Part 19 (1/2)
”Yes, I suppose I did.”
”But Marie Antoinette's chaise! And this cus.h.i.+on!” Mr. Hastings rearranged his gla.s.ses to examine the damage. ”Why on earth were you fiddling with that window?”
She didn't utter a word, certain that anything she said would only anger him further.
”I see.” Mr. Hastings opened the door for her. ”Clearly it's inappropriate for you to be in here unsupervised. In the future, you'd best make your requests in writing.”
”Yes, Mr. Hastings. You're absolutely right, and I . . . I apologize.” Bertie sidled past him, unable to meet his gaze. Any other day, the banishment would have been cause for protests and tears, but today it was the final entry in a long list of horrifying surprises, filed under the heading: ”Failure.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
Divide and
Conquer
Mrs. Edith is going to give me the lecture about how clothes don't magically sew themselves,” Cobweb said with a mournful sigh.
As they walked, Bertie a.s.sessed the damage she'd done. There were holes in his pants, and his s.h.i.+rt had burned completely away. ”Sorry.”
”Don't worry about it,” said Cobweb, never one to hold a grudge against her. He peeked down the front of his trousers and perked up a bit. ”Hey, I'm going commando now, too!”
Bertie stopped and pivoted so she could peer down the hallways that splintered off the main corridor. ”We have to figure out where Ariel put The Book. Even if he's gone, he had to leave it somewhere. Mustardseed, you and Moth go check the pedestal, just in case he did us a favor and put it back.”
”Aye, aye, Captain!” They sped off, pus.h.i.+ng and shoving to be the first to reach the stage door.
”What can we do to help?” Cobweb demanded.
”I need you to think about other places he could have stowed it.” Bertie turned in another slow circle, wis.h.i.+ng she had the right sort of dowsing rod for sensing a wayward air elemental. ”The Theatre is huge. . . .”
”And it has four hundred and ninety-seven hiding places,” Peaseblossom said. ”I counted once.”
”We've used most of them ducking the Stage Manager,” said Cobweb.
”We don't have time to check even a fraction of those,” Bertie said. ”We need to get The Book back before Management realizes it's missing.”
”Ophelia's crazy,” Peaseblossom said, trying to be comforting and failing utterly. ”She was probably making the whole thing up.”
”You don't really believe that she left the theater, do you?” Cobweb asked.
”At this point, I'd believe anything,” said Bertie.
Moth and Mustardseed returned, expressions gloomy. ”It's not there.”
”Of course it's not. That would be far too easy.” Her gaze came to rest on the one thing that could summon Ariel to them faster than a tug on a recalcitrant dog's leash: The Call Board.
”That's it!” she shouted, setting off at a run. ”I'll put a notice on the Call Board. If he's still in the theater, he'll have to answer it.”
”I know where there's paper and a pen!” Peaseblossom headed straight for the Green Room. In the back corner, she landed atop a tiny mahogany table and began jumping up and down on its bra.s.s handle.
”Out of the way.” Bertie applied her upper-body strength and growing desperation to the sticky drawer, which flew open, scattering its contents across the carpet. She fell to her knees and rummaged through needlebooks, spools of thread, and other detritus before locating a sc.r.a.p of parchment paper so old that it undulated across the floor like waves in the ocean. Under it was an ancient fountain pen, rusted of nib and nearly devoid of ink. Still, she managed to scrawl: ARIEL:.
Immediate call to the stage with The Book!
Bertie folded the note in thirds, not wanting any pa.s.sersby to be able to read her message, and wrote Ariel's name on the outside, underlining it twice for emphasis and nearly ripping a hole in the paper.
”Come on, let's go.” She turned around, expecting the fairies to be gorging themselves on sticky toffee pudding or swimming in a pot of cheese fondue, but the refreshment table was oddly devoid of nourishment; not even crumbs dotted the surface of the tablecloth.
”What the heck is up with this?” Mustardseed said, his fists on his hips and his eyes accusatory.
Bertie faltered. Even the fairies at their most ravenous couldn't clear the refreshment table so thoroughly. Worse yet, no coal fire burned in the stove, the bouquets rotted in their vases, and the clock had run down, as though the unseen, grandmotherly caregiver had abandoned the Green Room. ”Maybe the Mariners just came through here. You know what they're like when they disembark.”
”Something feels very, very wrong about this, Bertie.” Moth backed away as though the table crawled with vermin, or worse, carrot sticks and broccoli. ”Wrong-er than Mariners.”
”There's nothing in the sugar bowl but dust!” Peaseblossom said.
”I can't worry about that now!” Bertie stuck the fountain pen behind her ear and dashed back to the Call Board, pulled out a bra.s.s thumbtack, and jammed it through the note, wis.h.i.+ng it was a sword she could use to skewer her foe. ”Come on! We have to get to the stage to see if this worked.”
It was the same route that the Players took every night of a performance: Open the backstage door, climb a shallow set of black-painted stairs whose edges were lined with phosph.o.r.escent gaffer's tape, wend around large coils of rope, brush past the heavy weight of the velvet curtains, traverse the red-gelled glow of the Stage Manager's corner where his headset hung on a hook. The s.p.a.ce around the pedestal radiated cold. Bereft of The Book's golden light, the dust motes lay on the floor as though dead.
”Heigh-ho, Ariel!” Bertie strode onto the stage. ”Come out, come out wherever you are, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
”How long before he gets here?” Mustardseed asked.
”s.h.!.+” Bertie commanded, flapping her hands at them. ”I think I hear something.”
As one, they strained their ears, trying to discern anything unusual, anything that would indicate Ariel's arrival. Bertie thought she could just make out a low whistle when Peaseblossom jerked her to one side by her hair.
”Move!”
Eyes smarting at the a.s.sault, Bertie stepped back seconds before something smashed into the spot where she'd been standing. ”What the h.e.l.l?”
It was one of the sandbags Mr. Tibbs used to counter-weight the scenery, ripped down one side and disgorging its contents onto the stage. A length of st.u.r.dy rope, frayed at the end, trailed behind it.
Bertie squinted into the gloom overhead. Though she couldn't locate the source of the sudden malfunction, her instincts pointed an accusing finger. ”It has to be Ariel.”
All four fairies launched themselves upward in pursuit, but she couldn't follow without a harness and someone to hoist her aloft. Instead, Bertie paced the stage, heaping foul oaths upon Ariel for stealing The Book, on Ophelia for putting the idea in his head, on the Theater Manager for trying to kick her out. . . .
”He's not up there,” Mustardseed said as the fairies returned to encircle her troubled brow.
”We looked all the way up to the ceiling!” Moth said.
”How can he ignore a note on the Call Board?” Bertie demanded. ”Unless-”