Part 16 (1/2)
Bertie turned to see who would make such a noise and spotted Lady Macbeth. ”This is a closed rehearsal! Get out!”
”Interloper!” Gertrude bellowed as she charged down the stairs after her rival.
Lady Macbeth shrieked and leapt for the aisle. Bertie managed to grab Gertrude by her sash, thwarting the attack.
”Unhand me this instant!” Gertrude turned to kick at Bertie through a swirl of satin petticoats and bad temper.
Retreating from the a.s.sault, Bertie stumbled, fell, and cracked her head on a wooden armrest. Two Gertrudes stuck their fans in Bertie's face.
”I hold you personally responsible for this anarchy,” they screeched.
”Me? You hold me responsible, you stupid old sow?” Bertie clutched at her head and tried to clear her vision. ”Get out, or I'll kick your sorry a.s.s myself!”
”How dare you?” Gertrude puffed up to twice her already considerable size and thrust out her chin. ”I will speak to the Management about your inept.i.tude this very second.”
”You do that!”
The fairies converged on Bertie as she struggled to her feet. There were eight of them, then twelve.
That is, she thought, twelve too many.
Bertie put a hand to the back of her head. Pain lanced in one eye and out the other. Her hand came away smeared with red. ”I probably have a concussion.”
”Let me have a look, la.s.s.” Nate reached for her.
Bertie peered up at him through a haze of pain and tears. ”Just stay away from me, all of you. I've had enough help for one day.” She stumbled to her seat and pulled The Book out of its hiding place. ”Clear the stage!”
No one tried to stop her as she fled into the corridor. The door hissed shut behind her, and hot tears p.r.i.c.ked her eyes.
How long do I have before the Theater Manager kicks me out?
Bertie swallowed a sob, tightened her arms around The Book, and limped in the direction of the Properties Department.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
Legato and
Staccato
The Properties Department was unoccupied when Bertie arrived. Dropping to her knees, she shoved The Book under Marie Antoinette's chaise and m.u.f.fled its golden glow with one of the pillows. Resting her forehead against the sofa cus.h.i.+ons, she wanted to cry until there was nothing left, but tears were salt.w.a.ter.
And an impromptu appearance by a p.i.s.sed-off deity is the last thing I need right now!
The door behind her opened, and Mr. Hastings entered, squinting at a piece of his ever-present paperwork.
Bertie stood up so that he wouldn't catch her kneeling on the floor and ask what she was doing. ”Hey, Mr. Hastings.”
He adjusted his spectacles. ”How did the rehearsal go?”
Bertie stared very, very hard at his stapler and refused to blink, refused to let the tears fall.
Except it wasn't working.
She reached up, closed her hand around the medallion, broke the chain with one swift jerk, and slid the necklace in her pocket as the first tear slid down her cheek. ”Not well. I expect the Theater Manager will be here any second to throw me out.”
Her nose was running now. Bertie went to swipe at it with her sleeve, but Mr. Hastings stopped her with a look and held out his voluminous white handkerchief.
”What happened?” he demanded.
Before Bertie finished explaining, the Properties Manager's shoulders shook with laughter that was silent at first, then a bit rusty, like he'd stored his sense of humor between the oxidized metal birdbaths and boxes of discarded iron finials.
”My dear, I am so sorry about the mix-up with the snakes! But do you honestly think you're the first member of Management to have difficulty with the Company?” He turned to put the kettle on the electric burner and reached for a tin of biscuits. ”Every one of them, at one point or another, has ended up right where you're sitting.”
Bertie picked through the biscuit tin until she found one dipped in chocolate. ”Probably not the Stage Manager.”
”Oh, yes.” Mr. Hastings spooned tea into the chipped ceramic pot. ”Even him.”
”What about the Theater Manager?”
”Didn't start off as the Theater Manager. He wanted to write a grand opera.”
That surprised a small laugh out of Bertie. ”Really?” She paused to think about him as a playwright, and the quill-tickle returned.
”Wrangling this lot took all his time and effort, so he gave it up,” Mr. Hastings said. ”You'll try again, and you'll do better each time, I promise you.”
”Uh-huh.” Bertie shoved the entire biscuit into her mouth and poked between its plain b.u.t.ter brethren for another. ”I had my audition, and I'm not getting a callback.”
”What do you mean by that, my dear?” He reached for the cups.
Bertie chewed and swallowed first, because Mr. Hastings didn't appreciate it when she spewed crumbs on his desk. ”It means I blew my chance at staying.”
”You're a bit young to be so very cynical,” Mr. Hastings observed.
”Mrs. Edith said the same thing to me yesterday,” Bertie said with a lopsided shrug. ”But I'm older than Juliet, and she was plenty cynical by the end of that mess.”
Mr. Hastings winced. ”Touche.” He pushed a teacup at her. ”Drink up. It won't restore your soul, but it might settle your thoughts.”
”Can you put some pirate rum in it?”
”I find myself fresh out,” he said. ”But would you care for a bit of unsolicited advice instead?”
She sighed and wrinkled her nose. ”That depends. Is it the kind of advice that has me pulling myself up by the bootstraps and slogging my way to school barefoot in the snow, uphill, both ways?”