So Silver Bright, Page 2

  Nate’s breath came in short pants, as though to reassure himself there was yet air to breathe. “Aye, she’s back. I can smell her.”

  “So can I.” Ariel ducked between Bertie and the still-distant shoreline, as though to shield her from view of the water creatures that might lurk in the tide pools. With a muttered oath, Nate did the same, looking aggrieved that he hadn’t thought of it first.

  “Don’t think it protective only o’ ye when I suggest we hurry back t’ th’ Caravanserai,” he muttered, jerking his thumb at the massive sandstone outpost. “Fer myself, I don’t care t’ linger here another moment.”

  “Nor I,” put in the four fairies with one voice.

  “It would serve a double purpose to pack the caravan and seek out Aleksandr,” Waschbär reminded Bertie. “The Innamorati did want to hire you, good Mistress of Revels, to continue work on their Brand-New Play.”

  Bertie glanced from the Caravanserai to the much closer and yet-threatening shoreline. “I’m not sure the amphitheater is far enough from the ocean for my taste, but it’s better than no plan at all.”

  Never mind that it saves me from returning to the Théâtre Illuminata—and Ophelia—without the Scrimshander.

  Decision made, Bertie began the foot-sucking slog back to the caravan. Resting upon the glittering white sands of the beach, painted wheels and wooden slats looked decidedly out of place. With practiced hands, Ariel tended to the needs, such as they were, of the mechanical horses. Their dull silver flanks gleamed pewter and mercury in the midday light, their amber eyes the same glowing yellow as the sun. Cobweb, Mustardseed, and Moth shoved the detritus from the morning meal between the flowered cotton curtains that covered the caravan’s windows despite Peaseblossom’s repeated protests that they’d just have to clean it out later. Nate scattered the blackened bits of wood that were the only evidence of their bonfire, but the stench of things-burning wouldn’t quit Bertie’s nostrils, and every turn of her head brought a fresh wave of acrid smoke.

  “You make a particularly fetching chimney sweep, good Mistress,” Waschbär noted in passing as he tossed bundles of food and boxes of medical supplies atop their gaily decorated conveyance.

  “That bad, is it?” Bertie contemplated her sooty sleeves and could only venture to guess just how dirty her face must be.

  “You could paint shadow puppets on the walls with your fingers.” He paused in his rapid work to offer her a paw.

  A bit puzzled by the gesture, she accepted his hand, only to find a damp handkerchief blossoming in her palm like a water lily. Bertie smiled at him with gratitude in between swipes at her forehead and cheeks until she saw him quiver with ill-suppressed laughter. “I’m just making it worse, aren’t I?”

  “You are that,” came the cheerful confirmation. “Never fear, there are ablutions to be had within the Caravanserai’s famed walls.”

  The sneak-thief’s word was golden. Minutes later, the troupe drove the caravan back into the marketplace accompanied by rolling wheels and the tinkle of countless silver bells. Up close, the deceptively beige bricks that composed the walls sparkled with flecks of gold and silver and rose. The scents of unnamed and unknown spices mingled with onions, garlic, and baking breads, prompting the fairies to clamor for sustenance. Ignoring their pleas, Waschbär directed Ariel straight into the Water District, down a narrow roadway peppered with laundry services and bathhouses. In unseen underground rooms, furnaces heated massive copper boilers, their presence marked only by the smoke and steam they belched into the sky. The air here was sultry, damp, and redolent of Mrs. Edith’s lavender water and starch. Bertie could feel her hair beginning to frizz as they approached a blue-tiled archway marked by an elaborately scrolled sign:

  THERMAEPOLIS

  BATHS OF ALL TEMPERATURES STEAM ROOMS, MASSAGE

  BEAUTY TREATMENTS COIFFURES

  LADIES ONLY

  “There you are,” Waschbär said with a flourish when Ariel halted the caravan. “One luxurious bathing experience, as promised.”

  Though her grubbiness was surely something to behold, Bertie hesitated. Within the Water District, the murmured threats of the Sea Goddess echoed in every puddle. She would have made do with a pitcher and a washcloth, except the building that housed the Thermaepolis included a needle-sharp spire that stabbed at the sky.

