Kiss Me Deadly: Tales of a Paranormal Romance

Errant BY DIANA PETERFREUND

The unicorn hunter brought her own unicorn, which was good as none had been seen in the countryside for years. Everyone in the château paused in their duties as she entered the courtyard; they stared in open fascination at her dusty traveling cloak and the equally dusty unicorn at her side.

If they’d been expecting the lithe, elegant monster they’d seen in tapestries and paintings, they were destined for disappointment. The unicorn was a rickety, goat-like creature with a bedraggled tail and tangled, mud-caked mats in her shaggy silver coat. She was missing a few teeth, and one of her eyes had already begun to cloud over with age. But her horn was as long and proud as ever, thrusting upward from her brow in a tight spiral half as long as a man’s arm.

The hunter led the unicorn to the empty hitching post, and tied a length of chain first about the unicorn’s neck, and then around the post. “Bleib,” she told the beast, and the unicorn hung its head, its pink tongue lolling slightly from heat and thirst. The workers in the courtyard scattered. Chains and fatigue might slow the animal down, but they’d heard the stories. They knew the danger.

The unicorn hunter was shown into the parlor with little delay. Gathered there were four people: two strangers, plus the man with whom the unicorn hunter had business, and a petite girl a few years younger than the hunter, with skin the color of white roses and hair that curled softly about her face like a golden halo. She was dressed in a fine blue gown that would likely tear like tissue if she bent the wrong way, and she stared at the hunter with a mixture of fascination and revulsion.

“Sister Maria Brigitta of the Order of the Lioness,” said the unicorn hunter, giving a curt nod to the man she’d come to see. “I am here about the hunt.”

“Indeed.” His eyes widening slightly at her accent. “I didn’t realize you were German.”

“Bavarian by birth,” Gitta replied. “But I lived in Rome with the Order since my fifth year.” And she’d wager her French was better than his German.

The man’s name was Adolphe Dufosset, but as far as Gitta could tell, he was not the lord of this house. Neither was the tall, dark man in the corner, who, Gitta learned, was the Vicomte de Veyrac, the father of the young man who turned out to be the girl’s betrothed.

No one bothered to introduce the girl.

Gitta wasted no more time and laid out the terms of her services. “For two ounces of gold, I will provide a unicorn and protection from the unicorn for the duration of your ritual. That includes teaching the maiden her duties. The price increases to two and a half should the maiden not pass the test.” The Vicomte stiffened at these words, but Gitta felt no need to clarify. After all, he was not the one to pay her fee. “And the price quadruples should you wish to actually kill the unicorn.”

“A mark of gold!” the Vicomte spat. “Absolutely not.”

“Of course we must kill the unicorn,” said Dufosset. “That is the purpose of the hunt!”

“Not at that price,” said the Vicomte. “It’s outrageous.”

Gitta remained impassive. “And yet it is the price. Unicorns are scarce, in France and elsewhere, and this one has been with the Order for quite some time. She’s very well-trained. I assure you, she can feign an excellent death, should you desire.”

“I desire—” said Dufosset, “to see the creature’s head on a pike.”

“That will cost you eight ounces of gold,” Gitta replied, keeping her voice even. Outside at the hitching post, Enyo felt her distress, and Gitta sent soothing thoughts in the unicorn’s direction. She had been through these negotiations before. Officially, the price for a dead unicorn was only four ounces of gold, but these French squires did not know that, and Rome was very far away.

The Vicomte turned to the girl. “My dear, I shall not have this interloper wasting your father’s money on some trifle.”

“And I shall not allow our family tradition to be reduced to some cheap bit of playacting,” said Dufosset. “If we are to have a unicorn hunt, then by God we shall kill a unicorn.”

No, Gitta would kill Enyo, if they paid her price. Adolphe Dufosset could give her one mark of gold or twenty, but he would never deliver the death blow himself.

The girl looked at Gitta. “Perhaps,” said she, her voice trembling, “the hunter has a suggestion for pursuing this alternative. I do not relish the thought of anyone butchering an animal in my lap.”

