mean the farm?”
“I mean upon the stage.”
The woman frowned. “You speak like the village idiot.” She abandoned the food to herd Bertie toward the door. “It’s none of my never mind if you don’t want to pass the night, but you’ll have to go now.”
The scene wasn’t playing out as she’d imagined it, though Bertie gave it a valiant effort, holding out her arms and summoning inflections not quite her own. “It’s not all roses and curtain calls and champagne on Opening Night, I fear. The bright lights mask the sorrow, but the sorrow is still there.”
“Sorrow?” The farmwife looked alarmed now, then shifted so her stance was that of a warrior ready to do battle. “I don’t know what nonsense you’re speaking, but you’re no longer welcome here.”
Bertie hastened to reassure her. “It’s all right if you have nothing to send with her, besides a mother’s love and best intentions.”
“Send with her? Just where do you think she is going?”
Too late, Bertie realized something had gone terribly awry. “With me?”
“Are you insane ? Get out of my house! Go on! Shoo!” The woman shoved Bertie through the door, letting loose an ear-splitting whistle. The dog came charging, as yet a distant blur in the rain-soaked fields but rapidly approaching.
Bertie stumbled down the front path, the baby’s cry pursuing her. Twin slams: the cottage door, under the hand of the irate farmwife, and the gate, under Bertie’s own power. Seconds later, the hellhound leapt against the wooden boards, adding a barrage of doggy threats, punctuated by snapping teeth and flecks of spittle.
Running through the intermittent raindrops falling on the storm-darkened lane, Bertie threw fearful looks over her shoulder, worried the awful thing might figure out some way of leaping the stone wall that bordered the garden. With every footfall upon the road, a truth shook loose in her head to rattle about.
A child is not a thing given up easily . . . a knack, a toy, a trick.
Bertie had believed it was Ophelia’s broken memory that had separated them—
But could she have really forgotten me, as though I were no more than a flower on the current?
Body aching and head swimming, she stumbled over a stone she couldn’t see and sat down hard in the dirt.
A hand clamped down on her arm. “There you are.”
With a scream, Bertie kicked out at her would-be attacker only to get hauled to her feet by a familiar man-shaped heap of fur. “Waschbär, you just scared five years off my life!”
“My apologies, fair Mistress.” The shadows under his eyes seemed to spread across the surrounding fields. “We’ve been searching for you for hours. Thankfully the road led us right to you.”
Out of the darkness behind him came the rumble of wooden wheels, accompanied by a roll of thunder and a fresh downpour. Squinting into the gold puddles of lantern light, Bertie could make out the dim outline of the caravan, the fairies’ enthusiastic waving, and the incensed expression on the air elemental’s face.
“Heave me into the ditch and be done with it,” she told the sneak-thief, “because Ariel’s going to wring my neck.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Till of This Flat a Mountain You Have Made
F ar from looking worried, Waschbär hailed the caravan with a piercing whistle. As it drew closer, Bertie could see that Ariel had summoned the necessary winds to create a wavering bubble, tinted gold by the lantern light. Neatly encapsulating the caravan, air currents formed a constantly swirling roof against which persistent needles pattered. Four sparking incandescent orbs careened through the night and smacked into various parts of Bertie’s travel-frayed anatomy.
“Where have you been?!”
“We’ve been so worried—”
“There’s dessert in the hamper!”
“I’m not hungry,” Bertie told them.
Utter silence, composed of equal parts incredulity and shock. Then Moth found an explanation. “Something must have fried her
“I mean upon the stage.”
The woman frowned. “You speak like the village idiot.” She abandoned the food to herd Bertie toward the door. “It’s none of my never mind if you don’t want to pass the night, but you’ll have to go now.”
The scene wasn’t playing out as she’d imagined it, though Bertie gave it a valiant effort, holding out her arms and summoning inflections not quite her own. “It’s not all roses and curtain calls and champagne on Opening Night, I fear. The bright lights mask the sorrow, but the sorrow is still there.”
“Sorrow?” The farmwife looked alarmed now, then shifted so her stance was that of a warrior ready to do battle. “I don’t know what nonsense you’re speaking, but you’re no longer welcome here.”
Bertie hastened to reassure her. “It’s all right if you have nothing to send with her, besides a mother’s love and best intentions.”
“Send with her? Just where do you think she is going?”
Too late, Bertie realized something had gone terribly awry. “With me?”
“Are you insane ? Get out of my house! Go on! Shoo!” The woman shoved Bertie through the door, letting loose an ear-splitting whistle. The dog came charging, as yet a distant blur in the rain-soaked fields but rapidly approaching.
Bertie stumbled down the front path, the baby’s cry pursuing her. Twin slams: the cottage door, under the hand of the irate farmwife, and the gate, under Bertie’s own power. Seconds later, the hellhound leapt against the wooden boards, adding a barrage of doggy threats, punctuated by snapping teeth and flecks of spittle.
Running through the intermittent raindrops falling on the storm-darkened lane, Bertie threw fearful looks over her shoulder, worried the awful thing might figure out some way of leaping the stone wall that bordered the garden. With every footfall upon the road, a truth shook loose in her head to rattle about.
A child is not a thing given up easily . . . a knack, a toy, a trick.
Bertie had believed it was Ophelia’s broken memory that had separated them—
But could she have really forgotten me, as though I were no more than a flower on the current?
Body aching and head swimming, she stumbled over a stone she couldn’t see and sat down hard in the dirt.
A hand clamped down on her arm. “There you are.”
With a scream, Bertie kicked out at her would-be attacker only to get hauled to her feet by a familiar man-shaped heap of fur. “Waschbär, you just scared five years off my life!”
“My apologies, fair Mistress.” The shadows under his eyes seemed to spread across the surrounding fields. “We’ve been searching for you for hours. Thankfully the road led us right to you.”
Out of the darkness behind him came the rumble of wooden wheels, accompanied by a roll of thunder and a fresh downpour. Squinting into the gold puddles of lantern light, Bertie could make out the dim outline of the caravan, the fairies’ enthusiastic waving, and the incensed expression on the air elemental’s face.
“Heave me into the ditch and be done with it,” she told the sneak-thief, “because Ariel’s going to wring my neck.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Till of This Flat a Mountain You Have Made
F ar from looking worried, Waschbär hailed the caravan with a piercing whistle. As it drew closer, Bertie could see that Ariel had summoned the necessary winds to create a wavering bubble, tinted gold by the lantern light. Neatly encapsulating the caravan, air currents formed a constantly swirling roof against which persistent needles pattered. Four sparking incandescent orbs careened through the night and smacked into various parts of Bertie’s travel-frayed anatomy.
“Where have you been?!”
“We’ve been so worried—”
“There’s dessert in the hamper!”
“I’m not hungry,” Bertie told them.
Utter silence, composed of equal parts incredulity and shock. Then Moth found an explanation. “Something must have fried her
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