edith beckoned to her. “Your new home, my dear.”

  Young Bertie hopped down and frowned. “I don’t want to stay here.”

  “You’ll have your own room,” said Mrs. Edith.

  “I don’t want my own room.”

  “Of course you do,” said Mrs. Edith. “Every little girl wants her own room that she can paint any color of the rainbow. And you’ll have friends—”

  “I don’t want friends,” said Young Bertie.

  “Of course you do,” said the Wardrobe Mistress. “Fairy friends who will sing you to sleep and tell you bedtime stories and weave ribbons into your hair.”

  “She’s not talking about us, is she?” asked Moth. “Because I’ve never put a ribbon anywhere on your person.”

  “Shut up,” Bertie said without taking her eyes off the scene.

  “You’ll be able to play in Paris and London,” Mrs. Edith said. “Visit Neverland whenever you want. There are pirates and peasants and clowns.”

  “No clowns,” said Young Bertie. “Clowns creep me out.”

  “All right,” Mrs. Edith conceded. “No clowns.”

  “And no one will boss me around or tell me what to do,” Young Bertie continued.

  “All right,” said Mrs. Edith. “You’ll answer to yourself and no one else. It will be lonely that way, I fear.”

  “I like being lonely,” said Young Bertie with her fists balled at her side. “I don’t need anyone, do you hear me? I don’t need you.”

  The Theater Manager appeared in the doorway. “You’re back. And this is—”

  “Beatrice,” Mrs. Edith answered. “Beatrice Shakespeare Smith.”

  The Theater Manager nodded to Young Bertie. “How do you do?”

  “Much better than you think,” the child said, crossing her arms.

  “Has her mother returned to us?” Mrs. Edith said, wording the question so carefully that Young Bertie almost missed it.

  “My mother?” the child asked. “Is she here? Can I meet her?”

  “I’m sorry, Beatrice,” the Theater Manager said, “but that woman has never returned.”

  To fill the silence, the Wardrobe Mistress said brightly, “I think you will find Bertie has a talent for writing that is quite extraordinary. She has power over words.”

  The Theater Manager looked down at Young Bertie, the polite mask her older counterpart knew so well settling into place. “Ah. I shall have to watch her carefully, then. Such a skill might prove useful to her someday.” He knelt next to the child. “You can stay, on the condition that you forget how you came here.”

  Young Bertie looked as though she might make a run for it, but under the combined, stern gazes of the Theater Manager and Mrs. Edith, she deflated. “All right. Fine. I’ll forget, and I’ll stay. But only until I’m ready to remember all this.” She held her hands up to her head and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “What are you doing, child?” Mrs. Edith asked with a quaver in her voice.

  “I’m squeezing all my memories out.”

  “My dear—”

  “Leave me alone!”

  Ghostly figures danced across the back wall: fleeting tricks of lighting specials that suggested a small child’s adventures with her guardian. The amber wash on the scene began to fade as the mechanical horses pulled the caravan offstage.

  “What is this place?” Young Bertie whispered into the growing darkness.

  “Your new home, my dear,” said Mrs. Edith, no longer wearing her brightly colored gown but costumed once again as the Wardrobe Mistress.

  “How did I get here?” Young Bertie asked, her forehead puckered in a frown.

  “We’ll talk about that later.” Mrs. Edith patted her on the shoulder and exited.

  Young Bertie stood alone, Center Stage. For a moment, Bertie thought that was the end of the story, the end of the play. Tears gathered in her eyes for that lost little girl.

  But as the child went through the glass revolving door, violins and flutes started to play a merry tune, softly at first, then with growing insistence and speed as new memories streamed in to replace those she’d lost. The Mistress of Revels was gone, but her good work continued behind the scenes, for there was the Harlequin in his brilliant diamond-patched jerkin juggling flaming billets of wood and tiny stuffed animals. The Fairy Court in shades of moss and rose, surrounded by a thousand gold-and-silver flickering fireflies. The pirates swinging on ropes, hanging by wrists and ankles while brandishing swords and flinging gold coins. The tap-dancing starfish, triple-time-stepping.

  Young Bertie slowly yielded to the enchantment of the Théâtre, her smile growing ever wider as she frolicked amongst the Players.

  Mrs. Edith was right. I was happy here.

  The music built to a crescendo as the Players rushed to the side of the stage to surrou
nd the elder Bertie.

  “Come,” they insisted, “you’re part of this!”

  “Are you insane?” she protested.

  “You must! It’s the finale!”

