Fair Peril by Nancy Springer Page A

“May we come in?”
    â€œUh, sure.” Emily regained her poise. With a toss of her honey-tressed head she turned, leading the way past a vast parlor and a glassy dining room to the informal living room, where a group of teenage girls clustered in front of the large-screen TV. “You’re going to have to wait until we watch the end of this movie,” she told Buffy.
    Thumping along behind her, Adamus lifted his head, saw the image of Winona Ryder flash before him, and screamed. Simultaneously, several of the girls turned bored heads, saw him, and, no longer bored, screamed as earnestly as he did. Some of them scrambled away from him, but as far as Buffy could tell, he did not notice. Squatting on the Oriental carpet (a tax shelter) in his tux, he was staring raptly at the screen as Winona, in charming dishevelment, closed in on her lover.
    â€œThat’s just my mom’s frog,” Emily said. For just a nanosecond Buffy heard a hint of little-girl approval in those two important words “my mom,” and she was so touched that—standing there in her clownish storytelling outfit, pigtails bow-tied with fluorescent-pink shoelaces, black sweatshirt puffy-painted with dancing pigs, wide black pants edged with multicolored braid—she glowed like the ever-ingenuous Winona. Her child had smiled; her frog, like a two-year-old in front of Sesame Street, was temporarily pacified; life was good.
    Right on cue to pop her bubble, Tempestt came flitting in, carrying snack mix and drinks on a lacquered tray.
    Tempestt, in a froth of curls and a ruffled silk romper. Even if Buffy hadn’t detested her already, the romper would have done the job. “Oh, good, Madeleine’s here!” Tempestt announced, dulcet to the max. “This is Madeleine Murphy, our storyteller. Such an interesting puppet! Are we all ready for some stories?”
    â€œSure,” one of the guests responded in tones of existential ennui.
    â€œSpiffy-diffy,” added another equally morosely. The movie had ended. Sluggishly the kids rearranged themselves in a semicircle on the carpet, facing Buffy sullenly.
    It was Emily’s party, Buffy reminded herself. Smile. Be good. And tell one hell of a good story. But not for the first time she wondered, why had Emily invited her? Storytelling as entertainment was not Emily’s style.
    Give it your best shot.
    She told them the one about the ghost of Toad Road. Did the voices, the sound effects, the gestures, the thrilling scream. They listened with reasonable attention and clapped politely when she was finished. But before she could begin her next story, Emily asked, “But what about the frog? When does he get to talk to us?”
    So that was it. Emily didn’t really want a storyteller at her party. She wanted Addie.
    Damn.
    â€œIs he going to tell us a story?”
    Clueless in that regard, Buffy said, “Ah, uh, ah, he, uh—”
    Emily leveled her midnight-blue eyes at Adamus and asked him directly, “Are you the frog from the frog-prince story? The one with the golden ball?”
    Adamus looked back at her. Then he stood up and walked forward on his long, green hind feet. And despite the fact that he was a mere two feet tall, he advanced with such presence, such statesmanship, that Buffy stepped back. He took her place and faced the damsels fair, his courtiers clad in denims from the Gap.
    â€œSweet Princess Emily,” Adamus addressed her. “Lovely maidens. I am not a frog. Or, I was not always so. I was born a prince. I am Prince Adamus d’Aurca de la Pompe de la Trompe de l’Eau.”
    The damsels did not all appreciate the solemnity of this moment. Most of them giggled or sat stolidly. But, seated on the carpet at his feet, Princess Emily gasped and gazed.
    Tempestt laughed and clapped. “Oh, how clever. It really looks as if the puppet is doing the talking!”
    â€œShut up,” Emily whispered without