  Taller yet than a watchtower.

  From which she could scan the beach for signs of Sedna’s return and the skies for signs of her father. Jumping down from the caravan, Bertie landed on the cobblestones with a thump and a scowl.

  The sneak-thief followed, but it was only to offer an unwelcome suggestion. “You might consider postponing your bath long enough to pay a visit to Serefina.”

  “The herb-seller?” Bertie specified, though she disliked using the misnomer. The woman was far more powerful than any mere apothecary.

  Waschbär leaned in a bit and lowered his voice. “She might be able to offer some safeguard against the reappearance of the Sea Goddess.”

  “Yes, but at what price?” Before he could answer, Bertie changed the subject. “Would you also be so good as to take a message to Aleksandr that I’ll be at his disposal within the hour? The rest of you ought to find suitable lodgings for ourselves and our gear in the meantime.” She pried a coin off the Mistress of Revels’s belt and handed it Nate. “That’s for the hotel.” She pulled off a second and slipped it into her tattered pocket. “And this is to buy a bit of peace and quiet.”

  “And soap,” Mustardseed advised with a nose wrinkle.

  Peaseblossom fretted. “Oughtn’t I come with you? I’m a lady, too.”

  “That is true.” Bertie tapped her shoulder in invitation, which the fairy hastened to accept as the caravan rattled down the street and disappeared around the first corner.

  “How will we find the others when we’re done?” Peaseblossom’s frown had tripled until she could hardly see out of her squinched-up eyes.

  “Easy,” Bertie said, “we’ll follow the scent of chaos and destruction.”

  * * *

  Professional bathing turned out to be a most complicated process. Bertie was forced to abandon her clothes and possessions—scrimshaw included—in a locker. After she was scrubbed with a combination of sea salt and sugar to rid her of the worst of the ash and soot, the girls were escorted to the steam room. There they were thumped and walloped by someone Bertie inwardly dubbed Brunhild. Almost the exact moment she got accustomed to the pummeling, the beefy woman poured her into a soaking pool.

  Disconcerted by the sudden buoyancy of the water, Bertie remembered her ulterior motive in visiting the bathhouse. “I was told you have a marvelous view from the central tower.”

  “Indeed.” Brunhild paused near the door. “The salon is on the top floor. I shall see if there is a stylist available to see you, since you cannot intend to traipse about in public with hair like that.”

  The observation stung, not in the least because Bertie knew the sun and wind and rain of the previous week had done their worst to her black-and-purple coiffure. She swallowed further protests along with her pride. “My thanks.”

  Peaseblossom drifted along the surface of the water like a tiny, rose-tipped leaf. “You don’t look the least bit relaxed.”

  “That’s because I’m not.” Microscopic bubbles clung to Bertie’s skin, each one containing a threat from the Sea Goddess; when they popped, they delivered jagged-edged images of dark water, of starfish fingers wrapped about Bertie’s throat, of seaweed hair dragging her down, down, down. “I think I should stick to showers for the time being.” Vaulting out of the bath, she hastened under the bracing-cold water spurting from recessed wall fountains and rinsed off with much sputtering and cursing.

  Brunhild pursed her lips upon her return, no doubt displeased to find Bertie sitting upon a bench nestled in her robe, teeth chattering but her body mercifully clean. “This way, please. Your stylist is ready.”

  Pausing only to gather up the extra yards of terry cloth a
s though they were the skirts of a silk ball gown, Bertie followed their unusual chaperone up a circular staircase. Narrow, open windows punctuated the curving wall at regular intervals, allowing glimpses of the place where earth met water with a lingering kiss. A distant gull cry gave Bertie pause, and she halted midstep.

  Dad.

  Leaning out the nearest window, she considered the vast expanse of beach. Sand in the metallic shades of coveted coins composed drifts and dunes, wending between palm trees and tufts of pampas grass in fat, serpentine coils. Low-lying fog teased its way ever closer, obscuring the roiling waves that broke on the shore near the White Cliffs. Putting one knee on the sill, Bertie extended her hand, reaching for the open air.…

  The attendant reacted with shock to such unorthodox behavior. “Merciful heavens, come down from there before you fall,” she ordered with a voice like a trumpet blast.