Ah, so she was fastidious as well as soft. The perfect combination for disaster. The girl would be lucky if Enyo didn’t run her through at their first meeting. “Most families are satisfied with a symbolic slaying,” is what Gitta said aloud.

The girl gave her a look of annoyance, which Gitta ignored. Far too good to sully her silk gowns with unicorn blood, but still concerned with family pride? Ridiculous. Had the girl any real family pride she would have learned to be a hunter. But it was unlikely she had the ability to do so—so few maidens did anymore, despite what their family crests might say. And then there were those like Gitta: no surname of distinction, but still worth ten of these silk-encased porcelain dolls.

“Shall we carry symbolic spears and knives, then?” said Dufosset. “Perhaps wooden swords. Or toothpicks? Is this whole thing to be nothing more than a pageant?”

“Ideally,” grumbled the Vicomte. “Right now it is nothing more than a delay tactic.”

“I am trying to honor our family heritage, my lord. Traditionally, a de Commarque wedding is marked with a unicorn hunt. Surely you cannot begrudge my cousin and me of that, given our recent tragedy.”

The Vicomte snorted and turned away.

Adolphe smiled at Gitta in triumph. “We will pay the mark. Make what preparations you must.”

Gitta kept her face impassive. “Yes, sir. I will need a few days to prepare—the maiden.” She gestured awkwardly at the girl.

“My name,” said the girl, “is Elise de Commarque.”

Gitta merely bowed her head.

Elise de Commarque, the daughter of the former Le Seigneur de Commarque, stood before her wardrobe and frowned. The unicorn hunter had summoned her down to the courtyard to test her against the unicorn, whatever that meant. She’d told Elise to wear something she didn’t mind getting dirty.

As if Elise owned the type of rags that this Sister Maria Brigitta traveled the countryside wearing: that worn brown bed-skirt and scarf, and that horror of a torn gray petticoat. This was absurd. Elise had half a mind to call down to the servants’ wing and ask them to send up a smock.

Eventually she compromised on her oldest gown and a torn apron she’d been meaning to deliver to the rag basket. As her maid helped her dress, her pug dog, Bisou, wove in and out between her feet and tugged on the bottoms of her skirts. She scooped him up in her arms and buried her face in his soft fur. Bernard had already informed her that his father the Vicomte did not allow dogs in his house. She would have to leave Bisou behind. And who knew if she and Bernard would ever return here? Perhaps, once they had children...

With Bisou safely stashed in the crook of her arm, Elise went down to the courtyard to meet this hunter and her animal. The servants were still nowhere to be seen. The woman stood holding the unicorn on a chain, and as Elise entered, it looked up and began to growl.

“I knew it,” the older girl grumbled, then stopped. “Wait. Is that a dog in your arms?”

“Of course.” Elise patted Bisou on the head. The poor thing was trembling and clawing at his mistress’s sleeve.

“Take it away!” the hunter exclaimed. “You are destroying the test. You might as well have brought Enyo a bloody ham.”

The unicorn snapped its jaws and lunged. Bisou squealed. Elise grasped him and fled, racing through the house and back up the stairs to her room. Bisou leaped from her arms and darted beneath the bed. Elise gasped, yanking at her stays until she could breathe again. The hunter had set the monster on her.

Eventually, she squared her shoulders and marched back downstairs. Sister Maria Brigitta of the Order of the Lioness could have as much contempt as she wished for her French hosts. But she could not mistreat her in her own house. Elise’s father never would have stood for it, so neither would Elise de Commarque.

Back in the courtyard, she found a scene of carnage. The unicorn had caught one of the lawn peacocks and was engaged in tearing it to shreds. The hunter stood apart from the spatters of blood and calmly sharpened her knives.

Elise screamed, covering her hands with her mouth. The unicorn paused, its snout a mess of gore and green feathers, dropped the carcass of the bird, and began to approach her. The hunter glanced over. Spikes of greasy black hair had escaped her scarf and hung in her amber-colored eyes.

“Sister!” hissed Elise, freezing where she stood. “Your ... animal.”

