Eyes Like Stars

by Lisa Mantchev

  “It wasn’t my only reason.” He hesitated for half a second before taking it.

  Bertie tried not to fixate on his mouth, but as he drank, the muscles in his throat worked, and from his throat, it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to the muscles of his chest. . . .

  The record’s single tune started again at the front of the room.

  Ariel replaced the stopper and put the bottle back on the shelf. “I think that’s enough for now.”

  Bertie concentrated on the music. “Methinks that’s an accordion.”

  He tilted his head. “It’s a bandoneón, which is like an accordion, but with more allure.”

  “How very European.” Insistent piano trills tempted her feet. Guitar-song chased the wheezing notes of the bandoneón down the aisles in waves, and she followed them on tiptoe.

  “Where are you going?” Ariel asked.

  Bertie looked at him over her shoulder, noting the danger in every languid line of his body. For a moment, she thought she might indeed be tiny Alice, her sanity and reason shrinking down, down, down until they disappeared with a puff of hookah smoke. “I’m a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. Care to join me?”

  A moment passed in which she thought he’d refuse, then—

  “How could I resist such an invitation?”

  “Glad to hear it,” Bertie said with an unintentional sway. She righted herself even as Ariel’s arms appeared around her. Her right hand sought out his left, and she wrapped her other arm around his neck.

  “Just what,” he asked, “do you think you’re doing now?”

  Bertie tossed her hair so that it flicked him in the face before falling over her shoulders in a messy blue tangle. “Dancing with you, unless I’m much mistaken.”

  “I think it’s customary for the man to lead,” he said. The only thing that moved was his left eyebrow, which slid up about an inch.

  “How did I know you would say that?” Skilled fingers strummed the unseen strings of a guitar. Castanets beckoned, and Bertie wanted to snap her fingers, stomp her feet, clap her hands. “Lead on, pretty boy.”

  Ariel gave her a look that contained a lot of something, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he adjusted her arms with light touches of his hands, all the while keeping his upper body pressed to hers.

  “This song comes from the center,” he said. “So we’ll move the center first.”

  “The center of what?” The butterflies drifted out of his hair as he leaned over her. They fluttered through Bertie’s already swimming head, brushed over something dark and sleeping, and roused it from slumber.

  Ariel tapped her lightly on the small of her back. “The center of you.”

  “My cream filling?” she suggested.

  There was a moment of complete stillness and silent contemplation before Ariel smiled. “Yes, Bertie. Move your cream filling first, and your feet will follow.”

  When the music started again, they joined it with gliding steps and the sensation of being carried along. By the notes. By the wind. She was flying—

  With Ariel.

  For the first few bars, their movements were inseparable from the melody. Then Ariel placed his foot alongside hers and twisted. The world spun around Bertie. The shelves wavered with the vibrato before disappearing.

  She would have blamed his words, his voice for the enchantment, except he was—for once—not speaking.

  Ariel snapped her out of the dip and twirled her away from him. Bertie trailed her hand over an ancient wall that should have been protected by shelves. Plaster dust flaked away under her fingertips.

  Catching her by the wrist, Ariel led her down an aisle that was now a narrow Spanish alley. They skimmed over cobblestones and under wrought-iron balconies. Bertie didn’t remember a costume change, but her black-heeled character shoes fashioned a rhythm that ran counterpoint to a double bass. Crimson skirts flared around her legs and slapped against her skin after an unexpected and spectacular turn.

  Ariel wore black silk now. The minuscule portion of Bertie’s brain that still functioned noted that, on Nate, the outfit would have looked ridiculous, but on Ariel it was liquid night poured over lean muscle.

  She missed a step, contemplating his arms.

  “Do try to keep up, Beatrice.” Ariel steadied her with one hand as he reached out with the other to pluck a rose from an unseen vine.

  “If you put that between your teeth, I’ll die laughing,” she warned.

  So he didn’t. Instead, he used it to trace the contour of her cheek, the curve of her neck, and down to the spot where the dress dipped low between her breasts. An azure glow slowly washed over the scenery while a red-gelled spotlight beckoned.

