Without thinking, Bertie took the mirror and peered into it. Only her own puzzled visage peered back at her, though it was still a shock to see herself with silver hair. “What’s that to do with Sedna?”
“The Sea Goddess tracks you through the water like a shark, drawn to the scent of your deceptions. Once you remove the mask you wear, she will find it much more difficult to recognize you.”
“But I can always build another mask.” When Bertie spoke, it was equal parts statement and question.
Serefina smiled. “True enough, wordsmith, but the one you give up today will not be the one you wear tomorrow or the day after that.”
Though such an idea gave Bertie pause, it seemed a small price to pay for her safety and, by proxy, the safety of the troupe and the Caravanserai.
Especially in comparison to Serefina’s other requests.
Hand shaking just a bit, Bertie raised the mirror again. Ophelia’s eyes looked back at her—you have your mother’s eyes—but everything else wavered. What was left of Bertie’s eyeliner formed ridges under thickly painted eyebrows. Traces of glittering eye shadow crystallized into fog-smudged half-moons. And, perhaps most disconcerting, the silver of her hair ran in rivulets down her face to form a translucent mask, glass-trapping her features.
“Lift it from your skin, child,” Serefina murmured.
Bertie obeyed, sliding her fingernails under the mask’s knife-thin edge and lifting it as one would the lid from Pandora’s box. There was a blast of frigid air, and the object in her hand was as much ice as it was glass. Fingers trembling, Bertie held it out in offering to Serefina.
The herb-seller hastily wrapped the mask in a length of silk that smelled of sandalwood and secrets. “My thanks.” Her voice was already stronger, clearer, ringing with the brass-tenor of a gong.
In stark contrast, Bertie’s knees wobbled. “My apologies that I couldn’t do more.”
Or wouldn’t.
“This will suffice for the time being.” Serefina tilted her head to one side. “How does it feel to be without your various artifices, wordsmith?”
Bertie lifted her hand to her face, suddenly self-conscious. “No different—”
But she couldn’t finish voicing the falsehood, not when her skin felt softer than Opening-Night roses. There was a disconnect, as if she touched the flesh of another, or perhaps the fingers grazing her cheek were not her own. When she dropped her hand, other sensations rushed at her: the heat from the fire suddenly a dozen degrees warmer; steam from the hissing kettle as moist upon her face as though she’d walked into vapors of the theater’s fog machine.
Raising the mirror to look at herself again, Bertie was somehow unsurprised by the anxiety shimmering on the surface of her skin. Though Ophelia’s eyes yet peered back at her, though her nose had the same impudent tilt at the end, though her freckles were as much in evidence as ever, rising panic revealed itself in the flare of her nostrils and the twist of her mouth. Try as she might to tame it, to shove it below the surface, to smile, to grimace, to summon any facial expression that would have belied her inner turmoil, Bertie couldn’t manage it. There was nothing there behind which she could hide, and the terror of it settled into her very bones.
“I look naked,” she whispered, “like my soul is shining out.”
“That’s because it is.” Serefina rose from her place and removed the mirror from Bertie’s reluctant hand. “Tarry not. The longer you linger here, the more apt Sedna is to discover you. You’ve shed deception and falsehood for the time being, but honesty won’t trick her forever.” When Bertie made no move to leave, the herb-seller gave her arm a shake. “Do you understand? You must get back to your friends and depart as quick as you can. The sooner you’re gone from the Caravanserai, the safer everyone will be.”
“Of course.” Bertie stumbled over her feet as she rose, the hands-not-hers accepting the bundle of packets and bottles of medicine Serefina handed to her.
“Safe travels to you,” the herb-seller said in parting. “Should you ever reconsider, you know where to find me.”
“I do.”
But I won’t reconsider such a thing.
* * *
Ducking into the Performers’ Alcove adjacent to the massive, echoing amphitheater, Bertie came nose to nose with the mechanical horses. Stoic and stalwart, with metal plating and gear-driven innards, the steeds stood ready for departure.
