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The men in the dragon costume move forward, growling and snarling. They hold a pennant to suggest fire.
“The citizens, living in mortal terror, can no longer draw water from the river, so frightened are they of the hideous beast. And so, they devise a desperate plan—they sacrifice a princess to the dragon to satisfy his hunger—a daily sacrifice!”
The younger girls gasp. There are a few girlish screeches. Felicity calls out, “Bad luck, Gemma!” and the older girls fall into laughter. Even Miss McCleethy and Mademoiselle LeFarge chuckle at this. I am well loved. How fortunate. The dragon’s incinerating breath grows more appealing by the second.
The mummer doesn’t care for having his show corrupted in such a fashion. He uses his most commanding voice. It thunders in the dusky air in a way that brings goosebumps to my arms. “The fair princess screams for salvation!” He points to me, waiting. I answer his patience with a perplexed expression.
“Scream,” he whispers.
“Aaaah.” It is the most anemic scream in the history of screaming.
The mummer’s irritation shows beneath his bearded smile. “You are a maiden fair on the precipice of death! The fearsome dragon’s flaming breath mere inches from your red-gold curls! You shall burn like tinder! Scream! Scream for your life!”
It seems a simple request, and yet, I’m far too mortified by it all to utter a sound. The crowd waits restlessly. I might remind them that I did not volunteer for this role. A soul-splitting screech rings out, loud and true. It sends shivers running through me. It’s Ann. Hand to forehead, she screams, playing the part like Lily Trimble herself.
The mummers cheer. “Ah, there is our princess!”
They bring forth Ann and place the crown upon her head. I am ushered back to the other girls with nary a thank-you for my efforts.
“I wasn’t as bad as all that,” I grumble when I am by Felicity’s side.
Fee pats my arm. The pat says, Indeed you were.
I cannot remain churlish for long, for Ann is magnificent. Watching her, I forget that she is Ann. She truly is a princess in danger of being devoured. With the mummers securing her wrists, she thrashes and begs for mercy. She screams as the paper dragon draws near.
“Will no one save this lady? Will she face death?” the mummer pleads with glee.
An injured bugle is blown. It sounds less a call to arms than a dying cow. Saint George arrives in his plumed helmet.
“Ah! But who is this? Be he friend or be he foe? Can anyone tell me true?”
“’Tis Saint George!” a girl cries out.
The mummer pretends not to have heard. “I pray you, who is it?”
“Saint George!” we yell merrily.
“And be he hero…or villain?”
“Hero!” For who would dare name the patron saint of England as anything but a hero?
“Oh, who will save me?” Ann cries mournfully. She really is quite good, but the mummer does not care to be upstaged. He places a firm hand round her arm.
“The princess, so overcome by terror, faints dead away,” he says pointedly.
Annoyance shows itself in Ann’s sideways glance, but as requested, and with a dramatic sigh, she closes her eyes and allows her body to go limp in the paper chains. Saint George faces the dragon.
“But what is this? Our hero hesitates. Doubt hath found a path to his heart.”
A mummer whose face is painted with two different expressions—a smile and a frown—sidles up to the actor playing Saint George. “The maid cannot be saved. Why sacrifice yourself for her?”
We greet this with a chorus of boos.
The actor with the painted face turns the smile side toward us. “This is how it has always been, the sacrifice of a maiden to soothe the beast. Would you dare to challenge it?”
“Doubt troubles our fair hero,” the tall mummer booms. “He will need assistance from such fair and good ladies as are assembled here to find his heart and win the day. Will you cheer him on?”
“Yes!” we shout.
