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presence of Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, Mistress of Revels, Emissary of the Théâtre Illuminata.”
    The Messenger matched the sneak-thief’s bow, inch for inch. Straightening, he lifted a polished brass trumpet to his lips and issued a precise blast of air and noise directly in Bertie’s face. She only heard his next words through the tinny ringing in her ears.
    “From Her Gracious Majesty the Queen!” The courier extended a thick parchment envelope, sealed with a great deal of wax bearing the royal crest and satin ribbon embroidered with the same.
    Nate leaned in to stage-whisper, “I hope ’tisn’t an invitation fer a game o’ croquet, because ye can’t play wi’out cheatin’.”
    “I highly doubt it.” The Mistress of Revels received missives from royalty all the time, so it must have been Bertie’s hands doing the shaking when she broke the seal on the parchment. She tilted it toward the irregular torchlight to make out the gilt-engraved words.
     
    Her Gracious Majesty
    hereby requests the presence of and a performance by
    Beatrice Shakespeare Smith & Company
    at her Birthday Festival,
    the Grand Occasion commencing Saturday
    “For the Queen’s pleasure,” the courier added, righting his hairpiece, “she has invited performers and minstrels from the four corners of her lands.”
    “To the Distant Castle?” Even though it took him three tries to read the invitation over her shoulder, Mustardseed sounded awed.
    Bertie peered at him. “The what?”
    “The Distant Castle.” When she didn’t respond, the fairy fisted his hands on his hips. “It was in your play … How Bertie Came to the Theater. ”
    Before he even finished speaking, the memory already prickled on the back of her throat.
     
VERENA
I am the Mistress of Revels, Rhymer, Singer, and Teller of Tales on my way to a distant castle to perform for the Royal Family.
    Bertie had composed the line as part of her script, and then, dressed as the Mistress of Revels, she’d repeated the words to a farmwife without thinking twice about them, without wondering at their meaning.
    Script in haste, repent at leisure, it seems.
    “Her stronghold sits at the very center of this great country,” the courier said, “and the terrain is easily enough traveled in a few days’ time, but you should consider an immediate departure.”
    On the very long list of Things She Needed to Do Immediately, Bertie had not counted among them dropping everything to travel to the Queen’s stronghold. “I fear I have nothing worthy of performing before Her Gracious Majesty. This invitation would be better delivered to Aleksandr and the Innamorati.”
    “They have already received their summons as well as permission for more rehearsal time,” the Messenger said with a disapproving twitch, though whether it was the circus troupe or their need for an extension that displeased him, Bertie could not be certain. “In any case, the Queen was most specific that the invitation be delivered to you.”
    Bertie could feel the quicksand gathering about her feet that began with an invitation and ended with her clapped in chains in a drippy-dank dungeon for offending Her Gracious Majesty with a Performance Most Heinous. “But—”
    “You would be wise to realize that you cannot gainsay Her Gracious Majesty’s desires or her timing.” The Messenger stowed his trumpet in some unseen pocket.
    “Of course!” Peaseblossom said with a squeak. “We wouldn’t like to insult the Queen by arriving late!”
    “What kind of insulted are we talking about? Lock us in the tower insulted? Hang us by our thumbnails insulted?” It wasn’t immediately clear from Moth’s tone if he were excited by or fearful of such a notion.
    Mustardseed felt compelled to contribute. “Chop-off-our-heads insulted?”
    “Executions are rare this time of year”—the Messenger cleared his throat before adding—“but the Queen has made it quite clear that the gates will be locked two days