More than a bit damp around the neckline and underarms, Nate now sorted bits of leather straps tumbling out of a broken box and muttered to himself. “This is worse tangled than a length o’ sea-soaked rigging!” He jerked upon the extra reins, setting the silver bells jangling like those of a demented sleigh. “Whoever stowed this needs t’ make th’ acquaintance o’ a cat-o’-nine-tails.”
Half hidden by the caravan, Bertie watched him struggle, his muscles clenched and straining under his shirt. A dribble of sweat worked its way down his cheek, slipping under the strong line of his jaw and down the full length of his neck.…
I bet he tastes salty sweet.
Two seconds later, reality kicked her in the backside.
And the fact that I think that no doubt shows on my face!
Indeed, a hot blush already suffused her cheeks, and she ducked around the far side of the wagon. Before Serefina traded her for the mask, Bertie certainly hadn’t considered the notion that she was as much an actress as any Player at the Théâtre Illuminata, but now she had the proof of it. She forced herself to take one deep breath, then another, her back pressed flat against the caravan until she was nearly felled by a cloth-wrapped slab of bacon.
“Incoming!” Mustardseed yelled several seconds too late. Four little heads appeared overhead, followed by squeals of “Bertie!” and “Look at all the grub we bought!”
Despite the late hour, Peaseblossom and the others had indeed done their duty. The top of the caravan overflowed with supplies, from waxy wheels of cheese to cotton sacks of dried beans and cornmeal.
“So you cleaned out whatever stalls cater to hearty, raw-boned pioneers traveling by covered wagon?” Even if she’d wanted to look stern, Bertie couldn’t help but smile over their thoroughness. “If I’ve any worries about the journey, they don’t include starvation.”
Peaseblossom grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “Not only that, but I fetched your things from the bathhouse.” The fairy retrieved the scrimshaw medallion from the pile of shopping with a ladylike grunt and returned it to Bertie.
As the cool ivory settled back into its proper place between her collarbones, Bertie felt more like herself than she had in hours. “Thanks, Pease.”
“Yer back.” Approaching from the other side, Nate’s appearance nearly jolted Bertie from her traitorous skin.
“I am, and we have to hurry. Sedna’s gathering her strength. She’s tried to attack me twice with water tonight.” Before he could demand a recitation of the story, Bertie shoved the cloth sack Serefina had packed into his arms. “Medicines and other necessaries.” She averted her face, trying to school her features. “Your arrow wound probably needs a disinfecting wash, at the very least, and clean rags to bind it—”
“I’ll be fine.” The pirate leaned in closer, studying her as though she were some sort of odd species of fish that had flopped aboard his vessel. “Ye look different.”
“It’s just the new hair color.”
He shook his head. “That’s not it. What else ha’e ye done?”
Bertie turned away, seeking out any and all shadows. “Didn’t you ever learn that it’s rude to stare?”
Trained in all sorts of armed combat, Nate required only three seconds and as many steps to cut off her retreat. “Some starin’ needs t’ be done.”
“Don’t be stubborn for stubborn’s sake—”
“Says th’ donkey t’ th’ ass.”
“Smart move, there,” Mustardseed observed with an ear wiggle, “making yourself the ass.”
Nate didn’t shift his gaze from Bertie’s fac
e when he answered, “I’ve yet some sense o’ self-preservation.”
“If that’s true, then put a cork in your questions,” Bertie said, her consonants clipped. “We need to leave now.”
“What about Ariel?” Cobweb asked when Nate didn’t.
“If he doesn’t resurface within the next five minutes, we leave without him.” Bertie raised her voice for the benefit of anyone who might be eavesdropping. “We are not a trifling thing, an ant upon the road to be easily overlooked. A painted caravan, two silver horses, four sugar-hyper fairies. If Ariel has the least desire to find us, he will.…”
She wanted to sound flippant and devil-may-care, but the strain of making such a decision manifested in a choking noise that echoed off the walls of the alcove. Nate saw something in her expression that gave him reason to clench his jaw, and Bertie wanted to cover her face with her hands, to demand he look away. Instead, she marched up the stairs to the caravan, bringing her bare feet down with far more force than necessary.
