So Silver Bright (5 page)

“Like I’m a stranger?” The thought terrified Bertie, opening a dark place in her stomach and her heart both.

“Worse.”

The horrible feeling expanded, and her voice dropped another notch. “Like I’m the enemy?”

“Ariel’s not my enemy, lass. I can call him by a lot o’ names, but that wouldn’t be one o’ them.”

“I think you
have
called him a lot of names over recent months.” She meant it to sound lighthearted, to derail the serious turn the conversation had taken, but she didn’t quite manage it.

“Ne’er mind him now, we ha’e enough t’ deal wi’ as it is.” Reaching the edge of an enormous crowd, Nate began clearing a path for her.

Bertie followed him, hardly able to believe the number of people crammed into the central square. The usual dance of buying, selling, and coaxing coins from pockets had stilled, an eerie quiet settling over the throng as she approached. A bewigged courier, dressed in immaculate white and gold livery, waited at the decorative fountain. A row of similarly attired personages stood behind him, their gazes fixed upon her most disconcertingly.

Oblivious to the solemnity of the occasion, the fairies arrived on the scene carrying a large skewer of meat between them and arguing over the top of their charred prize.

“Don’t you blame me for this,” Peaseblossom was saying, “I wanted deep-fried yogurt doughnuts with jam!”

“But I
told
him I didn’t want sauce on my bit.”

“It’s just the smallest helping!”

“Yeah, of hellfire-hot, melt-your-mouth sauce! I’ll be farting flames for a week—” Here, Cobweb broke off his diatribe, nose and eyes streaming, to contemplate Bertie. “Good grief, you look just like Ariel!”

“Not now!” She issued the command between clenched teeth as she joined Nate at the front of the crowd.

Waschbär surprised them all by giving the Messenger a most courtly bow, remaining folded in half while he spoke to the man’s knees. “Permit me the grand and glorious honor of announcing you are in the presence of Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, Mistress of Revels, Emissary of the Théâtre Illuminata.”

The Messenger matched the sneak-thief’s bow, inch for inch. Straightening, he lifted a polished brass trumpet to his lips and issued a precise blast of air and noise directly in Bertie’s face. She only heard his next words through the tinny ringing in her ears.

“From Her Gracious Majesty the Queen!” The courier extended a thick parchment envelope, sealed with a great deal of wax bearing the royal crest and satin ribbon embroidered with the same.

Nate leaned in to stage-whisper, “I hope ’tisn’t an invitation fer a game o’ croquet, because ye can’t play wi’out cheatin’.”

“I highly doubt it.” The Mistress of Revels received missives from royalty all the time, so it must have been Bertie’s hands doing the shaking when she broke the seal on the parchment. She tilted it toward the irregular torchlight to make out the gilt-engraved words.

Her Gracious Majesty

hereby requests the presence of and a performance by

Beatrice Shakespeare Smith & Company

at her Birthday Festival,

the Grand Occasion commencing Saturday

“For the Queen’s pleasure,” the courier added, righting his hairpiece, “she has invited performers and minstrels from the four corners of her lands.”

“To the Distant Castle?” Even though it took him three tries to read the invitation over her shoulder, Mustardseed sounded awed.

Bertie peered at him. “The what?”

“The Distant Castle.” When she didn’t respond, the fairy fisted his hands on his hips. “It was in
your
play …
How Bertie Came to the Theater.
”

Before he even finished speaking, the memory already prickled on the back of her throat.

VERENA

I am the Mistress of Revels, Rhymer, Singer, and Teller of Tales on my way to a distant castle to perform for the Royal Family.

Bertie had composed the line as part of her script, and then, dressed as the Mistress of Revels, she’d repeated the words to a farmwife without thinking twice about them, without wondering at their meaning.

Script in haste, repent at leisure, it seems.

“Her stronghold sits at the very center of this great country,” the courier said, “and the terrain is easily enough traveled in a few days’ time, but you should consider an immediate departure.”

On the very long list of Things She Needed to Do Immediately, Bertie had not counted among them dropping everything to travel to the Queen’s stronghold. “I fear I have nothing worthy of performing before Her Gracious Majesty. This invitation would be better delivered to Aleksandr and the Innamorati.”

