“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.
“What is that made out of?” Richard whispered.
Iris held up her hands. “I don’t know. I didn’t think it was that heavy. Maybe she’s acting.”
Richard watched, aghast, half expecting he’d have to leap forward to stop the girl from accidentally goring someone in the first row.
An eternity later, they reached what he thought might be the end, and King Henry waved his turkey leg in the air, loudly proclaiming, “This land shall be mine, henceforth and forevermore!”
And indeed, it seemed that all was lost for the poor, sweet shepherdess and her strangely changeable flock. But just then, there was a mighty roar—
“Is there a lion?” Richard wondered.
—and the unicorn burst onto the scene!
“Die!” the unicorn shrieked. “Die! Die! Die!”
Richard looked to Iris in confusion. The unicorn had not thus demonstrated an ability to speak.
Henry’s scream of terror was so chilling, the woman behind Richard murmured, “This is surprisingly well acted.”
Richard stole another look at Iris; her mouth was hanging open as Henry leapt over a cow and ran behind the piano, only to trip over the littlest sheep, who was still licking the piano leg.
Henry scrambled for purchase, but the （possibly rabid） unicorn was too fast, and it ran headfirst （and head down） toward the frightened king, plunging its horn into his large, pillowed belly.
Someone screamed, and Henry went down, feathers flying.
“I don’t think this was in the script,” Iris said in a horrified whisper.
Richard could not take his eyes off the gruesome spectacle on stage. Henry was on his back with the unicorn’s horn stuck in his （thankfully fake） belly. Which would have been bad enough, except that the horn was still very much attached to the unicorn. Which meant that every time Henry thrashed about, the unicorn was jerked about by the head.
“Get off!” Henry yelled.
“I’m trying,” the unicorn growled in return.
“I think it’s stuck,” Richard said to Iris.
“Oh, my heavens!” she cried, clapping her hand over her mouth. “The glue!”
One of the sheep ran over to help, but it slipped on a feather and got tangled in the unicorn’s legs.
The shepherdess, who had been watching everything with as much shock as the audience, suddenly realized she needed to save the production and jumped forward, bursting into song.
“O blessed sunlight,” she sang. “How your warmth doth shine!”
And then Daisy stepped forth.
Richard turned sharply to Iris. Her mouth was hanging open. “No no no,” she finally whispered, but by then Daisy had launched into her violin solo, presumably a musical representation of sunshine.
Or death.
Daisy’s performance was cut blessedly short by Lady Pleinsworth, who rushed onto the stage when she realized her two youngest children were hopelessly stuck together. “Refreshments in the other room, everyone!” she trilled. “We have cake!”
Everyone stood and applauded—it was a play, after all, no matter how startling the finale—and began to file out of the drawing room.
“Perhaps I ought to help,” Iris said, casting a wary glance at her cousins.
Richard waited while she approached the melee, watching the proceedings with no small amusement.
“Just remove the pillow!” Lady Pleinsworth directed.
“It’s not that easy,” Elizabeth hissed. “Her horn goes right through my shirt. Unless you want me to disrobe—”
“That will be enough, Elizabeth,” Lady Pleinsworth said quickly. She turned to Harriet. “Why is it so sharp?”
“I’m a unicorn!” Frances said.
Lady Pleinsworth absorbed that for a moment, then shuddered.
“She wasn’t supposed to ride me in the third act,” Frances added petulantly.