A girl in a princess tiara studied the result skeptically. “It looks like a pregnant worm.”
The clown’s eyes died a little.
Across the yard, Tall Marcheford and Young Marcheford had set up the large wooden chest from the workshop. It was now positioned on a folding table and Tall Marcheford was gesturing at it with the showmanship of a man who’d watched exactly one magic tutorial on the internet.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he announced nervously to the assembled children. “Prepare to witness the incredible, the astounding, the death-defying… sawing of a man in half!”
A wave of weak clapping ensued.
Young Marcheford, who was apparently the volunteer, climbed into the chest as if he were mounting a scaffold with a hanging noose.
“He doesn’t look like he’s been sawed in half before,” Bo said judgmentally, his paws on the fence and his ears at full attention.
“No one gets sawed in half, Bo,” I muttered. “It’s a trick.”
“Then why does he look like he’s about to write his will on the inside of that box?” my dog huffed.
Tall Marcheford produced a large handsaw—wooden-handled, clearly from the workshop—and brandished it with a flourish that nearly took out a balloon.
The children screamed with delight. The volunteer’s eyes went wide.
Gavin’s nostrils sparked. “I think that’s a real saw.”
“Should I call 666?!” Nigel hissed anxiously in our ears.
“It’s gotta be a prop,” Didi said, though she didn’t sound entirely certain.
Tall Marcheford began sawing with theatrical vigor. Young Marcheford screamed and promptly fainted. Several children started crying.
My wolf put a paw over her eyes.
This was even worse than either of us had imagined.
The woman from the workshop rushed over with face paint supplies and began a diversionary campaign on the nearest cluster of distressed kids.
The back door banged open. Afigure emerged hastily from the house carrying a tray of sausage rolls. There were mountains of them. They were golden, they were flaky, and they radiated the kind of savory aroma that cut through the afternoon air like a siren call.
Instinct had me looking to my right.
Bo’s entire body had gone rigid.
His nose twitched like it had gained a life of its own. His tail began wagging until it achieved near vertical lift-off. His glazed eyes locked onto the sausage roll tray with the singular focus of a heat-seeking missile acquiring its target.
“No,” I said preemptively as his hind legs found purchase on the fence and began scrabbling desperately.
“I didn’t do anything,” Bo whimpered, rear paws finding the ground.
“You were thinking about it.”
“They do smell incredible,” Gavin mumbled.
My dog licked his chops noisily and began drooling. “It’s well past lunch time.”
Didi shuffled out of the way of the messy drop zone.
“It looks like his resolve is being tested,” the witch said sourly.
“His resolve lasted approximately three and a half hours,” I muttered.
