Saint George may have been invisible to the dragon, but she stuck her tongue out at the boy-knight before she rumbled offstage, growling to herself.

“And so,” announced the narrator, “the dragon left the village and its people, and was never seen in those parts again.”

The curtain closed, and opened again, to thunderous applause from the audience.

I stood and clapped with parents and friends as the children bowed and then bounded off the stage, running toward the lawn outside, where a reception was waiting for us.

But long after the hall went quiet I stayed where I was, staring at the empty set, confused.

24

Lang came to my room before the dinner that night. “I think half of England’s currently quartered in Winchester,” he said with a sigh, shutting the door behind him.

“Fantastic,” I mumbled.

Lang frowned. “Is something the matter?”

“It’s nothing.” I sat, squirming as the waistband on my gown pinched my middle—curse all these stupid, expensive clothes—and buried my face in my hands.

Lang dragged a chair in front of my bed and settled into it. “Has something gone wrong with the prince?”

“No, both our conversations have been very pleasant. All two of them,” I managed around my palms.

Lang gave a low laugh. He tugged my hands from my face and folded them between his fingers. “If it’s not the prince, then what is it?”

I thought of the incident the day before with the flowers. Of the play earlier, and its oddity.

Godmother Althea’s book lay on my nightstand. I’d reread the old account after the play, just to be sure I hadn’t misremembered it.

In the old story, Saint George had been traveling abroad, in al-Maghreb, when he happened upon a helpless maiden in need of saving. He did defend her, as the children’s play had shown; but in the old version, he’d slain the beast after three tries, with a spear and a sword, instead of hiding the villagers.

The changes had been minor enough; perhaps they hadn’t wanted the children to pretend to kill one another. But then, why choose that story?

Besides, I’d spent time with Perrault. Enough to know that everything—everything—about this trip and my welcome to England was being carefully engineered.

“Something just feels off to me,” I finally said. “And not just the prince, and his age.”

“You’re halfway finished.” Lang looked tired, too, I noticed, as though his nerves had been wearing at him as mine had at me. He studied our clasped hands. Carefully, carefully, I withdrew mine.

“A quarter,” I said quietly.

“What?”

“A quarter of the way finished,” I said, my voice more wishful than I wanted it to be. “Half of England and all of Norge left to go. And then—home.”

If the Norden prince proposed.

If Perrault would let me bypass the Imperiya.

If.