Part 6 (1/2)
”Like where?” Moth asked.
”I don't know,” Bertie said, biting her lip. ”Somewhere with kings and queens and political intrigue, but with plenty of wiggle room for fabulous costuming and sets. Like . . . Egypt!”
”Egypt.” Nate sounded less than convinced now.
”Ancient Egypt,” Bertie said with a bounce. ”It's perfect.”
Nate shook his head. ”Yer definition o' 'perfect' an' mine must be diff'rent. An' 'tisn't goin' to be easy t' convince ev'ryone. Change isn't in th' Players' nature.”
”It's in mine!” piped up Cobweb. ”Could we wear spandex and blow things up?”
”That would be wicked!” said Moth. ”Are there going to be explosions, Bertie?”
Bertie imagined the Stage Manager's face when he heard about the plan. ”Most likely. We need to recruit support.”
Nate nodded. ”Sympathizers, aye. Where d'ye want t' start?”
”We need all the departments on board before we go to the Theater Manager,” Bertie said. ”Let's start with the easiest and work our way down.”
”Mrs. Edith it is, then!” Mustardseed said, flying ahead of the group with a burst of speed and sparkles.
”You really think so?” Bertie weighed their options as they stampeded down the hall. ”I would have said Mr. Hastings.”
”Mr. Hastings likes you, but Mrs. Edith loves you,” Peaseblossom said. ”I know that's difficult to remember, when Mr. Hastings lets you run rampant through the Properties Department and Mrs. Edith tries to make you behave yourself, but it's true.”
”Fine,” Bertie said, ”we'll start with her.”
”Ye might want t' think up a way t' explain yer hair before we get down there,” Nate suggested. ”Unless ye actually asked permission afore ye pilfered her drawers.”
Bertie put a hand up to her hair and muttered, ”I'd forgotten about that.”
Nate gave her a sardonic look. ”Ye could always lead wi' th' news th' Theater Manager's kickin' ye out. It might take her mind off yer head.”
Walking into the Wardrobe Department was like opening an antique steamer trunk only to be buried alive in silk charmeuse, bobbin lace, and a.s.sorted bits of millinery. Adding to the whirl of color and fabric, Moth immediately sat upon the bra.s.s control for the overhead conveyor. A thousand years of history swept past Bertie on wooden hangers, gliding along the circuitous iron track overhead before disappearing into the cavernous storage closet.
Nate ducked his head and disappeared into the swirling vortex of frock coats, bustle skirts, and flapper dresses. ”I need t' look fer somethin'. I'll be right back.”
”What? Wait . . . Moth, get off of that!” Bertie nudged the fairy off the control b.u.t.ton.
By the time the sweeping dance of costumes glided to a halt, Nate had disappeared. The hiss and sputter of the coal furnace at the far end of the room replaced the hum of the conveyor. Heat poured off the boiler in waves, its steam powering the sea of sewing machines and flatirons as well as maintaining the dye vat at an eternal simmer.
Mrs. Edith sat at the long, work-scarred table with a lapful of copper taffeta that gleamed when she moved. While the rest of the theater bespoke the easy grace and artistic flourishes of the art nouveau period, the Wardrobe Mistress remained a stiffly starched Victorian, from the high, severe collar of her s.h.i.+rtwaist and the wide leg-of-mutton sleeves, down to the hem of her floor-sweeping skirts. The only concession to her grudgingly admitted artistic nature was a broach of rose gold, rumored to be a gift from the queen. She could cow the most insolent of Chorus Girls with a single look, and her spectacles served as an indicator of her mood; just now they were perched on the end of her nose, permitting her gaze to skewer both her work and her ward.
”Do you have something you want to tell me?” The needle she held was more threatening than a sword.
Bertie flattened her back against the door, searching the darkest recesses of her brain for the correct answer. ”Do you think I have something I should tell you?”
Mrs. Edith a.s.sessed Bertie's head and pursed her lips. ”Cobalt Flame?”
Bertie relaxed a fraction of an inch and nodded. ”Do you like it?”
”Strange as it is to say, it does suit you, although if you keep using stuff as strong as that, you'll be lucky not to go as bald as an egg.”
The fairies exploded with snickers, punctuated by ”Hey, there, cue ball!”
Mrs. Edith set aside the topic of Bertie's hair as easily as she s.h.i.+fted the fabric to the table. ”I missed the call to the stage trying to get this seam finished. What's going on?”
”That's what I came to see you about.” Bertie slid onto a stool next to the Wardrobe Mistress while wondering how best to break the news. Simply, without overdramatizing it. ”The Theater Manager asked me to leave.”
”That's not amusing, Bertie dear,” Mrs. Edith said with a frown. ”You shouldn't joke about such things.”
”I'm not joking. He said I need to make my way in the world.”
Mrs. Edith pursed her lips as she selected a gleaming pair of sewing scissors from the table, snipped an errant thread, and tossed it into the rubbish bin. ”Why now?”
”I guess he's mad about the cannon.” Bertie looked at her feet so that she didn't have to see the dire look on Mrs. Edith's face. She noticed small details: Her clunky Mary Janes were scuffed and needed polis.h.i.+ng; her favorite pair of black-and-red striped socks sagged around her ankles. ”But it wasn't just the hole in the roof. He said I don't have a place here. That I don't contribute anything.”
Mrs. Edith reached for the ever-present teapot and poured herself a cup of oolong. ”That hardly seems fair. You're just a child-”
Bertie shook her head. ”That's the trouble. I'm not a child anymore.”
The Wardrobe Mistress sighed into her tea. ”No, you're not.”
”He said that if I can find a way to contribute, I can stay.”
”Did he promise it?” Mrs. Edith asked.
Bertie nodded. ”I have until eight o'clock to get everything sorted out.”
”By that, I a.s.sume you have a wild scheme already in place?” Mrs. Edith's cup returned to its saucer with a clink.
”I need to become a Director,” Bertie said, ”so I'm going to restage a play in a new time period and setting. I want to move Hamlet to Egypt.”
The gleam in Mrs. Edith's eye was a welcome sight; it signaled the coming of pleated linen robes and gold embroidery. ”You'll need costumes. When will this performance take place?”
”I'll ask for as much time to prepare as possible,” Bertie said. ”I should think I'll need at least a month.”
”If not two,” Mrs. Edith mused. ”Write out a list and you'll get what you need.”
Bertie threw her arms around the older woman's neck and pressed a kiss to her wrinkled cheek. ”Thank you!”
Mrs. Edith was about to answer when Ophelia wandered in, still dripping water. ”Oh, had you heard then already? I came to tell you the news.”