“Where are ye goin’?” came the inevitable query behind her.
“To change my clothes! And possibly cut all my hair off so I don’t look like him!” The second bit slipped out before she could stop it, and Bertie contemplated banging her head into the sturdy wooden door until she passed out, if only to save herself further embarrassment.
First things first. I have to get out of this ridiculous dress.
Swearing under her breath, Bertie wrestled the garment off. It would have been satisfying to jump up and down upon it, but there was no time for such childish indulgences now, so she settled for flinging it out the door. The silk chiffon drifted away, disappearing like mist on a sunny morning. The only trouble with such a dramatic gesture was that it afforded Nate an unhindered view of her standing in the doorway wearing only her undergarments.
Rather than ducking his head and swearing, as he might have only a short time ago, he caught the dress in one deft hand and headed up the stairs after her. “Ye weren’t serious about yer hair, were ye?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. I can’t be certain about anything just at the moment.” Dragging out the nearest trunk, Bertie set to rummaging, as much for something suitable for road travel as for the opportunity to hide her expression from him. Her jeans sat atop a jumble of velvets and satins; once in them, she felt a bit more herself. The soft crimson pullover added another layer of comfort, as did the hood. Twisting the strands of Arctic Tempest out of her face, Bertie gripped the impromptu chignon and went in search of hair combs.
“I’m already gettin’ used to it.” Reaching up, Nate coerced Bertie’s fingers into loosing her hair. Then, as though it reeled him in, he lowered his head a few inches to inhale the exotic scent of the bathhouse soaps that lingered, even after Sedna’s saltwater assault. “Ye smell like th’ ocean. An’ dessert … orange, mint, a bit of vanilla.”
Bertie’s mouth dried up, wondering what her expression would reveal now that she couldn’t hide anything from him, but it was Nate who surprised her again when his lips grazed the side of her neck, his breath wreaking soft havoc upon her ear.
“What would ha’e happened already if he hadn’t come between us?”
CHAPTER SIX
I Must Attend Her Majesty’s Command
Bertie almost choked on the thought. “My guess is ‘nothing much.’ You’ve an unusual sense of propriety for a pirate.” She would have pulled away, except Nate’s massive arms had shifted so that the left encircled her back and the right cradled the base of her neck; she was well-trapped, and she could hardly breathe for the realization.
“Mayhap ye carved my propriety from my flesh wi’ yer arrow.” His body was like a bow tightly strung and drawn. The smallest shift in his weight lifted Bertie onto her yet-bare tiptoes, and gentle leverage tilted her head back.
There were protests to be made—Bertie hadn’t meant to shoot him when she’d thought she was the Forest Queen, Sedna was on the rampage, Her Gracious Majesty had summoned the troupe—but traitorous lips formed the query “Why don’t you shut your piehole and kiss me?” instead.
The invitation, once issued, would not be rescinded. The truth of the matter was that she wanted him to kiss her, that she welcomed the rough feel of his mouth against hers and the light scrape of teeth and the way his arms tightened about her in a vise. She couldn’t be swept away by the tides, not while he held her; there was no safer feeling in all the world, and she fell into it headlong, like Alice down the rabbit hole.
By the time Nate was done drowning himself in her, neither of them could breathe properly. The darkness inside the caravan wrapped them in black velvet curtains, the air as thick about them as that of a long-sealed tomb. Bertie had her hands clenched in his shirt, and her breath came in tiny pants; perhaps oxygen deprivation explained the next conversational jewel that dropped from her mouth.
“I want to be with you, but you are a pirate, which means you probably have ten sorts of pox, as well as the clap.”
That assertion wiped the satisfied look from Nate’s face, replacing it with that of an indignant feline whose tail had just gotten caught under a rocking chair. “I don’t know any such thing! An’ I certainly haven’t th’ clap! D’ye see any sign o’ such on my face or my hands?” As punishment for such an outrageous accusation, he bit her just where her neck met her shoulder.