“Sorry,” said the hunter. “Enyo was hungry, and after the dog ... well...” She shrugged. “Was the peacock worth so very much?”

But Elise had forgotten about the peacock entirely. She backed up a step, whimpering as the beast drew near. If she reached out, she could almost touch its long, sharp horn. But then the unicorn stopped, lowered its head, and knelt. Elise was so surprised, she almost curtsied in return.

Across the courtyard, the unicorn hunter stood, her knife gripped firmly in her rough, weathered fist. “Touch her,” she commanded.

Elise obeyed, not for the sake of the hunter, but for that of the unicorn. There was something in its eyes. Something she’d seen before in Bisou, or in her father’s horse Templar, or in Noir, the cat who lived in the kitchen. She leaned and slid her fingers along the unicorn’s brow. Its hair was softer than she’d thought it would be. Tangled and filthy, to be sure, but silky and fine. The unicorn, still bowing before her, bleated.

“I don’t believe it,” said the hunter. “You are a daughter of the blood.” Her tone was one of awe, but her expression remained locked in a scowl.

Elise withdrew her hand and somehow resisted wiping it off on her apron. “Of course. We traditionally hunted unicorns. That is why you are here.”

The hunter laughed. “My lady, do you know how many great houses I visit where they claim their girls are daughters of the blood?”

Elise chose not to respond. The de Commarque claim was true. What did she care about some other house? “Does this make your task easier? To—train me for this, I mean.”

“Yes,” replied the hunter stiffly. “It shall be easier if you hold Enyo still while I kill her.”

“Enyo,” said Elise. “That is the animal’s name?”

The hunter looked away. “Yes.”

“Enyo,” repeated Elise. The unicorn looked up at her, its eyes watery with age. “I have never heard that name. Is it German?”

“Greek.” The unicorn hunter made a small sound in her throat, and the animal snapped to her side, a move so quick Elise was surprised she could follow it. “It is the name of one of Ares’s companions.”

Elise smiled as the hunter crouched low over her unicorn, pressing her scarved head against the animal’s neck. “That is nice. I am not familiar with this Ares. My doggie’s name is Bisou. You know—”

“I know what it means,” the older girl hissed, straightening. “And Ares, you illiterate prig, is a god of war.”

Elise blinked in shock. No one had ever been allowed to speak to her in such a manner. And now, this—this nun, with her dirty clothes and rusty-handled knives and filthy animal with its strange, foreign name—

“Forgive me, my lady,” said the hunter, her rage vanishing as quickly as it had flared up. She bowed her head. “I should not have said that. It was uncharitable.”

And untrue. Elise had read—well, a large part of the Bible. And a whole book on herbs. In Latin, no less! Plus her elementary readers, and a history of France. Lots of books. “You forget yourself, Sister,” she said, her tone haughty.

The hunter nodded, eyes still cast downward. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I am used to a degree of camaraderie among my fellow hunters. Your power took me by—” she trailed off. “You’re right. I’m very sorry. I am tired, from my travels. And ... hungry.”

Elise sighed. “Go around to the kitchen. They’ll see to your food and find you a place to sleep. It’s two days yet until the wedding and the hunt. I assume you will be able to teach me better starting tomorrow?”

The hunter stared at the ground.

Elise snapped her fingers and the older girl looked up. “I trained for ten years to become a unicorn hunter,” Gitta said. “But if we only have a day, we will have to settle for teaching you how to stay alive.”

The cook gave Gitta a pallet in a room with two scullery maids—an offer Gitta might have accepted if she didn’t have Enyo to think about. Her living arrangements in the Cloisters hadn’t been better, but there, at least, she and the other hunters kept their pet zhi by their sides at night. If left unchecked, Enyo would eat the scullery maids, and Gitta might even let her. After all, the poor thing deserved a good last meal, and from the look of the scullery maids, they wouldn’t mind shrugging off their miserable mortal coils.