  I’m being ridiculous. That wasn’t him. He’s off in search of her.

  Sedna, who even now threatened to return to corporeal form. Sedna, who would see Bertie dead without so much as batting a salt-spangled eyelash. That the Scrimshander would make such a decision so easily, so blindly, filled Bertie with heartache that soon transmogrified into fury. Through a red haze, she scanned the beach, cheeks burning, but saw no sign at all of the Sea Goddess.

  To hell with her and to hell with the Scrimshander since he’s chosen her.

  Scrambling down from her perch, Bertie was firm in her resolve to dye her hair the most eye-blinding shade of magenta there ever was, reasoning that the salon was nearer than a tattoo parlor and even the most horrifying hair color would grow out with time, whereas ink stippled into her skin would be a permanent reminder of this failed day. Seething, she threaded her way through the salon’s gracious appointments, over thickly woven rugs, and past potted trees coaxed to bear lemons and limes to fruition even indoors. Once ensconced in a swivel chair, she paged through the vivid hair samples and tried not to note the way the warm hues prophetically gave way to Jade Pendant, Wicked Green, Storm-Tossed Teal, and Midnight Sky.

  Turning to Peaseblossom, Bertie mustered a halfhearted smile. “Could you go locate the moderately perturbed pirate, possibly haunting the bathhouse doorstep, and tell him I’ll be a little longer than expected? If he hasn’t seen to accommodations yet, he should before nightfall. And let Aleksandr know I’ll be late as well.”

  “Of course!” Peaseblossom paused only to give her a cheeky grin. “The tall pirate, yes? Wearing a lot of leather and probably a scowl?”

  “That would be the one. Watch out for errant sword swipes.” Bertie turned back and nodded to the pixie-like woman with cropped tufts like purple porcupine quills. “Surprise me.”

  The colorist’s eyes widened. “Do you mean to say I should choose on your behalf?”

  “I do,” Bertie said. “Something extraordinary. The sort of hue that would give one’s father a heart attack.”

  The colorist sorted through the rainbow tresses. “You’d look lovely with Hammered Gold—”

  “Cinnamon Stick,” cried a second.

  “Burning Ember.”

  As the minutes slid past her like pearls on a knotted string, Bertie did not demur when the attendants offered sustenance in the form of dewy slices of melon, ruby strawberries in cream, and honeyed pastries served with strong coffee. She occupied her mouth with the sweets and her eyes with an inky broadsheet, one regaling all the daily news of the Caravanserai: arrivals, departures, performance schedules of the various itinerant minstrels, and the declaration that the Innamorati would be opening a Brand-New Play in the amphitheater in three days’ time.

  Everything, however, deferred to the headlining news that Her Gracious Majesty the Queen would be holding a massive celebration as part of her upcoming birthday festivities. Many of the salon’s patrons had been summoned to join the Court, it seemed, either as visiting dignitaries or as performers. Theatrical instinct suggested the best of the marketplace entertainment surrounded Bertie: diamond-dancers, now fully clothed, getting new crystals glued to their finger- and toenails; a snake tamer sitting under one of the hair dryers; several sword-balancing belly dancers holding court in the corner. Listening to their excited chatter transported Bertie back through time and space to the Ladies’ Chorus dressing room, only now she wasn’t a troublesome child underfoot and in the way.

  “Something to drink?” A servitor offered her water laced with sunshine slices of lemon.

  Accepting, Bertie realized seconds later that liquid malevolence slicked the surface of the crystal goblet. The glass fell from her hand and shattered on the floor. As Bertie’s apologies stuck in a desert-parched throat, the attendants hastened to reassure her it was no trouble at all.

  There was no escaping Sedna, even here in Rapunzel’s tower, and the urge to flee washed over Bertie in a cold moment of panic. “I have to go—”

  Gathering her robe about her, she was immediately stalled by the entrance of a messenger.

  “Beatrice Shakespeare Smith?” The girl’s braids hung alongside her face like tiny brown silk tassels.