She retaliated by pinching him somewhere wholly indecent and improper, adding to the assault a long-harbored suspicion. “You’ve probably bedded dozens of girls from the Ladies’ Chorus, no doubt every one of them incubating a different love malady!”
“I ha’e not!” He caught hold of her pinching fingers and pinned them behind her back.
“You haven’t had any women, or they haven’t given you the gift that keeps on giving?” Her free hand reached out and jabbed him in the midsection.
Rather than take the not-quite-a-game a step further, Nate carefully set her back on her feet before retreating far enough to give her space to breathe, to think. “Why are ye bringin’ this up now, lass?”
Unable to determine if she was disappointed or relieved he’d let her go, Bertie turned to the tiny window, jerked it open, and leaned out in search of fresh air. A chill wind snaked its way through the Caravanserai, raising its serpentine head in spine-numbing gusts, and she was grateful to it for clearing the fog in her head. “Because I can’t help myself.”
“Because yer afraid.”
Bertie couldn’t lie to him. Not because she’d traded her mask to Serefina, but because she realized she wanted no falsehoods between them. “Yes.”
“Because o’ Ariel?”
“That’s partially it.”
“An’ what’s th’ rest?”
She refused to look at him, instead turning her eyes to the night sky. There was still no sign of the Scrimshander, though the crescent moon slanted blue-tinged light over every surface. The events of the day caught up with her all at once, and her teeth started to chatter. “There’s something about me, Nate, that drives people away. Ariel. Ophelia. My father.”
“I’m still here.”
“Until I do or say something completely unforgivable, simply because I can’t seem to help myself—” He took a step toward her then, but Bertie shook her head, desperate to make him understand. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but I seem to manage it quite nicely on occasion.”
“I’m not afraid o’ yer words or yer bite, lass. Say what ye like t’ me, it won’t change what’s between us.” After a long moment, Nate added, “An’ push as hard as ye need t’. I’ll give ye as much space as ye want.”
“That’s a new development,” she said, half choking on inappropriate laughter. “You’re a champion hoverer.”
He ducked his head. “Aye, well, some time spent captive at Sedna’s mercy might ha’e somethin’ t’ do wi’ it, never mind ye handled yerself against th’ witch wi’out any help from me—”
Tiny hands frantically hammering on the door to the caravan interrupted
whatever else Nate had been about to say.
“Bertie!” Peaseblossom’s voice was wood muffled but insistent. “Waschbär is back!”
“The Innamorati are here as well,” Mustardseed added with the singsong of a practiced tattletale, “and Aleksandr wants to speak with you!”
“Chef Toroidal brought us a get-lost pie!” called Moth.
“Stupid, it’s shoofly,” corrected Cobweb.
“Oooooh, I thought that meant good riddance.”
“Good riddance pie wouldn’t be this sticky,” Peaseblossom said, her voice muffled a bit as though her mouth was full. “You don’t get rid of someone who’s sticky very easily. Speaking of which, get your hands off me, Mustardseed!”
“We should get out there, before one o’ them tries t’ eat th’ arm off th’ other.” One hand on the doorknob, Nate hesitated. “Did ye mean what ye said about leavin’ wi’out Ariel?”
“If I want to win that wish-come-true from the Queen, we need to go now,” Bertie answered. It wasn’t until Nate turned that she permitted herself to consider the question fully, and the thought of Ariel’s absence brought bright-hot tears to her eyes. Hastening to wipe them away, she almost scratched the skin down her cheeks and alongside her nose. At first she thought her fingernails were to blame, but when she studied her hands, Bertie saw that her tears had hardened into sharp-edged crystals that looked suspiciously like diamonds.
“Are ye comin’?” Nate was halfway down the stairs.
She closed her fingers over the jewels and turned back to the open trunk. “I need to find a pair of shoes. Then we can get this demented act on the road.”
With an extra pair of Mary Janes located and the diamond-tears tucked into the deepest pocket of her jeans, Bertie followed Nate out into the night. Waschbär was the first to greet her with a chipper salute and then a squint.
So Silver Bright Page 6
