Part 19 (2/2)
”Unless he's already torn his page out,” said Cobweb.
”Unless he's already gone,” Peaseblossom whispered, clasping her little hands together.
Bertie gripped either side of her head, as much to squeeze the thought out as to force some inspiration in. ”Where did he leave The Book, then?”
”Beats me,” Mustardseed said. It bespoke their disconcertion that the other boys didn't immediately take him up on the offer.
”Now what?” Bertie felt she'd used up all her ingenuity on the Call Board summons.
”When I lose stuff, I'm supposed to retrace my steps,” Mustardseed said.
Cobweb landed on the stage just so he could jump up and down. ”Oh! Oh! You could try acting it out.”
”That's dumb. She doesn't have a script,” said Moth. ”You can't act something that doesn't have a script.”
”Hold on.” The idea fluttered through Bertie's head like one of Ariel's b.u.t.terflies. ”That might just work.”
”It might?” said Cobweb, taken aback. Recovering, he turned and shoved Moth. ”See? It might!”
Bertie borrowed the Stage Manager's clipboard and started to scribble on its top sheet with the fountain pen. It was difficult to remember everything that she and Ariel had said; some moments were hazy-curse that ”Drink Me” bottle!-but Bertie thought she had most of it by the time she pulled the page off.
”I know everything except the end,” she said. ”Maybe if we act it out far enough, we can figure out what he did with The Book. I can play myself, but I need someone to be Ariel.”
”Don't look at me,” said Peaseblossom. ”I don't do elemental.”
”Or me,” said Moth. ”I don't do antihero.”
Bertie sighed and held out the inky excuse for a script. ”Someone has to play Ariel.”
Nate entered from Stage Left. ”I'll do it.”
Bertie considered escape routes, praying this was a soup-induced nightmare while the fairies considered the recasting.
”You're a little tall to play Ariel,” said Moth.
”And you have way too many muscles,” said Mustardseed.
”But you might be able to pull it off,” Cobweb said, ”if you can look really constipated.”
Nate reached for the page in Bertie's hand, but she pulled it back and started to crumple it up.
”It was a half-baked idea.” She struggled to sound dismissive instead of frantic. ”There's no way it's going to tell me anything I don't know already. The ending has to be written out.”
”We'll improvise that bit,” he said.
”We haven't checked everywhere,” she protested.
”I have.” Nate reached for the makes.h.i.+ft script again.
”Why were you looking for Ariel?” Bertie demanded.
All of Nate's muscles flexed at once. ”I was going t' wring his neck.”
”For stealing The Book?”
”Fer-” Nate blinked as the conversation s.h.i.+fted gears. ”He stole Th' Book?”
”Lose the sword!” suggested Moth, still trying to give Nate an Ariel-makeover.
”Ariel took The Book,” Bertie explained with reluctance. ”We need to get it back before anyone realizes it's missing.”
”An' if he's not in th' theater?” Nate pried the script out of her grasp. ”Mayhap he's torn his page out an' fled.”
”Scene change,” Peaseblossom said into the headset. ”The Properties Department.”
Shelves slid into place, each one burdened with a glittering a.s.sortment of props. The ”Drink Me” bottle sat Center Stage, sparkling in a soft pink spotlight. A golden glow emanated from under Marie Antoinette's chaise.
”Nate,” Bertie said, ”I really, really don't want to do this.”
”Ye want t' find The Book, aye?” He leaned forward until his stubble tickled her ear. ”Then take yer place.”
Bertie made a strangled noise of protest as he moved into the wings. Against the advice of every screaming instinct, she knelt at Center Stage.
Where's an asp when I really need one?
The lights cut to a blackout. A warm amber wash slowly faded up as Nate made his entrance, divested of coat, sash, and sword. While he couldn't quite manage the air elemental's catlike grace, his boots made nary a sound against the floorboards.
”I thought I might find you here,” Nate said with Ariel's inflections.
”What do you want, Ariel? Come to gloat?”
”Do you mind if I join you?” Nate read.
Bertie-as-herself shook her head. ”Actually, I do. I'd like three seconds to myself without noise, chaos, or crisis.”
”That's hardly welcoming.”
”That's because it wasn't an invitation.”
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