There were concerns regarding this particular tableau. Stalwart princesses have become almost as runnathamill as skittish ones, and I'd done with itchy fingered adolescents donning their jerkins and kicking robes and responsiblity under the bed. There's something crazy fascinating about a stony-faced Penelope.
And how does one lure a dragon anyway? And why? I suppose she'd exhausted every other option. The tree had regular trimmings, as did her hair. Her bedclothes were of the new thinweave brand ("Keep your daughters safe and cloistered with EasyTear"). The guards' ears were stoppered against lullabies, their noses against perfumes. And princes don't really quest for the sharptongued, boltish types.
So she'd steeled herself against the conventionality of it all, and the guaranteed speculation. Found a reedpipe and a promising wind. Lay her jewelry on the rooftop and waited for dawn. Once the pieces warmed they would begin to hum--no dragon within four counties would be able to ignore the unmistakable reverberation of sun-heated gold.
And then it was all a question of which reached her first. And then the agonizing interview, the haggling over ransom and flight fees, the matters of compatability, the packing, the weighing of the packing, the purchase of harness or comfy abduction sack....
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