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“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.

Saint George pretends to deliberate as the paper dragon weaves nearer to Ann with a feeble growl. We give another loud cheer, and he draws his sword with purpose. A fierce battle ensues. The dragon is defeated, but Saint George is injured. Clutching his side, he falls to the ground and we go silent.

“What is this?” the mummer says, wide-eyed. “Our hero has been dealt a blow! Is there a doctor?” Nothing happens, and the mummer, clearly irritated, repeats, “I say, is there a doctor?”

“That’s me.” The three-toothed mummer beside us remembers his part. He rushes forward, holding his hat on his head, a glass vial raised high in his other hand. “I am the good doctah. And I’ve a magic potion that shall restore him to his former health. But for its magic to spark, every one of us must believe—believe and take hold.”

With great solemnity, the good doctor passes the glass vial from girl to girl and asks her to add her wish to it. The vial is rushed to the fallen Saint George and put to his lips. He springs to his feet to our roaring approval.

“Our hero has recovered! Your magic hath restored his former vigor! And now, to the princess fair.”

Saint George rushes to Ann’s side. He seems ready to kiss her cheek, but a loud throat-clearing from Mrs. Nightwing changes his mind. He gives a peck to her hand instead.

“The princess is saved!”

Ann comes alive with a smile. Again we cheer. The mummers in charge of the paper dragon pop up and join with Ann and Saint George, moving so that it appears as if the brave knight and the fair maiden ride the beast. They wave happily. The dragon meows, making us laugh. It is a very happy ending, which, I suppose, is what we expected. The mummers bow and we clap for them. The lead mummer places his cap upon the ground, inviting us to make a donation, “no matter how small.” We toss our coins, much to Mrs. Nightwing’s dismay.

“Yes, yes,” she says, shepherding us toward Spence. “Let’s not catch a chill.”

“Ann, you were wonderful,” I say as she joins us. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes clear. Her moment of glory becomes her.

“When the dragon was beside me, I felt real fear! It was thrilling. I could perform every night of my life and never tire of it.” She shakes her head. “If I could sing for Mr. Katz now, I’d do it, and I’d not throw it away. But it’s too late. They’ve gone.”

A few of the younger girls trot by to congratulate Ann and tell her she made a perfect princess. Ann basks in their praise, smiling shyly at each compliment.

Suddenly, my ears are filled with a growing hiss that sounds like a gas lamp being turned to its brightest flame. The breath is torn from me. It feels as if someone is pulling on every part of my body. Everything goes topsy-turvy. Time slows. I see the girls moving so very slowly, their hair ribbons defying gravity as they turn their heads by infinitesimal degrees. The sounds of their laughter are low and hollow. Ann’s mouth twists with words too slow for me to decipher. I alone seem to move at ordinary speed. It’s as if I’m the only one truly alive.

I turn toward the trees and feel a chill in my soul. The mummers haven’t slowed at all. As they walk into the woods, they appear to grow fainter till they are nothing more than outlines. Before my astonished eyes, they transform into crows and fly away, their dark wings stirring trouble into the calm sky. The tremendous pull is gone but I feel drained, as if I’ve run for miles.

Ann’s mouth spits out its words now. “…I dare say, don’t you agree? Gemma? You’ve a queer expression.”

I grip Ann’s arm too tightly and she winces. “Gemma!”

“Did you see that?” I gasp.

“See what?”

“The mummers…they…they were there and then…they turned into birds and flew away.”

Hurt burns in Ann’s eyes. “I didn’t ask them to choose me over you.”

“What? No, that isn’t it at all!” I speak more softly. “I’m telling you, one moment, the mummers were there, and the next, they’d changed into birds—just like—” I go cold all over. “Just like the Poppy Warriors.”

Ann peers into the dark. The mummers’ lamp weaves through the trees, growing smaller with the distance. “Do birds carry lanterns?”

“But I—” I cannot finish. I’m no longer certain of what I saw.

“Ann Bradshaw! How could you not have told us how brilliant you are?” Elizabeth exclaims. She and Martha draw Ann into an eddy of girlish fawning, and Ann goes happily with the current.

I stand alone on the lawn, searching for some sign that I did not imagine what I saw. But the woods are quiet. Eugenia’s voice echoes in my head: They could make you see what they wish you to see. It will be as if you are mad. I turn to see Mrs. Nightwing and Miss McCleethy chattering. Cool prickles of sweat break out on my brow and I wipe them away.

No. I won’t listen to what they say. I am not their pawn, and I am not insane.

“The dark plays tricks, Gemma,” I say to comfort myself. “It was nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.”

I repeat the word with every step until I convince myself it is true.

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