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age,” Bertie said over Nate’s derogatory snort. “Life was ordinary and boring and lovely. Every morning my mother woke me with kisses, and every night she read me a fairy tale that ended ‘happily ever after.’ She missed her old life of greasepaint and curtain calls and applause, but she never said a word of reproach to me.”
    “At least Bertie would like to think so,” said Bertie’s Mother.
    Bertie nodded. “And then one day, a visitor came to my parents’ cottage.”
    With wheels yellow as the sun, a ruby-red caravan rolled onstage, its flowered curtains fluttering in the tiny window. Two mechanical horses pulled it, their shoes clanging and sparking against the stage. Dulled metal plated their flanks and sturdy legs, steam hissed from silver-velvet nostrils, and rich amber light poured from their eyes. A woman with hair and eyes like bits of the night sky leapt down in a swirl ofemerald and black silk. Her skirts were embroidered with tiny golden moons, and a belt of jangling golden disks encircled her waist.
    “The sky threatened rain,” Bertie said. The brilliant blue of the cyclorama shifted to a pale gray. Thunder rolled, echoing off the back wall of the theater and setting the chandelier atinkle.
    “Greetings to you, goodwife,” the newcomer said. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Verena, Mistress of Revels, Rhymer, Singer, and Teller of Tales, on my way to a distant castle to perform for the Royal Family. Perhaps you would be so good as to shelter me from the oncoming storm?”
    “Of course,” Bertie’s Mother said with a nod. “You may use our barn if you like. I can offer you some fresh bread and cheese for your supper.”
    “That is most kind of you,” said Verena. “A debt paid today is one that cannot be called in tomorrow, so I will give you something in return. Come to the caravan tonight at moonrise, and bring your youngest child.”
     
    “Itinerant performers probably don’t wear emerald an’ black silk embroidered wi’ gold. It would get filthy wi’ dust an’ muck.”
    A pause. “It’s called ‘creative license.’ This is a play, remember?”
     

     
    The lights faded to near darkness as a silver-foil moon rose in the background. The Mistress of Revels kindled a fire of red, orange, and yellow ribbons that leapt high with the aid of a tiny fan. The plaintive and melancholy sound of a single violin wended its way through the auditorium. Verena crouched before the flames, adding her lilting voice to the lament.
    A candle flickered in the cottage window, and the door opened. Bertie’s Mother tiptoed across the yard to the caravan, carrying the baby in her arms.
    Somewhere, the Family Dog howled.
    “Sit down, goodwife, sit down.” Verena beckoned, the many bracelets on her arm chiming a welcome. “I promised you payment for the meal, so I have. I can weave your daughter’s story on this night’s loom.”
    Bertie’s Mother hesitated. The violin held a long, high note; as it descended the scale, she took a deep breath and joined the Mistress of Revels by her fire. “Teller of Tales, it’s her Future I want told, not a pretty bedtime story.”
    “Bedtime stories are filled with fairy godmothers and toads who become princes,” Verena said with a low chuckle. “You would wish more magic than that in her Future?”
    “There are stars in her eyes,” said Bertie’s Mother with a shiver. “She’ll have magic enough because of those cursed things.”
    Verena took Bertie’s Mother by the chin, twisting her face to study her closely. “Your stars are still there. Faint, but there.”
    “She will want a life greater than this. I did, too, a long time ago,” said Bertie’s Mother. “But that life . . . you know as well as I that it’s not all roses and curtain calls and champagne on Opening Night. It’s ugliness and filth and greed. The bright lights mask the sorrow, but the sorrow is still there. I don’t wish that for her.”
    The Mistress of Revels sat