Free Eyes Like Stars by Lisa Mantchev

. . . and see if you can find me a basket of asps!”
     
    “Are you insane?” Cobweb demanded as they headed for the Scenic Department.
    “For requesting asps?”
    “For burning the toast!”
    Bertie skimmed down the hall, fueled by success andadrenaline. Sconces poured warm light on the rich mahogany paneling, but shadows, like creatures long of tooth and nail, gathered in the narrow places. “We’ve more important things to worry about right now than food.”
    Mustardseed said reproachfully, “I’m certain you don’t mean that.”
    “She’s under duress,” Peaseblossom said.
    “I don’t care if she’s under duress, over it, or alongside it,” Moth said. “Nothing in this world supersedes cake.”
    “Pie does,” Cobweb corrected.
    Moth glared at him. “Are you under duress, too?”
    Bertie did her best to ignore both the fairies and the insistent thumping of the scrimshaw against her skin as she planned her attack upon the Scenic Department. She would need all her wits if she was going to convince Mr. Tibbs to help her.
    Considering the ongoing dispute between the Properties and Scenic Departments, it didn’t help that Mr. Hastings had always favored her.
     
MR. TIBBS
    (yelling)
    If you can pick it up with your hands and move it, I’ll agree it’s a prop! Anything too heavy to lift is a piece of dash-blasted scenery and therefore belongs to me.
     
    MR. HASTINGS
    (standing his ground)
    With enough leverage, anything can be lifted and moved, my dear Mr. Tibbs.
     
    MR. TIBBS
    I’m not your dear anything, you upstart nincompoop!
     
    MR. HASTINGS
    Be that as it may, you bullying chimney stack, the vase from the third act of
The Lake
most assuredly belongs to the Property Department.
    (He pulls out reams of paperwork.)
    I will direct your attention to line 45A and the Stage Manager’s signature. . . .
     
    MR. TIBBS
    Signature or no, that vase is coming with me.
     
    “Ye goin’ t’ need t’ charm him,” Nate said. “He still carries a grudge against ye fer all th’ times ye painted yer room.”
    “You don’t have to remind me,” Bertie said as she opened the door and eased inside the Scenic Dock. “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Tibbs!”
    The Scenic Manager’s lair was as tall as it was wide, storing the flats and backdrops of every set imaginable. Frosted glass windows spanned the length of the room, and sunlightflowed like molten gold over projects under construction. Just now, the room was eerily quiet, with a distinct lack of hammering, sawing, or any of the other thousands of noises normally associated with set production.
    Bertie turned in a slow circle. “Everyone must be on a break—”
    “What do you want?” a voice like an air horn blasted behind her. Bertie leapt aside, and Mr. Tibbs brushed past her as though she smelled.
    If Mr. Hastings was a pale and shrunken stalk of celery, Mr. Tibbs was a livid beefsteak tomato. The Scenic Manager was round and red of face; he had plump cheeks and a wide slit of a mouth usually opened in a roar or, as it was at this moment, clamped around a malodorous cigar. He wore coveralls, trailed sawdust wherever he went, and the one time Bertie had seen him without his battered newsboy cap, she’d been simultaneously appalled and awestruck by the three strands of hair plastered over his bald spot. Today, she was glad to see his hat was affixed firmly in place.
    “Well?” he bellowed in her face.
    “I . . . er . . . that is . . .” Bertie stammered.
    “Get out, get out,” he said. “I have a schedule to maintain. Maintenance and production, replacement and refurbishment. You’ll only be in the way.”
    “In th’ way o’ what?” Nate asked. “There’s no one here an’ nothin’ t’ do at th’ moment.”
    “Shouldn’t you be packing your things, young lady?” Mr. Tibbs stomped over to a half-painted flat and scowled at the bucket abandoned on the concrete floor.
    “So you’ve heard,” Bertie said.
    “I heard, and it’s about damn