A/N: This is my first Bartimaeus Trilogy fic, a rather light-hearted one. I was rereading Ptolemy's Gate when I came across a certain quote, and this rather convoluted story was the result. Anyway, it's a one-shot, written in the spur-of-the-moment, and really, really silly. In any case, please drop a review if you read this!
Disclaimer: Bartimaeus Trilogy is the property of Jonathan Stroud. I am not British or male, so I cannot be the owner of the trilogy, just like I am not the author of the Harry Potter series.
"But it came at a price: more than once Mandrake had found himself cajoled into appearing in dreadful amateur productions at Richmond, prancing about the stage in chiffon leggings or bulbous pantaloons, and— on one terrible never-to-be-forgotten occasion— swinging from a harness wearing wings of sparkly gauze."
-- pg. 175-176, Ptolemy's Gate, US Edition
"John, m'boy!" exclaimed Devereaux as soon as Mandrake had stepped into the cavernous entrance hall of the Prime Minister's mansion in Richmond, shaking rain out of his longish hair. "Quite a surprise I have for you and the other Council members today! You see, today is dear Quentin's birthday, and I've" – he dropped his voice down to a whisper – "written a short little skit that I hope you will help me perform, as I know you love the theater as much as I do." He winked.
"Of course I do," Mandrake replied promptly, lying through his teeth. What was it this time? The bright orange pantaloons for Makepeace's most recent success in the West End had been bad enough. Perhaps pirates? Devereaux had mentioned those the week before. They wouldn't be too bad.
"Now, of course, this isn't a serious performance," said Devereaux, chuckling. He always said this, and always got dreadfully upset if Mandrake stumbled while reading his lines off his script. "We haven't rehearsed once, but I know Quentin won't mind. And such a treat for the other Council members too. That's why I called all of you here."
"A treat. Of course." Mandrake had to work hard to inject enthusiasm into his words.
"This part was written with you in mind." Devereaux seemed to not have noticed his lack of excitement. He opened the door to the backstage area. "The Council and Quentin are already seated, waiting for us, so we must hurry. Now, about the part… I adapted this particular skit from Quentin's play about that fairy girl and the dashing prince. I've forgotten what it was called, but no matter… he'll recognize it and be appropriately flattered. What's the matter, John? Come on, we must hurry!"
Mandrake had gone stark white and frozen after the words "fairy girl." He gulped. "Er… shall I be the prince?" he asked hopefully, his voice many octaves higher than usual.
Devereaux let out a hearty laugh. "My, John, you are quite witty!" he said. "Of course not! You will be the fairy girl. Better costume, and your hair is nice and long. You ought to be quite happy. Boys your age love adventure, I'm sure, and this part lets you dangle from a harness in the air! Quite fun sounding, no?"
It made Mandrake feel quite queasy.
"Please, sir, I'm not feeling quite well right now," he said, injecting a bit of pain into his voice.
Devereaux frowned. "You don't want to let me down, do you, John?" he asked, his voice quavering dangerously. "If you don't perform with me tonight, I might be forced to ask Jane to do this, and you know how terrible she is!"
Mandrake sighed and weighed the consequences. If he did this, he'd be ridiculed for weeks. If not, he'd be out of favor with Devereaux, perhaps even sacked as Information Minister. "All right, sir," he said, forcing a smile onto his face. "But only for you, sir."
"That's my boy," said Devereaux, grinning again. "I'll show you your costume. It's absolutely marvelous, I tell you." He strode over to a wardrobe opposite them and flung it open, revealing…
"Oh my God," whispered Mandrake, horror building in him with every passing second. He could even feel tears building up in his eyes. This was horrendous, the end of his having respect from anyone besides Devereaux or Makepeace… He even considered backing out and risking losing his job. "Oh my God."
"Yes," said Devereaux, a content expression coming across his face as he took the tears in Mandrake's eyes as artistic appreciation and the panicked whisper as awe. "Carl Mortensen helped me design this, as soon as I told him you were going to play this part. Such a nice person, with an eye for beauty. You'll look wonderful in this John, just like a fairy girl, with your hair being long and framing your kind of face…"
Mandrake was too horrified to be insulted. "Sir… I can't wear that…"
"Oh, yes you can," said Devereaux, smiling benignly. "It belongs to you. I plan on giving it to you after the performance, as a token of appreciation. Maybe you can display it in your office. It is beautiful enough. And it's not every day that a sixteen-year-old Minister, even one as high up as you, is invited to perform with me on stage."
It was a floor-length pink gown with no sleeves or straps. Lace flowed from the loose, almost non-existent bodice. It looked rather like a triangle, or like a very steep trapezoid. On a shelf above it were a silver tiara, a pair of sparkly gauze wings, and pink spiked-heel shoes. It was the most monstrous sight Mandrake had ever seen.
