Part 5 (2/2)
He nodded. ”With my last breath.”
”A plan! We need a plan!” said Cobweb.
”Vive la Revolution!” 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' Theatre'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.”
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