  When Ariel laughed, Bertie grabbed him by the elbow. “You’re coming, too!”

  But he didn’t protest, and though it wasn’t the tango, he knew every bit of the choreography. Young Bertie disappeared through a trapdoor with a wink and a wave. The four fairies rushed in to surround Bertie’s head like a halo. The Gentlemen of the Chorus twirled her about, one right after the other, as pirates and starfish and fae rushed to take their places for the final pose: Bertie, sitting on Ariel’s shoulders, her arms outstretched, surrounded by the Players.

  The cannon fired with an almighty boom! and a shower of golden confetti sifted down from the flies. Panting from exertion, Bertie smiled when someone clapped once, twice. She’d almost forgotten the second part to her bargain with the Theater Manager, and so she held her breath until the applause rolled toward the stage in waves, just as the water had. Flowers hit the floorboards alongside cries of “Brava!”

  Bertie lifted a hand to cut out the glare of the lights; the audience had found its collective feet.

  I can stay.

  “I suppose we ought to bow,” she whispered to Ariel with barely contained triumph. “You can put me down now, and get your hand off my butt!”

  He grinned and pointed at the Stage Manager. “Curtain call!”

  Mrs. Edith and Ophelia entered to take their places on one side of Bertie, and Ariel stood on the other. The fairies fluttered forward to cling to her hair as the lights tightened on Center Stage, blinding Bertie as she bowed. Beyond the cheering crowd, the Exit sign beckoned.

  The curtains crashed into each other, signaling the end to How Bertie Came to the Theater. Heavy red velvet muffled the sounds of the audience filing out, though Bertie caught snippets of “How unusual!” and “Delightful! We should renew our subscription.”

  When the low murmur of conversation finally faded, the Theater Manager spoke, almost to himself. “You’d remembered almost all of it.”

  “That’s why you wanted me to leave, isn’t it?” Bertie said. “It didn’t have anything to do with the cannon—”

  “It had everything to do with the cannon!” he fired back. “Everything to do with the changes you wrought here. It’s only by chance that the Théâtre yet stands. . . .”

  “The pages are back in The Book,” Bertie said. All but two. “I repaired it and saved the Théâtre when you couldn’t. I fulfilled the obligations of my contract: a sold-out show concluded with a standing ovation. And I discovered that I am more than a foundling child, or even a Director.” Bertie reached for Ophelia’s hand. “I am her daughter.”

  “My ward,” Mrs. Edith said.

  “Our friend,” said the fairies.

  “My benefactress,” Ariel said with a wry quirk to his lips.

  “And the Writer of Words,” Bertie finished. “I have a place here, whether you like it or not. Mrs. Edith named me for the other Beatrice, and I will be put upon by no one, not even you.”

  “Have your way, then,” the Theater Manager said, his voice hoarse. “Next time, you might not be so lucky. Next time, the building may well crumble about our ears.”

  Bertie shook her head. “The audience might have been content with the play, but it’s only a draft. A work in progress. A character’s still missing from my story.”

  “Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow.” Ophelia’s hand trembled in hers. “Would that I could remember his name for you!”

  Bertie turned and kissed her mother on the cheek, vowing to remember the delicate scent of her: pink carnations and water-blooming flowers, ice-fed streams and the iron-tang of strength under her wistful vulnerability. Bertie whispered, so that only Ophelia might hear. “I will find him, for the both of us, and bring him back.”

  There was more than one man to find, though. This damsel will rescue the pirate in distress.

  Peaseblossom yanked hard upon one of Bertie’s diamond earrings. “You can’t be serious! You’re not going to leave!”

  “Yes, I am. I have to.” Bertie turned to the Theater Manager. “I will go the way I came: with the caravan, with companionship. You will not gainsay me these things.”

  “Not if you actually agree to go,” he said. “It’s a meager price to pay for the safety of the Théâtre.”

  “Spoken by someone who doesn’t understand the value of loyalty, or friendship.” Bertie turned to Ariel. “The Bard’s words should remain in the Théâtre. Give me your page from The Tempest.” Ariel hesitated, but Bertie didn’t flinch under the intense scrutiny that could have burned a hole right through her. “This way, no one shall be able to call you back. Trust in me.”

  His promise and hers; now they’d both said it, and together the words were like the wind. He slid his hand inside his silk shirt and pulled out his page, grimacing as though its removal tore his flesh.

  She took it from him with steady fingers and turned to the Theater Manager. “A pen, sir?”

