Changeling (17 page)

“I do not understand,” Changeling said. “He is already outside.”

I wondered if the Pooka or Astris ever got tired of explaining obvious stuff to me. “I meant New York Outside, where you live. Usually, mortals don't come to our New York unless they're asleep. Here's your cheese.”

I could tell she wasn't convinced—she kept glancing at him. But she shut up and ate. I took a bite myself, then fished the Magical Mirror out of my shirt where I'd stuffed it while the selkies were thumping on Changeling.

The Mirror certainly wasn't very magical to look at: two palm-sized circles of silvered glass set back-to-back in a plain metal frame. The first side showed me nothing but a big pinkish blur. I moved the Mirror closer, and my eye swam into focus. It practically filled the Mirror, greenish flecks in a brown iris, pink veins doodled through the surrounding white, eyelashes coarse as a cat's whiskers.

I put the Mirror to my mouth as the Mermaid Queen had done and whispered, “How do I get a ticket for
Peter Pan
?”

The Mirror's answer was a view of my lips, magnified to ogreish hugeness. The other side was just as useless.

“I wish we'd asked the Mermaid Queen how to make this thing work,” I said. “It's probably something icky, like polishing it with demon's earwax.”

Changeling reached for it. “I would like to see that, please.”

I stared at her hand.

It was clean from our seawater bath and pale with cold. Three cloud-shaped birthmarks along her pinky finger showed up clear and red. I snuck a look at my own right hand. There they were: the exact same marks.

“I want to see it,” Changeling repeated, and made a grab for the Mirror.

She had my birthmarks. She had my hair. She had my face and my eyes. But she didn't know any of the things I knew or care about any of the things I cared about. She hated rats. Well, I hated her.

I thrust the Mirror at her. “Here,” I said roughly. “Knock yourself out. Just remember that if you break it, you'll never go home.”

Changeling held the Mirror to her eye, then tapped searchingly along the edge of the frame. She held the Mirror to her ear. She started to hum—happily, this time. I turned my back and settled down to some serious thinking.

The next item on my quest list was the ticket to
Peter Pan
, which seemed harmless enough. After nearly getting drowned, I wasn't up for tackling the Dragon of Wall Street.

The most obvious thing to do, of course, was to trade something for the ticket. Too bad all I had was one soggy, useless fairy changeling and a magic Satchel. The Mermaid Queen's Mirror, of course, was out.

That left me with basically three choices: another contest, working for the ticket, or stealing it like Jack stole the giant's magic radio in “Jack and the Extension Ladder.” It felt like pressing my luck to try the Riddle Game again, which was the only nonmagical contest I knew. And it didn't feel right to work for any Genius other than my own Green Lady.

Which left stealing.

“Hey, Changeling,” I said. “You've been living with wild mortals. You got any ideas how we can steal a ticket to
Peter Pan
?”

Changeling looked up from the Mirror. “It's against the law to steal. If you steal, you are a thief. Thieves go to jail.”

It was “Riddles are dumb” all over again. I gritted my teeth. “Things are different here, okay? People steal things all the time. If I get caught, I just have to give whoever I steal it from something of equal value, and everybody's happy.”

“Stealing is
against the law
.”

“If I can't steal the ticket, how am I supposed to get it?”

Ignoring my question, Changeling bent over the Mirror again. I put a salty curl in my mouth and chewed hard while I thought. But the only idea I could come up with was to sell Changeling to a demon for gold, which, however tempting, was impossible because I'd promised to protect her.

The day got warmer. The spidersilk dress was dry, but my hair was damp and sticky, and my skin itched.

I poked Changeling. “Come on, Changeling. Time to get moving. You can carry the Mirror if you want, but you have to keep it hidden.”

Changeling slipped the golden chain around her neck and tucked the Mirror down the front of her blouse. “You're not going to steal anything, are you?”

“No, Changeling. I'm not going to steal anything,” I said.

As we slipped out from behind the Dumpster, I tripped over the street person, who groaned, opened his eyes, and immediately disappeared.

“See?” I said to Changeling, who was staring round-eyed at the empty space where he had been. “I told you he wouldn't bother us.”

 
After our adventures in New York Harbor, the Betweenways didn't seem like such a big deal. Changeling grabbed my skirt, then closed her eyes and muttered, “
Broadway-BroadwayBroadway,
” while I kept an eye out for our stop. Simple.

Broadway is famous for its nightlife, which is the only kind of life anyone can have in a place where the sun never rises. The Pooka had gone to Broadway to see
Finian's Rainbow
once and come back full of stories. He'd hated the play, but he loved the crowds and the lights and the Broadway Folk, who aren't like any other supernaturals in the City. I knew about out-of-work vampires playing scenes on street corners, hoping a manager or director would see them and cast them in a play. I knew about gaffers and hoofers and best boys and the long lines of Folk from all over the City waiting to buy tickets for popular plays. I was ready.

Before long, I saw a huge, flashing BROADWAY! in red and white lights surrounded with blinking gold stars. Towing Changeling, I dashed off the Betweenway, across the crowded platform, and through a door outlined in glowing zigzags.

Outside of the Solstice Dance, I'd never seen so many Folk in one place in my life. The street was a solid mass of them, chattering and laughing: fox maidens arm in arm with kobolds, demons squiring succubae, sidhe with peris or possibly even mortals. In the blinking lights, it was hard to tell. Everybody seemed to know where they were going; everybody looked cheerful.

And then there were the lights. They blazed from windows and across building fronts, blinking, swirling, doing tricks. Across from the Betweenways station, I saw a glowing green bottle drink itself over and over next to a bright pink cat switching its glittering tail in front of its grin. Down the street, a bright blue bird flapped its wings above a sign made out of twinkling lights:

A tap on my arm woke me from my trance. I looked down to see a skinny supernatural in a lime-and-purple-checked jacket. “You ladies look like you might be in the market for some entertainment,” he said.

He was bald and blue-faced, and his lips didn't quite cover his very sharp teeth. He looked like a kind of ghoul—mostly interested in dead bodies, not very aggressive. Still, I was cautious. “Depends on the entertainment.”

The ghoul opened his jacket, displaying rows of colored discs stuck into the lining. “What is your pleasure, ladies? A pair on the aisle to
Wicked
? Balcony center for
Babes in Toyland
?”

This was just too good to be true. “Got anything for
Peter Pan
?” I asked.

Yellow teeth flashed in a ghoulish grin. “Today is your lucky day,” he said. “It is not every scalper who can produce”—he selected two of the discs—“a pair to
Peter Pan
out of thin air.”

I eyed the tickets greedily. “How much?” I asked. “I only need one. The thing is, I don't have any gold.”

“Gold?” The scalper waved one blue claw airily. “What would I want with gold? All I am asking is a hand—your choice. Cheap at twice the price.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

He looked pleased. “Yeah, I know. I'm too softhearted. All the other scalpers are asking an arm and a leg.”

I started to edge away. “Thanks anyway,” I said. “I think I'll try at the theatre. Can you tell me where it is?”

But the scalper had already turned his back on me and was talking to a pair of elves.

Fine. We'd just have to do this the hard way.

I looked around for Changeling. She wasn't beside me; she wasn't by the Betweenway entrance; she wasn't anywhere.

OdearOdearOdear,
as the moss woman would say.

I walked down the street, trusting to luck and a hunch that she'd be interested in the moving lights. Sure enough, I found her staring up at the self-drinking green bottle with her mouth open.

“Why can't you stay put?” I snapped at her. “I've got better things to do than go looking for you.”

No response. The bottle emptied and filled again, reflected in her unblinking eyes. Angrily I grabbed her jacket and shook her. She took a swing at me. I danced out of reach and crashed into a passerby.

I staggered. The passerby caught my shoulder and inquired, in a voice like a tree full of birds, why I couldn't watch where I was going.

Too embarrassed to move, I muttered an apology to a pair of flesh-colored tights and sparkly golden shoes. The hand on my shoulder moved to my chin and forced me to raise my head. I looked up into a pair of very blue eyes, heavily shadowed and mascaraed, with a mop of shiny blonde curls above them. Above the curls was a top hat, which was gold and shiny, like the shoes. The girl wearing all this splendor was maybe twice as tall as me, and a lot thinner.

So was the girl next to her, who had her arm around the first one's waist, and the girl next to her, who had
her
arm around the second, and so on down a line of six blondes, all dressed in gold bathing suits and top hats and sparkly gold high-heeled shoes.

“And where
are
you going?” the golden girls caroled.

“I was looking for the theatre where
Peter Pan
is playing,” I said. “Do you know where it is?”

Six pairs of blue eyes exchanged glances. Six red mouths opened. Six sweet, high voices spoke in perfect unison. “They're not auditioning. They're looking for boys, not girls. And they wouldn't take
you
anyway. You're too fat and clumsy.”

Folk say this kind of thing all the time. They don't mean to hurt your feelings—they're just telling you the truth as they see it. I was used to it, but Changeling wasn't. “That was a very mean thing to say,” she complained. “Furthermore, it is untrue. I am not fat. I am well within the normal weight for a preadolescent girl of my height and body type.”

The girls took two steps back, bowed, and kicked up their right legs, missing my nose by about an inch. “Oh!” they chimed. “You're not Theatre Folk!”

“No,” I said. “We're changelings.”

“You're not a fledgling chorus line?”

This was a new one on me. The Pooka had told me about hoofers, who dance in musicals, but he'd never mentioned a chorus line. “What's that?”

The girls executed a complicated series of dance steps, ending in another high kick, this one staggered, like a breaking wave. Passing Folk broke into applause. I did, too, but Changeling stuffed her hands in her pockets and scowled.

“Thank you,” said the girls, and bowed double. Magically, their top hats didn't fall off. “I'm a chorus line.
The
Chorus Line. The
original
Chorus Line. Every other chorus line is just a cheap knockoff.”

“I'll remember that,” I said. “Um. Do you know where
Peter Pan
is playing?”

The Chorus Line's smile switched off. “It's not.”

“Isn't it the hottest show on Broadway?”

The Chorus Line wrinkled her six foreheads. “Do yourself a favor, chickens. Go home. Forget the bright lights. Forget
Peter Pan
. Get a real job, marry a nice man, make your mother happy.”

This made no sense at all. “If you don't want to tell me,” I said, “you should just say so, and I'll ask somebody else.”

“Don't do that.” The Chorus Line gathered around us, her outside parts linking arms, so she surrounded us completely. Changeling closed her eyes nervously. “Listen,” the Chorus Line said. “I'm not supposed to talk about this, but I can tell
you
. Look around. What do you see?”

I peered out between two of the Chorus Line. Noise, lights, crowds: check. But what had happened to the glittering pink cat? And the theatre where
The Bluebird
was playing?

The Chorus Line followed my gaze. “The Casino Theatre,” she said. “It's gone dark. So has the Republic, the Empire, and Belasco's. And the Follies is flickering. Broadway's dying, chickens, and nobody knows how to stop it.”

I wondered whether the fact that
Peter Pan
had closed would get me off the hook with the Lady. Somehow I didn't think so. “That's terrible!” I said.

“You can say that again.” The blended voice was sad.

“What's wrong?”

The Chorus Line lowered her voices to a gossipy buzz. “It's all the Producer's fault. Some fast talker conned him into putting Broadway on a computer. Everything—the plays, the music, the theatres, the lights. It worked really well for a while, but now it's gone buggy, and nobody knows how to fix it.”

At the word “computer,” Changeling gave a little twitch. Hadn't she said something about fixing her dad's computer? And I'd read two complete issues of
Macworld
.

“We know about computers,” I said.