Part 32 (1/2)

Three wet smacks.

A baby's wail underscored by Ophelia's muted weeping.

”Hush now, my dears,” Not-Mrs.-Edith said over the loudspeakers. ”There's no need to cry. Everything will be right as rain, you'll see.”

The music swelled.

”That's all I remember,” Ophelia said from the dark. ”So that's the end of the play.”

”No, no, no!” Bertie jumped down before Ariel could stop her and charged Center Stage to catch hold of Ophelia. The lights faded back up slowly, as if with reluctance. ”This can't be right. There are too many pieces missing. Who was my father?”

”I . . . I don't remember,” Ophelia said, her face crumpling.

Hamlet poked his head in from Stage Left. ”I told you she was a harlot!”

”Shut up!” Bertie and Ophelia said in unison. Bertie pointed her finger at the Conductor. ”Stop playing the curtain call music! We aren't finished until I say we're finished.”

The real Mrs. Edith entered, and Bertie ran to her.

”What about the Mistress of Revels? The prophecy and the caravan?”

The Theater Manager stormed onstage. ”Bertie, you'd better have a good explanation for all of this.”

”I could say the same to you!” Bertie shouted at him.

”This is neither the time nor the place-” the Theater Manager started to say.

”I'll have no more of your excuses and no more of your lies!”

Ariel grabbed Bertie around the waist as she lunged at the Theater Manager. ”I don't think you want to do that,” he said.

”Oh, yes, I do!” Bertie said, kicking at Ariel through the skirts of her ball gown. ”There's more to the story, and he's hiding it!”

The Theater Manager recoiled as though she'd struck him. ”I don't know what you are implying, young lady.”

”Verena's skirt and belt! I found them! That part of my play is true, too!”

The Theater Manager turned to Mrs. Edith. The Wardrobe Mistress met his gaze, unflinching.

”I kept my promise,” she said. ”I said nothing.”

Someone in the second balcony shouted, ”Tell the rest of the story!” The suggestion was met with some laughter and a smattering of applause as the audience took up the chant. ”Tell! Tell! Tell!”

”It's a command performance,” Bertie said. ”Those are your patrons and benefactors. Don't disappoint them.”

The Theater Manager sagged as though something inside him had finally broken. ”Go ahead. Tell her.”

”Oh, Bertie! My dear, I'm so very sorry!” The words poured out of the Wardrobe Mistress as though a cork had been pulled from her mouth.

”Don't apologize!” Bertie said. ”Just tell me where she is. Tell me why you have her skirt.”

”The skirt and the belt are mine, my dear,” Mrs. Edith said. ”I was the Mistress of Revels.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

Revels

Now Ended

Mrs. Edith's voice carried over the startled gasps of the audience.

The second revelation of the night slapped Bertie in the face. ”It's like a bad comedy of manners, with mistaken ident.i.ties set to rights and everything.”

The fairies peered at Mrs. Edith with varying expressions of surprise and fascination.

”Can you really do jujitsu?” Cobweb asked.

Instead of answering, the Wardrobe Mistress put her dexterous fingers to her mouth to let loose an ear-piercing whistle. Seconds later, mechanical steeds entered, pulling a wooden caravan. The intervening years had left their mark: The horses' joints creaked a bit, and rust flecked their noses and ears. The red paint on the cart had faded, the curtains were moth-eaten, but otherwise it was all just as Bertie imagined it.

Except I didn't imagine it. I remembered it.

Thunder rolled through the rafters. The stage lighting s.h.i.+fted to Coming Storm, and Mrs. Edith was suddenly attired as the Mistress of Revels.

Bertie blinked at the quick-change, but all she said was, ”I want to know the rest.”

Mrs. Edith nodded, speaking her line. ”Would you like a moonrise by which to hear your story?”

”No, thanks,” Bertie said, ”I'm good.”

”It's a bit chilly, though.” Another snap of Mrs. Edith's fingers brought the prop campfire up through a trapdoor.

My cue. Bertie couldn't suppress a shudder of antic.i.p.ation as she crossed the stage. ”It's my Past I want told, not a pretty bedtime story.”

Mrs. Edith studied Bertie for a moment, her smile wistful. ”You have stars in your eyes.”

”It's a lighting special,” said Bertie.

”Go along with it,” Mrs. Edith said. ”What do you think of your life here in the theater? Is it all roses and curtain calls and champagne?”

”Sometimes.” Bertie thought of Nate, taken from her, and the Theater Manager's lies. ”But sometimes it's ugliness and filth and greed.”

”Yet you have been happy here. I have seen your smiles and heard your laughter.”