  “How did we get here?”

  “We haven’t left the Properties Department.” Ariel took her hand. Her heartbeat matched the thrum of blood in his veins, and his midnight eyes followed her every movement. “What you see are but figments of your overactive imagination.”

  Bertie instinctively reached for the medallion, but her neck was bare, exposed, the scrimshaw in the pocket of her jeans, which were also long gone. “You’re toying with me.”

  “I assure you, I’m not,” Ariel said, leading her in another turn, another dip.

  Someone in the lighting booth decided to scatter the scene with white pinpricks of starlight that floated like sequins on strings.

  “That effect,” Bertie said, bent completely backward, “is achieved with a mirrored ball and pin spots. I hope you appreciate it.”

  Ariel’s breath met her skin. Bertie raised her head to find his nose level with her cleavage.

  “Believe me,” he said. “I do.”

  He tucked the rose behind her ear and trailed his hand around the back of her neck. Then she was upright once more, with both arms above her head. Fountain spray drifted over them, dampening Bertie’s skirts and spangling her hair with blue-diamond brilliants.

  Ariel circled her. His hand skimmed her collarbones, her bare shoulder, her back. He paused behind her, drew her close so that his lips grazed her ear. “Are you ready for the finale?”

  Bertie barely nodded before he led her in a series of turns that left her disoriented and dizzy. The stage lights whirled around them, every point of reference blurring into a shifting kaleidoscope of color. The world fell away until the only thing that remained was his hands upon her. He dipped her back farther—

  “Ariel.” Bertie closed her eyes and let herself fall.

  He caught her, and as the music reached a crescendo, he covered her mouth with his.

  Her first real kiss. Then her second, and third. She lost track of how many there were; she was too busy drinking him in, winding her tongue around his. He tasted of everything and nothing at all as he lowered her onto the grass.

  The lights dimmed until only a soft golden glow drifted over their skin. Crimson faded back to denim blue, black silk to white.

  The rose remained, as did his weight upon her.

  The record player reached the end of the song one last time. The paper speaker hummed and crackled with the absence of music. Then there was a soft click and silence.

  Bertie drifted into the blackout with Ariel’s name on her lips.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Suspicions and

  Superstitions

  Bertie?”

  She curled into a ball and tried to pull the covers over her head, but there weren’t any blankets within reach. A tiny hand touched her shoulder.

  “She’s sleeping, but she smells funny.”

  Bertie’s nerves jangled, her skin crawled, and her eyeballs felt three times too large for their sockets. When she tried to lift her arm, every joint creaked in protest.

  Strong hands stood her upright and held her there as someone sniffed at her mouth. “She’s been drinkin’ somethin’.”

  The low whir of wings flapping near her ear. “No fair! She didn’t share!”

  “We weren’t here, stupid.”

  Their voices. So shrill.
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  “What time is it?” Bertie tried to swallow the fuzz on her tongue, wished for a glass of water, and gagged.

  “Time t’ pay th’ piper.” Nate’s voice rumbled through her rib cage, but she still didn’t open her eyes.

  “It’s also teatime!” Moth said. “How about a nice fry-up?”

  With a moan at the idea of greasy eggs and sausages, Bertie buried her face in the soft cotton of Nate’s shirt, burrowing until she reached warm flesh and short, wiry hair that tickled her nose.

  Apparently, it also tickled Nate, as he made a discomfited noise and set her down on the chaise. “Leave off.”

  “I must have fallen asleep.” Bertie winced at the late afternoon sunlight slanting through an upper window. The brightness slapped against her cheek in time with her pulse.

  “You have to speak with the Hamlet Players,” Peaseblossom said. “Call another rehearsal—”

  Nate cut in. “What were ye drinkin’?”

  Bertie didn’t want to answer, but the edge to his voice demanded the truth. “Just a few sips from Alice’s ‘Drink Me’ bottle. Ariel said—”

  Mentioning Ariel was a misstep, as Nate’s glare intensified. “He was here wi’ ye?”

  She rubbed her hand under her nose, unwilling to discuss what had transpired.

