Part 6 (2/2)
”Yes, Bertie's told me all about it.” Mrs. Edith eyed Ophelia's sodden dress. ”You're going to catch your death. Let's get you into some dry clothes.” She reached for the bell pull; before it finished tinkling, half a dozen a.s.sistants hurried into the room, carrying a clean gown, mops, and buckets of soapy water. They shoved Nate out ahead of them, making shooing gestures with their fingertips.
Bertie glared at him, wondering why he'd left her alone to plead her case. ”What were you looking for?”
”It doesn't matter, as I didn't find it,” Nate retorted. He dashed past her, gesturing to the fairies to follow as he whispered, ”I'll explain later!”
”We have to go,” Bertie said, edging for the door. ”I still need to convince Mr. Hastings and Mr. Tibbs before I go to the Theater Manager with my idea.”
Mrs. Edith, busy getting Ophelia changed, spared a moment to fix Bertie with a stern look. ”You come back here before you go, and I'll see you're properly attired for a meeting with Management.”
Bertie blanched, wondering what Mrs. Edith's idea of ”proper attire” would encompa.s.s. ”Yes, ma'am.”
”And, Bertie?”
”Yes?”
”In my professional opinion,” Mrs. Edith adjusted her gla.s.ses, ”the blue hair would look smas.h.i.+ng if you tinted the ends black.”
As it turned out, they didn't have to go all the way to the Properties Department to find Mr. Hastings. Out of his natural habitat, the Properties Manager had the wizened look of a plant kept too long in a cupboard. The gla.s.s in his spectacles was cloudy with age, and the wire frames were worn thin from rubbing against his nose and ears, both of which had hair growing out of them. Every bit of his clothing, from the tweedy jacket to his corduroy pants, was infused with a thousand years of dust. Today he scuttled along, the awkward weight of an iridescent green gla.s.s hookah bouncing against his hip. Perched in Mr. Hastings' arms, with all its metallic bits and coiled hoses, it looked more like an enormous beetle than a water pipe.
”Give that t' me, Mr. Hastings.” Nate a.s.sumed the burden of the hookah with a good-natured smile. ”Steal this back from th' Scenic Dock, did ye?”
”I have the paperwork right here in my pocket,” the Properties Manager said, a wee bit breathless. ”The Stage Manager checked it out for the Caterpillar scene in Alice in Wonderland three weeks ago.” He reached under his arm with his newly freed hand, presumably for the signature sheet. Instead, he produced a fan with a carved ivory handle and three-foot-long ostrich plumes that molted exotic puffs of white and pink. ”Wait, no, that's from the last number the Ladies' Chorus performed. All bare legs and high kicks, it is.”
Bertie laughed and got a feather up her nose. ”Where's the hookah been since Alice closed?”
”Seems as though the Chorus Boys thought to open a hubbly-bubbly bar in one of the back dressing rooms.” He scrutinized Bertie's face. ”You weren't down there, were you?”
Peaseblossom looked scandalized. ”She most certainly was not!”
Moth kicked at the twirling bits of down. ”Yeah, we miss all the fun stuff.”
Mustardseed eyed the hookah with due consideration. ”We should try that out.”
”Don't let me catch any of you touching this lovely thing.” Mr. Hastings patted the water pipe with gentle affection. ”My dear, could you please get the door?”
Bertie pushed it open with a small, happy sigh. The Properties Department was her true sanctuary, free from the threat of a scene change anytime the Stage Manager wanted to be tiresome. In fact, it was as far removed from the hot lights, the ever-s.h.i.+fting scenery, and the Stage Manager as she could possibly get.
The ceilings were low, the lighting dim, and no matter where she stood, Bertie couldn't see to the end of the room. The larger pieces of furniture were arranged closest to the entrance, thrones next to sideboards, steamer trunks next to rose-bedecked arbors. Beyond that, row upon row of metal shelving marched for miles. Bits of labeled masking tape and crumpled inventories adorned each shelf. Candelabras, platters of wax fruit, rolls of parchment, silver cigarette cases, and a hundred thousand other curiosities resided therein.
”This way,” Mr. Hastings said.
Nate obliged and followed him down the aisle, lugging the hookah and hindered by the fairies' attempt to help him.
”I'll hold this hose,” Moth said.
”No, let me!” Cobweb tried to elbow in front of him.
”Just get out o' th' way,” Nate barked.
”Come along, Nate. Stop dragging your feet.” Mr. Hastings scattered more feathers in his wake, having forgotten the fan under his arm, which trailed behind him like the back end of a peac.o.c.k with only slightly less strut.
The fairies slashed and parried at the dancing plumes as the unusual parade made its way down the aisle, past Victorian statuary jammed higgledy-piggledy next to fin de siecle French perfume vials and Babylonian pottery.
Bertie nearly fell over the fairies when Mr. Hastings paused mid-aisle to consult the clipboard pinned to the shelving.
”Here we are,” he said. ”49B. Shoehorns, devils' pitchforks, hookahs.”
Nate heaved his burden into the empty s.p.a.ce between its glittering sisters of gold-on-rose and midnight-blue-and-silver. On the neighboring shelf sat Alice's ”Drink Me” bottle. Bertie slanted a look at it; Mr. Hastings had let her sniff the contents once, and she'd never forgotten the combination of triple apple, rose, mango, Arabian coffee, cantaloupe, cola, licorice, and mint.
All that's missing is the hot b.u.t.tered toast.
Bertie's stomach gurgled at the thought. As Mr. Hastings transcribed mysterious hieroglyphs onto the inventory sheet, Nate nudged her with his elbow and nearly sent her sprawling.
”They're all so beautiful,” she said with a sideways glare for her cohort. ”Maybe you'll let me pick a souvenir to take with me when I go?”
”What's all this now?” A frown cut Mr. Hastings' forehead nearly in half. ”Where are you going?”
”The Theater Manager's asked me to leave,” Bertie said.
”She's being thrown out into the cold, cruel world,” Peaseblossom said in a funereal tone.
”Goodness gracious!” Mr. Hastings clasped his clipboard to his thin chest like a s.h.i.+eld. ”That's terrible! Whatever is he thinking?”
”He's thinking that the Theatre would be better off without me.” Bertie patted his arm in what she hoped was a rea.s.suring fas.h.i.+on. ”I have one chance to change his mind. I just have to mount a production the likes of which they've never seen before!” She gave the Properties Manager her most winning smile. ”How would you like to use all your Egyptian bits in a new staging of Hamlet?”
CHAPTER SIX.
Window
Dressing
My dear, you're not making a speck of sense,” Mr. Hastings said with a frown. ”Hamlet was from Denmark.”
”Not in my version, he's not. Picture it: all the court intrigue-”
”With asps in baskets!” added Moth.
”Mummies everywhere!” said Cobweb.
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