Enyo remained hungry. That peacock had been nothing more than a scrawny snack. Perhaps she should have let the zhi eat that stupid dog as well. With any luck, Elise de Commarque would have had Gitta and Enyo driven from the house, and then no one could blame Gitta for her failure to complete her mission. They could take off again—go somewhere new. Somewhere wild.

Instead of the pallet, Gitta took Enyo out into the forest beyond the fields and gardens surrounding the château, and slept with her there, her arm curled tightly around the animal’s throat. She’d only had the unicorn for a year, but Enyo had lived with hunters for all her life. She’d been given to Gitta by Sister Maria Artemisia when she’d left the order to care for her widowed niece. Gitta had recently lost her third zhi, Brunhild, to a village festival near Seville. The villagers had attempted to eat the meat of the corpse. Gitta had refrained from warning them against it, for which her superiors in the Order had reprimanded her harshly, though the villagers’ illness had only lasted a few weeks. Artemisia took pity on her, though. The old nun was pushing fifty, and knew what it was like to outlive one’s unicorns. Enyo, Artemisia had explained when she passed the animal over, was old and wouldn’t mind dying so much. Gitta soon learned differently. Enyo might be old and frail and nearly blind, but she was every bit as fierce as her namesake. Together, they’d survived three of these so-called hunts thus far.

How sad, then, that Enyo would be sacrificed for some petty ceremony that no one in this de Commarque house seemed to actually want.

This wasn’t what a hunter was, Gitta reflected as she lay in the dim forest and let the scent of the earth wrap around her. Not what it used to be, anyway. Once upon a time, her sisters had protected estates like this one. They’d come when the residents were threatened by wild unicorns. When a hunt was necessary. Now there was nothing but playacting. It was a disgrace, not only to the Order of the Lioness, but also to the families, whether truly of the blood or otherwise.

The unicorn moaned softly and kicked its hooves in its sleep. Its belly rumbled. It would need to eat something soon. Gitta hoped there were deer in these woods.

She curled her body around the beast’s for warmth. Gitta could speak seven languages and had traveled all over the continent. Why then, here in this little French woods, did she suddenly feel so small?

As he did every evening at sunset, Bernard de Veyrac appeared beneath Elise’s bedroom window with a flower twined round a little scrap of paper. And every day, Elise lowered a little basket for him to put the flower in, pulled it back up to the window, and read the poem he’d inscribed on the paper. Today’s was very good, comparing Elise’s breath to violets and her complexion to a lily’s. It was almost as good as the one that said she was more fair and lovely than a summer’s day. It would have been better, perhaps, had he thought to use a violet or a lily as the flower, but instead, he’d tied the note to a morning glory. Odd. Though Bernard seemed to have a way with poetry, her betrothed was sorely lacking when it came to that sort of planning. Foolish trifles of a boy in love, her father had said, but Elise knew better. She’d heard the way the servants talked about Bernard. She’d heard the stories about the peasant girls. Still, the poems were an unnecessary token, given their parents’ wishes. That he took the trouble gave her comfort. Theirs would be a pleasant marriage.

She blew a kiss to Bernard from her window, and he pretended to catch it and press it to his heart. “Six days, my fair Elise!” he cried from the garden, his eyes shining in his handsome face. “Six days until you’re mine!” And then he turned and left, and Elise smiled at him until she noticed he was trampling all the seedlings in her garden with his big brown boots.

“Bernard!” she shouted. “My tarragon!”

He leaped off the plants as if burned and landed squarely in the lavender.

Elise sighed and shook her head as she returned to her supper.

There was a knock at her door and a moment later, Adolphe appeared, powdered and wigged to within an inch of his life. Elise sat calmly by the window as he approached and stooped to kiss her hand. He towered over her, but it was an illusion. The heels of his coral satin shoes had to be at least six inches.

“My dear cousin,” he said. “How are your spirits this evening?”

“Well enough,” she replied. They would have been better had she not heard that five more of Adolphe’s men had arrived at the estate this evening. She hadn’t bothered writing to the Vicomte, though. He no doubt knew already, in that way he had of knowing everything that happened here. Her wedding couldn’t come quickly enough.