  Nate moved her hair aside and nearly burned a hole in her neck with his gaze. “Where’s th’ scrimshaw, Bertie?”

  “In my pocket.”

  Nate brought his fist down on the arm of the chaise hard enough to splinter its unseen, wooden bones. The fairies scattered, squeaking with surprise at the unexpected assault upon the furniture.

  “I told ye not t’ take it off.”

  Bertie held herself stiffly away from him, feeling as prickly as a hedgehog and wishing she had spines for protection. “I was afraid I’d cry on it. Tears are saltwater, Nate. Even a thickheaded pirate should know that.”

  “It was meant t’ protect ye,” he said, “from people like him.”

  “I don’t need your stupid necklace for protection.” Bertie pulled the medallion out of her pocket and shoved it at him.

  “No, ye obviously do!” Nate jerked it out of her hand to contemplate the broken chain.

  Every word was like a smack to the head. “Don’t shout at me!”

  “I’ll shout at ye until some sense sinks into that thick rock ye call yer skull.” He pulled a leather thong out of his hair and used it to tie the medallion around her neck.

  “That’s tighter than necessary,” Bertie said.

  “Ye ought t’ be thankful I don’t strangle ye wi’ it.”

  The scrimshaw’s familiar weight settled against her skin, and though she didn’t mean to, Bertie took comfort in its gentle warmth. Bone-magic seeped into her as though on an incoming tide, filling her with foam and insight. Peering up at Nate, she saw the insecurities that gnawed at his innards and fell out of his pockets like scuttling crabs. “What are you so afraid of?”

  Instead of answering, he shoved a carton of something inordinately foul into her hand. “I want ye t’ eat this.”

  Bertie’s stomach heaved at the smell of food, and she let go of the scrimshaw. “What is it?”

  “Restitution,” he said. “Time t’ start payin’ th’ piper.”

  She sniffed at something that gave every indication of being soup.

  The rice isn’t so bad. I think that bit is chicken. But shrimp? Pickled something or other? And quite a lot of garlic?

  Bertie closed her eyes and wished she would die just to be done with it. “I’d rather eat my shoe.”

  “Ye may get yer wish.” Nate handed her a spoon.

  “Where did you get this horrible stuff?”

  “Th’ galley cook made it fer me.”

  “As a remedy or a punishment?”

  “Eat.”

  “I can’t!” she wailed. “The shrimps still have their heads! Their little eyeballs are staring at me!”

  Nate put his face very close to hers. He smelled of leather and pipe tobacco, dark rum and soap from the Turkish Bath. “Eat it, afore I pry yer mouth open an’ pour it down yer ungrateful gullet.” He straightened, slapped his hand twice against his thigh, and strode away in high dudgeon.

  “Start with the broth,” Peaseblossom advised.

  “I’m sorry about this afternoon. I shouldn’t have run away.” Bertie poked at the fouler things swimming in the soup and managed to isolate a spoonful of broth. When she looked up, Peaseblossom was hovering very close.

  “It’s all right,” the fairy said.

  “It’s not. It’s a mess.” Bertie let the liquid dribble off the spoon.

  Peaseblossom got close enough to tuck a stray piece of Bertie’s hair behind her ear. The touch was like a kiss. “It’s not as bad as it seems.”

  That went for more than the soup, Bertie hoped. She licked the spoon, didn’t die, and tried it again.

  The stomping of boots preceded a profoundly pissed-off swashbuckler. Nate shoved the bottle under her nose. “Is that what ye drank?”

  She recoiled from the cloying, sickly-sweet smell. “Yes.”

  “Why ever would ye do somethin’ that stupid?”

  “I was hoping it would change me into a proper Director.” Aware he watched her every move, Bertie took another sip of broth. “Instead it filled my head with useless nonsense.”

  “Did Ariel drink wi’ ye?”

  “Yes, and quite a lot more of it than I did, I’d like to point out.”