  It would hardly be polite to knock the child down the stairs in her haste, so Bertie forced herself to take a deep breath. “Yes?”

  “For you.” The girl handed over a rectangular box with an impish grin and half a curtsy before bolting back down the stairs at double speed.

  Tempted to give chase, Bertie jerked at the parcel’s strings and was left to gape at the shimmering chiffon garment and a pair of matching slippers. “Who would send me a dress?”

  “Such handiwork is superlative, even for the Caravanserai dressmakers,” the nearest stylist observed around the hairpins between her pursed lips.

  Some instinct sent Bertie’s hand rummaging for a label. Sure enough, a rectangle of embroidered muslin, hand-sewn into the lining, answered her question:

  MOONLIGHT GOWN FOR A PRIMA DONNA

  DESIGNED BY VALENTIJN FOR THE INNAMORATI

  “The Keeper of the Costumes must have spies everywhere to know I’m in need of new attire.” Bertie ran a trembling hand over the intricate beading, sewn in swirls and bursts of pale blue and pearl. “And just who does he think he is calling a prima donna, I’d like to know!”

  “Never mind that. It’s perfection! You must change into it at once.” With much clucking and fussing, the attendants hustled her behind a silk folding screen, handing over the dainty undergarments nestled in the tissue paper, adjusting the laces on the gown, and adding the silver slippers that had accompanied it.

  Bertie acquiesced, thinking it faster than fielding their arguments and having to retrieve her ruined clothes from the locker downstairs. Firm in her resolve to perform the speediest quick-change in history, it was only when they escorted her to the trifold mirror that she caught sight of herself and nearly choked. “My hair!”

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?” the shortest attendant squeaked, overcome by the effect. “It’s called Arctic Tempest.”

  Bertie opened her mouth to respond and found herself entirely deprived of words for once. “It’s … silver,” she finally managed.

  The colorist nodded. “And look at the movement it gets.” With gentle fingers, she shifted Bertie’s hair so that it lifted and resettled around her shoulders, doubly reminiscent of Ariel’s wind-tossed tresses. “Extraordinary, is it not?”

  “That’s the only word for it.” Looking at her reflection, Bertie realized just who had thought her a “prima donna,” who had met with the Keeper of the Costumes and procured such a dress. Without actually being indecent, the skirts were sheer, the bodice fitted, and the neckline low enough to invite contemplation of the freckles dusting her skin; it was the sort of dress a woman would wear to meet someone significant, with every bead issuing an invitation for a lingering look. Her pulse kicked in her throat as she wondered just what Ariel wanted from her this night and what her answer would be when he asked it of her.

  If Sedna gave her a chance to answer at all, that is.

&nb
sp; CHAPTER THREE

  Thou Shalt Have the Air of Freedom

  The moment she stepped foot out of the bathhouse, Bertie set off down the nearest alley at a run and entered a scene crowded with extras: women carrying baskets upon their heads; barefoot children running home to their suppers. Forced to weave her way among them, she glanced up at a sky-ceiling increasingly obscured by wrought-iron balconies, brilliant potted plants, and recently aired rugs. The walls on either side of her narrowed. The sun dipped a degree lower, and what had been bathed in the dusky pink of early evening darkened as though someone had cued the light booth.

  Bertie turned a corner and found herself quite alone, at a dead end painted with shadows. Repressing a shudder, she retraced her steps, heels clicking against the cobblestones. The weight of her beaded skirts shifted, recalling another time, another place, another alley, another dance, except the roses blooming on the walls here were white and instead of Cobalt Flame, her hair was this ridiculous shade of—

  “Silver,” Ariel said by way of greeting as he emerged from a side street. White butterflies took to the night air, the whisper of their wings hinting at unborn secrets. Soft violin music and guitar song drifted out a nearby window.

  Bertie held her breath, knowing it would be only moments before a bandoneón joined them. “It’s Arctic Tempest, and it wasn’t my idea.” But she saw that there was no way to convince him it hadn’t been her choice or destiny or some meddling hand of Fate that delivered her to him looking this way.