Without another word, Devereaux began tugging at Mandrake's suit. Mandrake pulled away and began to take it off himself, reminding himself desperately that he would only be performing for seven people for a few minutes at the most. Once he was down to his boxers, Devereaux began stuffing the dress over his head.
Several sweaty, frustrated minutes followed as they attempted to find the top of the dress for Mandrake's head and arms to go through. The zipper took up several more minutes, and even after that, the dress kept on slipping down Mandrake's slim body until Devereaux gave up and told him to hold the dress up, so that Mandrake ended up looking like a deranged chicken.
Next came the shoes, which Mandrake managed to squeeze into painfully. He promptly fell over and wobbled to his feet so that Devereaux could put the wings and tiara on him. "Here's the script," said Devereaux cheerfully, handing him a few pages of terribly-written skit. "Now, I'll set you up in the harness, and Carl will help with hoisting you up and down." Mandrake closed his eyes in horror – Mortensen hated him – but nodded and stood still as Devereaux fumbled with the harness.
"Just follow the script and everything will be just brilliant." Devereaux smiled one more time and left, whistling. A few moments later, Mandrake gasped as his feet suddenly left the ground. He immersed himself in the script, trying to keep his mind off of his impending doom. There seemed to be a lot of "thou" and "thee." Mandrake blanched. At least he didn't see much movement in the whole skit. That would be terrible.
The curtains opened, and Devereaux pranced on stage, wearing tights and a puffed tunic. Mandrake couldn't see anything past the edge of the stage, being as high as he was. "Oh, I wish I could but fall in love today," he said, stressing the consonants.
Mandrake felt a whoosh of air as Mortensen let go of the rope to let him down. He couldn't see anything, as the skirt of the gown, not held up by the harness, had flown up over his face. There was a sharp jerk as Mortensen grabbed the rope just in time so that Mandrake didn't fall on Devereaux's head, and a non-apologetic, "Oops."
With a reddened face, Mandrake ignored the snickers disguised as coughs coming from the Council and shoved the script in front of his face. "I am a fairy princess. Who art thee?" He winced as the top of the gown slipped.
"I am a prince. I am glad to meet thee." Devereaux had seemingly inserted the archaic language randomly. "Thou art very beautiful."
"Thank thee," said Mandrake, gasping as Mortensen suddenly hoisted him halfway up again. The tiara fell from his head, and he caught it with his teeth, as one hand was occupied with the script, the other with the gown. He fell to the ground again as Mortensen realized he shouldn't have raised Mandrake up yet. Mandrake removed the harness, preferring the Prime Minister's possible wrath over yet another on-purpose botch-up by Mortensen.
"Let us dance," said Devereaux, looking pained, obviously trying to salvage a play that had been unsalvageable from the start.
Dance? Mandrake hadn't seen dancing in the script. Devereaux was improvising… With a shudder, Mandrake wobbled over towards him. Devereaux bowed. Mandrake was halfway through a bow when he realized he was playing a girl, and he attempted a curtsy. It was painful. The snickers from the audience were becoming more evident now.
Without music, Mandrake and Devereaux began to waltz. Or at least make the movements of a waltz. Mandrake stepped on Devereaux's toes. Devereaux tripped on the hem of the gown. Mandrake attempted to lead, with disastrous results. Finally, Devereaux, his face red, dipped Mandrake over the edge of the stage. One spiked heel slipped, and Mandrake yelped as he fell off the stage, landing on Jane Farrar's lap.
"That's it!" wailed Devereaux, eyes screwed shut in despair. "Quentin, my friend, I have failed you again!"
"No worries," said Makepeace, clapping enthusiastically. "Good show. A fine effort." He winked at Mandrake, who was struggling to get off of Ms. Farrar's lap. Ms. Farrar was squealing and pushing him, making it even harder for him to rise. "Brilliant and brave performance by John here. After all, not every man is brave enough to wear a dress, even one as beautiful as this one."
"It's the ugliest dress I've ever seen!" Jessica Whitwell hissed under her breath.
"Get off!" screeched Ms. Farrar, now slapping every part of Mandrake she could reach. She screamed in pain as one spiked heel jammed into her leg. "Off! Off! Your hair is in my face! OFF!"
"Stop slapping me, woman!" yelped Mandrake, floundering his way off her lap. There was a tearing noise as the gown ripped in two. Devereaux whimpered.
"Go," he said miserably. "Go now. Now, I say."
The Ministers got up out of their seats, too happy to obey. "Erm, my clothes, sir," said Mandrake, who was clad in nothing but his boxers, the shoes, and the gauze wings.
"Get them tomorrow," replied Devereaux, head bowed. "I can't stand to do anything more."
"Sir, I can't walk around London in my underwear."
"GO!"
Mandrake went. And thus his neighbors all had a very nice laugh that day.
The next day, John Mandrake, Information Minister, entered a barbershop and got his hair cropped short. Only to support the war effort, of course.