  “He’d have more of a head fer it than you. An’ he should have known better than t’ let ye do yerself such a mischief.” Nate sat down on the chaise but left a careful space between them. “Are ye feelin’ any better yet?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Bertie chewed a morsel of chicken and swallowed with caution. It stayed put, so she added a bit of rice and ignored the rest of the questionable mess. “I’m not eating the cabbage even if you threaten to cleave me in twain.” She set the container down.

  “I can live wi’ that,” Nate said. “But I can’t live wi’ th’ idea o’ ye gettin’ hurt. Ariel’s dangerous.”

  “I wish you’d stop fretting about Ariel.” Bertie wondered how the air elemental’s head was faring. If there were any justice in this world, he’d have the mother of all hangovers, too.

  “I want ye t’ stay away from him.”

  “That’s nice,” said Bertie, closing her eyes. “I’m hoping for world peace, myself.”

  “ ’Tisn’t a joke, lass.”

  “My head is about to split open, Nate, so please do us both a favor and shut up.”

  The pirate jumped up. “What will it take for ye t’ listen t’ reason?” Grabbing her by the arms, he hauled Bertie several feet in the air.

  Startled by the sudden movement as much as the change in altitude, it took her a moment to locate her ire at being treated in such a fashion. “Put me down!”

  “I can’t stand aside an’ watch ye drown yerself in him!” Nate held her there for a moment, maybe just to prove that he could.

  “I’m going to be sick—” Part of Bertie wanted to make good on the threat and puke down his front, but if she started throwing up, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

  Slowly, by inches, Nate lowered her to the floor. “One o’ these days, lass, I’m goin’ t’ still that mouth o’ yers.” He gently traced her upper lip with his thumb.

  Before Bertie could think of a response to his threat, he turned on his heel and made his exit.

  “Oh, my,” said Peaseblossom.

  “Gross!” yelled Moth. “Nate likes Bertie.”

  “Nasty!” That was Cobweb, who turned to Mustardseed. “Darling!”

  “Sweetie!” returned Mustardseed. They tackled each other midair and made loud, slurping kissing noises.

  Bertie sat hard on the chaise and put her hands over her knees to stop them from shaking.

  Peaseblossom patted her shoulder. “He wouldn’t ever hurt you, you know. There’s more brains there than brawn.�
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  “Pity he seems to have misplaced his brains.” Bertie scrubbed her hands over her face. “That’s it. I need coffee and a cigarette, and I don’t care if getting them kills me.”

  She was halfway to the door before Peaseblossom called, “What did you do with The Book?”

  When Bertie spun around, it took the room a full three seconds to catch up. She put her hands over her stomach. “I stuck it under the chaise.” Peaseblossom looked horrified, so Bertie added, “For safekeeping!”

  “Wouldn’t a safe be safer?” Moth asked.

  “You’d think,” Mustardseed said.

  “I need to take it to the Theater Manager.” Bertie lowered herself carefully to the floor and stuck her hand under the chaise, her fingers expecting to meet gilt-edged paper. When they didn’t, she flattened out against the ground. It was too dark to see much, but it shouldn’t have been dark at all. The absence of golden, glowing light stabbed at her already aching guts. “Where is it?”

  “Oh, no,” moaned Peaseblossom.

  “I put it right here.” Bertie swept her arm back and forth through the dust, hoping against hope that she’d shoved it farther back than she’d remembered, that it was still there.

  Because if The Book isn’t there, someone took it.

  Bertie heaved the chaise over. Wood splintered through velvet brocade, and she stared at the empty space.

  “Mr. Hastings is going to be furious!” Peaseblossom said, gaping at such wanton destruction.

  Bertie sat back on her heels, breathing hard. “We have bigger problems than Mr. Hastings if we don’t find The Book.”

  “What do you think happened?” asked Mustardseed.

  Bertie tasted restitution soup in the back of her throat. “I think Ariel found it.”

  Trusting him, even for one second, was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

  “We need to find him.” Bertie’s brain scampered in circles around the missing Book, around Ariel’s deception. It looped wider around Ophelia’s blatherings in the Turkish Bath, around the ripped-out page, around her claim to have left the theater. . . . “He was listening.”

  “Who?” Moth wanted to know.

  “Who was listening to what, and when?” Cobweb clarified.