Growing up in the enchanted Théâtre Illuminata, Bertie learned everything about every play ever written. She knew the Players and their partsbut she didn't know that she had a role to play, too. Now that she's discovered her own magic, she is the Mistress of Revels, the Teller of Tales. And she's ready to write her own story, outside the protective walls of Théâtre. But which way will her story go? Toward Nate, who's being held captive by the Sea Goddess, and loves Bertie dearly? Or should she write Ariel into her narrative? He's by her side every day, and she's finding his charms so very hard to resist. . . .
About the Author
Lisa Mantchev is the author of the Theatre Illuminata series, including Perchance to Dream and Eyes Like Stars. She wrote her first play in fourth grade and has been involved in theater ever since. In her senior year at the University of California, Irvine, she won the Chancellor's Award For Undergraduate Research. After graduation, she taught English at the Lycée Internationale de Los Angeles and created their Drama After School Program. In between report cards and drafting scripts, she wrote fiction. Mantchev makes her home on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington state with her husband Angel, her daughter Amélie, and four hairy miscreant dogs.
Read an Excerpt
“Perhaps I can appeal, then, to the romantic nature of our situation.” Without moving, everything about Ariel reached for her. “The open road, the veil of night drawn over the world, us living as vagabonds.”
Usually, Peaseblossom played the part of Bertie’s tiny little conscience, but this time, she issued the requisite Dire Warning to herself:
Don't think about how close he is, or the fact that all you'd have to do to kiss him is tilt your head. Think of Nate . . . .
“If you’re done with whatever fierce internal argument is creasing your forehead—” Ariel's low laugh undid the knot she had tied on her resolve. A bit of his wind pushed her nearly into his lap, and their lips met.
Bertie's brain fogged over until the fairies’ collective noises of disgust recalled her to her senses. Pulling away, she muttered, “Vagabonds don't wear crinolines.”