She tossed a piece of chicken to Bisou, who was still hiding beneath her sofa. Perhaps the treat would draw him out.

“I worry for you, my dear,” said Adolphe. “Left all alone, in this cruel world—”

“Not for long.” She toyed with the flower in her lap. “Bernard and I shall soon be wed and then—”

“Such a pity your poor father did not live to see that day.” Adolphe’s voice betrayed not the slightest hint of human pity, though he’d shown up quickly enough the day after they’d placed Le Seigneur in the ground. “Do you not think it wise to delay this marriage? We have hardly had the chance to set his affairs in order.”

“My marriage contract is in order,” Elise said, allowing her tone to betray no hint of her annoyance. “My father signed it the day before his accident.”

“Your father no doubt expected to live to see you bear him a grandson.” Adolphe cast his eyes about the room. Elise wondered if he was sizing up her belongings, setting a price on every vase and handkerchief. “But now...”

“Nothing has changed.” Elise’s voice wavered slightly. How she wished he would not address her without the Vicomte or her other friends present! The Vicomte had been most specific about what she was and was not allowed to say to Adolphe Dufosset. “And when I am married, the contract will be executed as my father intended. Will that not be nice?” she asked hopefully. “To see his last wishes carried out?”

Adolphe did not respond and as the silence stretched, Elise began to grow uneasy. Bisou darted out from underneath the upholstery and pounced on the scrap of meat. Adolphe looked at the pup with disdain, and Elise frowned.

“I believe I am a bit tired, sir. Perhaps I should rest.”

“Indeed.” But he did not move to stand. “So much weight on your shoulders, my dear cousin.”

Elise swallowed.

“It’s a wonder you have not been overwhelmed by it all. Indeed, it seems you hardly know which way to turn, now that your father is gone.”

Elise kept her eyes on her lap. “I trust in the opinion of the Vicomte. He was my father’s dearest friend, and he will be my father, too, once I am married.”

“The Vicomte would add you to his collection, and include our family lands if he can. Elise, do you not see this? It’s impossible that you are so stupid that you cannot.”

The stem of the flower crushed beneath Elise’s fingers. “I want only to fulfill my father’s wishes,” she said, though it felt as if her own throat was equally mangled.

Adolphe’s shadow fell across the silk of her dress. “We shall see, my dear cousin. We shall see if you marry this boy of the Vicomte’s, and we shall see, if you do, whether you take with you this estate.”

Elise raised her head. “Monsieur Dufosset, you would do well to remember that you are here on my invitation.”

“I am at that,” he replied evenly. “How curious that you fashion yourself the mistress of this house.”

She caught her breath at the rage burning behind Adolphe’s placid expression. Her father had refused to see the man during his lifetime. Elise didn’t know the exact nature of their quarrel, but at the very least she understood from the Vicomte that Adolphe’s claim to their estate was not as valid as Adolphe would have her believe.

“It’s ... best that you leave now,” was all she managed to say.

“You think this is your home, that you can tell me where I may or may not go?” he asked, his tone turning dangerous. “That this is your room? Your china? Your dinner?” He shoved at her tray, and the glasses clinked. He was practically shouting now, and Elise shrank back against the cushions of her chair. “Do you think this is your dog?”

And with that, he snatched up Bisou and threw him against the wall.

Elise shrieked as the dog bounced off the plaster and landed on the carpet. “Bisou!” She threw herself from the chair to the floor. The dog tried to raise itself and fell, whimpering. “ Mon petit chien! Bisou!”

The door to her room opened and in rushed her maid, along with one of her father’s old valets. “My lady, is everything well?”

Bisou crawled toward her, crying pitifully. He dragged his back leg. Elise scooped the animal up in her arms. “My poor sweet thing...” she bawled. “My angel.”

Adolphe let out a little snort. “Pathetic.”

“Leave me,” she whispered.

“Sir,” said the valet. “You shall depart my mistress’s chambers at once.”

The maid crouched near Elise. “My lady, let me see to it for you.”

Elise tightened her grip. “No. Bring me bandages. Bring me ... something.” A splint? Could a dog’s leg be healed once broken? Above her, the valet was attempting to force Adolphe from the room.