“They have already received their summons as well as permission for more rehearsal time,” the Messenger said with a disapproving twitch, though whether it was the circus troupe or their need for an extension that displeased him, Bertie could not be certain. “In any case, the Queen was most specific that the invitation be delivered to you.”

Bertie could feel the quicksand gathering about her feet that began with an invitation and ended with her clapped in chains in a drippy-dank dungeon for offending Her Gracious Majesty with a Performance Most Heinous. “But—”

“You would be wise to realize that you cannot gainsay Her Gracious Majesty’s desires or her timing.” The Messenger stowed his trumpet in some unseen pocket.

“Of course!” Peaseblossom said with a squeak. “We wouldn’t like to insult the Queen by arriving late!”

“What kind of insulted are we talking about? Lock us in the tower insulted? Hang us by our thumbnails insulted?” It wasn’t immediately clear from Moth’s tone if he were excited by or fearful of such a notion.

Mustardseed felt compelled to contribute. “Chop-off-our-heads insulted?”

“Executions are rare this time of year”—the Messenger cleared his throat before adding—“but the Queen has made it quite clear that the gates will be locked two days hence.”

“Why would she do that,” Bertie wanted to know, “if she wants us there so very badly?”

“Deadlines are a tradition,” the Messenger deigned to answer. “‘The first morning after marriage’ and midnight carriages turned back into pumpkins. The Queen has chosen tea-time for hers. Performers arriving late will be denied both the pleasure of her patronage and the chance to win a boon to be bestowed upon the artist or troupe with the most pleasing performance.”

Waschbär stiffened as though a cupid dart had struck him in the posterior. “What sort of boon?”

“The sort that has not been granted for countless years.” The Messenger gave the sneak-thief a knowing sort of look.

“I don’t really fancy myself a duchess,” Bertie started to say, but the laugh that had been building in the back of her throat turned to sand the moment Waschbär flashed her a fierce smile.

“He is not speaking of a paper title, make no mistake.… He means a wish-come-true.” When Bertie started to make a disbelieving noise, he gave her arm a subtle shake. “Think upon the possibilities of such a gift.”

“A wish-come-true?” Realization scrambled up Bertie’s spine and hit her in the back of the head with a big, rubber mallet. “And if she chooses our performance, the wishing of it would be ours?”

“To do with what you will.” Waschbär’s words tripped over themselves in their haste to exit his mouth. “With a mere thought, you could summon all the gold and jewels in the realm, a castle of your own—”

My family reunited. The happily ever after I can’t manage to write.

Bertie dared not utter the longing aloud; it was like a birthday-candle wish that, once vocalized, might never come true.

Cobweb spared her from saying anything by crowing, “So it’s like winning a wish from a genie in a bottle!”

“No one better expect me to rub an old lamp,” Mustardseed muttered. “Mr. Hastings tricked me into polishing most of the brass in the Properties Department once, using that line.”

“You’re missing the point!” Moth cavorted in the air nearest Bertie’s left ear. “We could make it rain cupcakes from the sky! Raspberry-jam pies would grow on trees, and chocolate rabbits would poop chocolate buttons!”

“Bertie can do all that without using a wish-come-true,” Peaseblossom said. “Never mind we don’t need you chasing after rabbits for their droppings!”

It was true; all Bertie required was a carefully written sentence or two to conjure anything she liked.

I never thought of writing a wish-come-true.

She pulled the silk-wrapped journal from Waschbär’s pack, but the sneak-thief wouldn’t be pickpocketed.

“This is neither the time nor the place for such magics,” he cautioned.

A double-edged truth: Not only would she make a spectacle of herself before the Queen’s emissary, but an ill-chosen word could inadvertently set her friends on fire—
again
—or create a Harrowing Journey they’d be forced to undertake.

“I must make haste. I have delayed the Queen’s business too long.” The Messenger proffered a gold-hinged box of modest size and significant weight. Nestled inside like eggs in the velvet lining of a very odd nest sat four pairs of gold-tooled binoculars; further examination revealed another four pairs, rendered in miniature, the perfect size for the fairies. “Glasses for you and the members of your party, good Mistress of Revels. You’ll need them to find your way.”

“Of course,” Bertie said, trying to resign herself to the unexpected journey. “Magic spectacles are commonplace on a venture such as this.”

“We need t’ leave right away, if ye don’t want t’ break th’ horses t’ get there,” Nate said.

A preparatory checklist clattered into place inside Bertie’s head, lengthening by the moment and a welcome diversion from renewed concern about Ariel. She couldn’t help but recall how deftly he’d handled both horses and wagon during the previous leg of their journey; traitorous eyes skimmed the sky as she wondered if he’d left without saying farewell. “Nate, where did you park the caravan?”

“Th’ Performers’ Alcove next t’ th’ amphitheater.”

Bertie had seen it in passing, just inside the Caravanserai’s inner wall, the one separating the giant stone structure from the shoreline and a brisk walk of at least thirty minutes. Glancing down at her bare feet, she scowled mightily, then set off, carefully watching for broken glass and anything else that might injure or maim.

“D’ye want me t’ carry ye?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“What happened t’ yer shoes?”

“Ruined by salt water. We were right.… Sedna is already coalescing.”

The fairies squeaked and clutched one another. Nate sucked in a breath as though she’d punched him.

“Did ye see her?”

“Only the water, but I heard several whispered threats.”

“All th’ more reason t’ clear out o’ here.” He snagged the shoulder of a passing rickshaw driver, nearly unseating the poor fellow. With an efficient toss, he put Bertie inside and clambered in after her, giving directions as she leaned out and issued orders of her own.

“Waschbär, find Aleksandr, please? Tell him what’s happened and that we leave within the hour.”

“It will be done with all due haste, I assure you! There’s a wish-come-true to win!” The sneak-thief ducked into the crowd and was out of sight in seconds.

Bertie turned to her fairy companions. “Peaseblossom, you need to go back to the bathhouse and collect my things. Take a coin from the Mistress of Revels’s belt and buy provisions. The responsibility for the next week’s meals in is your hands, and that means food groups other than
sugar, sugar,
and
yet more sugar.
Is that understood?”

“Aye, Captain!” As they departed, Peaseblossom and the boys started making plans to gather the necessary supplies, which included chocolate-dipped caramel marshmallow pillows, which might or might not be slept upon.

The rickshaw lurched forward as Nate posed a question that was a different sort of sticky. “Where’s Ariel?”

“When last I saw him, he was trying to decide whether or not to remain with the troupe.” Their cramped conveyance swung around a sudden corner, throwing Bertie against her companion’s broad chest.

“Oh, aye?” Only two words, softly spoken into her hair, but Nate’s expression said far more.

Struggling to right herself, Bertie tried to sound authoritative, dignified, anything other than equal parts fearful and harassed. “I wouldn’t have anyone remain who doesn’t wish to be here.”

In answer to her unspoken question, he nodded. “When we get to the Performers’ Alcove, I’ll see t’ th’ packing an’ th’ caravan. We’ll be able t’ depart wi’in th’ hour.”

“That’s good to hear.”

They spent the rest of their mercifully brief trip in silence, each keeping their own counsel as wooden wheels clattered over the cobblestones. The driver braked to a sudden but welcome stop between two massive stone columns, and Nate removed his shoes to extract the copper pennies long ago placed in each of the toes for luck. Just beyond the archway, the caravan sat bathed in soft amber light that slanted over the cart, the horses …

And the Scrimshander. Standing stiff and silent, he resembled a creature out of the Innamorati’s new play, the black glint of his gaze and the sharp angles of his arms and legs more bird than human tonight. His thickly muscled chest heaved under a thin cotton shirt; the awkward way it draped his shoulders and the shortness of the sleeves indicated he most likely pulled it off an untended laundry line.

Hope surged through Bertie’s chest as though the gold chain of blood and bone yet connected them, tugging her toward him.

He changed his mind.

After a single step she halted.

Or he’s come to say a final good-bye.