With some trepidation, Richard sat next to her in the front row and regarded the piano, which he assumed marked the stage. The audience’s voices dimmed to whispers, and then to silence as Lady Harriet Pleinsworth stepped out of the shadows dressed as a humble shepherdess, crook and all.

“O beautiful, brilliant day!” she proclaimed, pausing to bat away one of the ribbons on her wide-brimmed bonnet. “How blessed am I with my noble flock.”

Nothing happened.

“My noble flock!” she repeated, quite a bit louder.

There was a crashing noise, followed by a grunt and a hissed “Stop it!” and then five small children dressed as sheep ambled forth.

“My cousins,” Iris whispered. “The next generation.”

“The sun shines down,” Harriet went on, spreading her arms wide in supplication. But Richard was too fascinated by the sheep to listen. The largest of the lot was bleating so loudly, Harriet finally had to give him a little kick, and one of the smaller ones—good God, the child could not be more than two—had crawled over to the piano and was licking the leg.

Iris clamped her hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh.

The play continued in this vein for several minutes, with the fair shepherdess extolling the wonders of nature until somewhere someone crashed a pair of cymbals and Harriet shrieked (as did half the audience).

“I said,” Harriet ground out, “that we are lucky it’s not likely to rain for the next week.”

The cymbals crashed again, followed by a voice yelling, “Thunder!”

Iris gasped, and a second hand flew up to cover the first, which was still wrapped over her mouth. Eventually he heard her utter the word, “Elizabeth” in horrified whisper.

“What’s happening?” he asked her.

“I think Harriet’s sister has just changed the script. All of act one will be lost.”

Luckily, Richard was saved from having to stifle his smile by the arrival of five cows, which on closer inspection appeared to be the sheep with brown splotches of fabric pinned onto their wool.

“When do we get to see the unicorn?” he whispered to Iris.

She shrugged helplessly. She didn’t know.

Henry VIII trundled forth a few minutes later, his Tudor tunic stuffed with so many pillows the child within could barely walk.

“That’s Elizabeth,” Iris whispered.

Richard nodded sympathetically. If he were forced to wear that costume, he’d want to skip the first act, too.

But nothing compared to the moment the unicorn burst onto the scene. Its whinny was terrifying, its horn tremendous.

Richard’s jaw went slack. “You glued that to her brow?” he whispered to Iris.

“It was the only way it would stay on,” she whispered back.

“She can’t hold her head up.”

They both stared at the stage in horror. Little Lady Frances Pleinsworth was stumbling about like a drunkard, not quite able to keep her body erect under the weight of the horn.