He looked up. The first thing he saw was the dragon.

The fire-breathing puppet hung down from ropes tied to the ceiling, and it pitched as the wagon moved along uneven streets. The wheels went over a bump, and the dragon lurched down at Rownie, as though trying to bite his face. Lantern light glinted on sharp, brass teeth.

He knew it was a puppet. He could see that most of it was plaster and paper on a wooden frame. But he couldn’t help flattening himself against the floor and throwing up his arms around his face.

He lowered his hands when nothing happened. The dragon puppet swayed above him. That was all it did.

Four goblins also stood above him.

One was the tall, bald goblin who had juggled fire. He looked at Rownie like he couldn’t quite decide what Rownie was. Another wore rough clothes stained with grease and sawdust. She had long, dark hair pulled behind her head and tied with a string—though most of it had escaped the string. The third was the one who had carried a pile of costumes through the rain a few moments ago, and wore more than one set of costumes herself. She had spiky hair. She gave a little wave with one hand.

The fourth was Semele, who had offered him tea underneath the stage, and offered him welcome.

All of them had pointed ears and very large eyes—though Semele squinted with her large eyes through small spectacles. Their faces were freckled with greens and browns.

“Hello, Rownie,” said Semele. “I am glad that you found us again, yes.”

Rownie was not entirely glad that he had found them again. He felt nervous and unsettled. He sat up, and looked around, and was not reassured. Props and masks and musical instruments rattled in crates and made strange noises as they knocked against each other. Lantern light cast oddly shaped shadows, and the shadows rocked back and forth as the wagon moved. Everything around him was unsettling. It smelled like old clothes and paper.

“Hello,” Rownie said, quietly and cautiously.

The tall, bald goblin said nothing. The one with the work-stained clothes also said nothing.

“They never say anything,” said the goblin with spiky hair. Her voice was high, and her words jumped around like grasshoppers. “Patch never says very much, anyway. He’s Patch. The tall one. She’s Nonny. She really doesn’t ever say anything. I’m Essa. We shared a stage last night, when I played Jack and you were trying to keep a giant mask from slipping off your head.”

Rownie meant to protest that the giant mask had been in no danger at all of slipping off his head, and that he had worn it very well, thank you—but instead he said something else.