“Remove your hands from me, filth,” said Adolphe as he was shoved into the hall. “Or you shall know my wrath once I am master of this house.”

The valet slammed the door and threw the bolt. Then he joined them near the floor. “My lady, I shall send for the Vicomte’s men at once. We will install a guard at your door. We must drive this usurper out before it is too late.”

Elise’s eyes began to burn, but the tears did not spill onto her cheeks, just stayed there, stinging her with their salt. Oh, what did it matter who had this house? Let the Vicomte and Adolphe battle it out, and divide the tenants and servants amongst themselves. Why couldn’t they just let her be? She knelt there, on the carpet, and curved herself around the body of her poor dog, wondering if she could spiral tight enough to disappear altogether.

As morning broke over the horizon, Gitta stood on the edge of the forest and waited for Elise to arrive. Dawn was probably far too early for the poor, pampered princess. Gitta wondered if Elise had ever seen a sunrise in her spoiled life.

Enyo stood waiting patiently by her side. She’d let the animal hunt in the night, and judging from the remains she’d found strewn near their little camp, the unicorn had found a vole’s nest. It would satisfy her for a while, but she hoped Enyo had the opportunity for a real meal before she had to kill her. A stag, perhaps, or a nice, fat wild sow. Gitta would help, if necessary, since she knew the unicorn was not as fast as she had once been. Enyo deserved it.

Enyo lifted her head, and Gitta felt the unicorn softening in anticipation. Another unicorn hunter approached. After a moment, Gitta could hear the most horrid clomping through the underbrush, and then Elise came, dressed in the same clothes from their meeting yesterday, but with the addition of a pair of sturdier boots.

“These are most uncomfortable,” Elise said abruptly. “They were my father’s, and they’re much too big, though I stuffed the toes with rags as you advised.”

“Better this than tearing your feet to shreds on brambles,” said Gitta.

The younger girl’s eyes were shadowed with dark circles this morning. So this is what happened when such perfect creatures were not allowed to sleep until noon?

Enyo was already bowing before Elise. Gitta sighed and waited for the unicorn to finish her ritual. If only Enyo understood the truth of Elise’s presence, she would not be so deferential. But such was the sad destiny of all her kind—helpless to control their love for maidens of the blood, overcome with adoration even as the maidens turned and slew them.

“Come,” Gitta said. “We’ll go practice in the spot where the hunt is to take place. You won’t be able to learn quickly enough to command Enyo as I do, but I’ll teach you to keep her calm and to get her into your lap as tradition requires.”

Elise said nothing, just smoothed her apron over her skirt, no doubt imagining how Enyo’s blood would soil her clothing. Gitta dismissed the unicorn and led Elise away.

They eventually reached the tree Gitta had chosen. It had a large trunk, and a rough pattern of bark that would make it easy enough for Gitta to scale to the lowest branches and lie in wait for the “festivities,” such as they were, to begin.

“You shall sit here,” she said, pointing at a patch of moss near the root. But Elise was nowhere to be seen. Gitta spun around, filtering through the unicorn’s thoughts until she found the younger girl kneeling near an outcrop of greens.

“Wild asparagus!” Elise cried, holding up a bunch. “Oh, isn’t it lovely!” She caught Gitta’s look and straightened, stuffing the stalks into an apron pocket. “Sorry, I was distracted by the plants. I so rarely get a chance to gather wild herbs.”

“You like ... plants?” Gitta asked.

“Very much. You should see my garden.” Elise returned and sat obediently at the base of the tree, arranging her skirts around herself like a queen at a picnic.

Too bad she hadn’t been sent to the Order, thought Gitta. Many of her Sisters focused on herbalism in their work to make cures when the demand for the unicorn’s magical Remedy outweighed the supply.

“What do I do now?” Elise asked.

“You wait,” said Gitta. “Your natural abilities will draw the unicorn to you. It would help,” she added, “if you tried your best to think attractive thoughts.”

Elise closed her eyes and screwed up her features. