Part 24 (2/2)
”Get him out of my sight.” She pointed at the Stage Manager.
The Theater Manager grimly nodded and heaved his colleague up. ”Come on, old chap. We'd best get out of the way.”
Bertie turned, ready to dispense orders. ”Ophelia?”
The water-maiden stepped forward. ”Yes?”
”I need you to fetch the Managers.”
”Of course.” Ophelia didn't drift away this time. Instead, she walked with purpose, her steps firm and steady upon the floor.
Bertie looked down at Ariel. ”What am I going to do with you?”
He raised an eyebrow at her. ”Another tango, dear heart?”
”Something involving hot pokers and salt in your wounds would be more apropos, but I don't have time for that now. What we need is a brig, or a nice sc.u.mmy dungeon.”
”Those wouldn't be able to hold me.”
”That sounds like a challenge to me.” Bertie reached for her clipboard. ”Yours is the last page in the book; without it the theater cannot survive. And though you can't tear it free yourself, you can certainly stir up more trouble. I guess I'll just have to write you into imprisonment. I hear tell I have some power over words.” He started to protest, but she raised her voice. ”Someone dim the lights.”
Bertie uncapped her pen and started to write.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
Tribunal The blacksmiths meet under the
light of the new moon.
The trapdoor opened Center Stage. A forge spiraled into place with the groan of wood and metal-shudder. A luminescent moon rose in the background on wires so thin, it appeared to float.
When the Blacksmiths entered, Bertie shook her pen at them. ”Be careful about the sparks. The Book's pages have been through enough already.”
The men took their places around the forge and waited for her to write another direction. Bertie let the tip of her pen bleed a puddle of ink before she thought of what to write next.
They fas.h.i.+on a collar of earth and fire and water: punishment enough for a creature of the air, to be so shackled.
The Blacksmiths started to pound on glowing metal in three-quarter time. Smoke spiraled up like a ballerina dancing en pointe. There was the unmistakable boiling hiss of hot metal hitting water.
”They bring him forth bound, as befits a criminal,” Bertie said.
Two Chorus Members hefted Ariel to his feet, though he struggled.
”The villain is still weakened by his misuse of the magic,” Bertie continued, determined and merciless. ”So he cannot stop her when the Righter of Wrongs places the collar around his neck and binds him to the place that he hates most of all.”
”It is ready,” the largest Blacksmith said.
Bertie set the clipboard down on the stage and reached for the collar; it glowed brighter with the growing power of her enchantment even as the forge's heat faded to a dim memory. ”If you please.”
”You'll need a witch to bless it,” he said through his beard.
”I am the Witch,” Bertie said. ”I am the Writer of Words and the Changer of Scenes. The truth spills from my mouth, painting this world the color of my choosing.”
The Blacksmith nodded and placed the collar in her hands. The warmth in the metal, like ember-glow, spread through Bertie's fingers as she took one step toward Ariel, then another.
His eyes begged her-for mercy, for something-but she didn't hesitate to place the band around his neck. The moment the two ends touched, they sealed shut, and he moaned.
”You are bound here, Ariel, to serve and protect the Theatre. Your page is still in The Book, and so shall it remain.”
He writhed as though he could hardly bear the weight of her sentence upon him. ”I hope it all crumbles to dust.”
”I believe you wish that.” Bertie tapped on the collar so that the metal vibrated. ”But as long as you wear this, your page cannot be torn from The Book. By anyone.” She raised her voice. ”Can everyone hear me? None shall be persuaded to free this creature.”
”We hear,” they said.
Bertie nodded to the ones that held his arms. ”You can untie him now.”
Ariel remained on his knees, neck bowed, hair tumbling over his shoulders to obscure his face. ”Bertie.” Her name on his lips was a plea.
”Get up,” she said.
Against his wishes, Ariel stood.
Bertie pushed his hair back until she could see his eyes. ”If I tell you to dance a jig, you will. If I ask you to mop the floors with your tongue, you will. Is that quite clear?”
”Yes.” He lifted his eyes to meet hers. ”Was the collar really necessary?”
Bertie gestured to the pages that littered the stage. ”You tell me, Ariel. Tell me that you didn't do your best to destroy The Book. Tell me that you won't try to sabotage us again at the first possible opportunity. And if you speak, let it be the truth.” When he could not, Bertie stepped back and tried to ignore the remorse already p.r.i.c.king her. ”You brought this upon yourself.”
”Quoth the jailer,” he said.
”It's the truth,” Bertie said. ”You betrayed us all.”
”The truth is in the mouth of the orator, and your truth is not mine.”
”Save it, Ariel. . . .” Bertie's voice trailed off as she realized that neither his hair nor his clothes moved with his customary wind.
He stood coffin-still, as though carved from stone instead of poured from quicksilver. ”Do you really hate me so much?”
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