  Without saying a word, he took a fountain pen from his pocket and handed it to her.

  Bertie spared only a glance for the man who had worn the thickest mask of all, before she called out, “Open the curtains.”

  Red velvet parted to reveal the empty auditorium. Bertie crossed to The Book, held Ariel’s page up to the light, and whispered his opening speech.

  Ariel’s body spasmed as he was recaptured.

  “Just a moment. It will only take a few words, I promise.” With a shaking hand, Bertie turned to the back of The Book. At the top of a blank sheet, she wrote:

  Following Her Stars: In Which

  Beatrice (& Company) Take

  Their Act On The Road

  She paused, long enough for a blot of ink to appear.

  Enter BERTIE, ARIEL,

  PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH,

  and MUSTARDSEED.

  “It’s my turn to walk the ragged edge.” Holding her breath because she couldn’t cross her fingers, Bertie ripped the page out.

  The Exit sign in the back of the auditorium flickered, died, then blazed brighter than ever before.

  “I think The Book will be safer in my Office.” The Theater Manager pushed past Bertie to remove it from the pedestal.

  “I think you might be right about that,” she said with a sidelong look at Ariel.

  The Theater Manager made his exit without a backward glance. Ophelia and Mrs. Edith rushed to embrace Bertie one last time.

  “Promise you’ll be careful,” Ophelia said, touching a gentle finger to Bertie’s cheek.

  “That’s like asking the tide never to come in,” Mrs. Edith said with a suspicious hitch in her voice.

  “You two will have each other while I’m gone,” Bertie said, joining their hands together.

  “I will watch you go, though each step pains me,” Ophelia said. “I will hold your memory close to my heart every second you are gone.”

  For a moment, all three women stood with their heads inclined toward one another. Were it not for the medallion hanging about her neck, Bertie might have permitted a few hasty tears to fall. Pulling away, she tilted her head at Ariel.

  “Shall we?”

  His smile was one of the most beautiful things Bertie had ever seen. He offered her his arm. “Let your indulgence set me free.”

  “Never say I didn’t give you anything.” Bertie tucked her hand under his elbow, and a great burst of wind lifted them from the stage to the red-carpeted runner. The fairies flew ahead, all pushes and shoves and exclamations of excitement.

  When they reached the end of the aisle, Ariel opened the auditorium door. Bertie looked back long enough to see Ophelia and Mrs. Edith, standing Center Stage, arm in arm. Bertie lifted her hand in farewell before the door slammed shut between them.

  “This is it.” Peaseblossom’s voice quavered a bit as they crossed the lobby.

  “Last chance t
o change your mind, Bertie,” Ariel said with a raffish smile.

  “What’s past is prologue, and the world awaits.” She placed one hand over the scrimshaw and the other flat against the glass of the revolving door. It turned slowly, whispering the Théâtre’s farewell, and Bertie lifted her eyes to gaze upon the night sky.

  CURTAIN

  Acknowledgments

  The author’s grateful thanks to everyone who rode the roller coaster from start to finish:

  My agents, Ashley and Carolyn Grayson, and my publisher, Jean Feiwel, for seeing the magic in this novel’s earliest incarnation and giving the curtain at the Théâtre Illuminata the chance to go up.

  My editor, Rebecca Davis, for asking the right questions until I found the right answers. The book is immeasurably better for your Mrs. Edith–like attention to detail.

  My husband, Angel, for dealing with the frothing and flailing in person, laughing in all the right places, and listening to me puzzle through the plot twists while nodding like it all made sense. When I stand in the spotlight, I know the best of the warmth and brilliance is your love for me.

  My daughter, Amélie, who learned so quickly to say, “Shhh! Mommy’s writing!” and “Is your chapter done yet?” for her sweet kisses after a long day at the computer, and for not unplugging my laptop more than strictly necessary.

  My mother, Gladys Burton, for always having a stack of books on her nightstand, letting me sit on the floor of Mendocino Book Company and the Ukiah Library until my backside went to sleep, and providing a constant stream of child care, dessert delivery, and support.

  My sister, Lori Hunt, for enduring a thousand games of make-believe in our youth in which she was bossed around and tied to trees, and for holding up a certain fantasy anthology in the middle of Barnes & Noble and yelling, “My sister has a story in this book and YOU SHOULD BUY IT.”

  My family by marriage, Nick, Gisele, and Rita, for their unfailing support and love.

  My father, Ronald Hunt, for the advice that I shouldn’t wait to chase my dream.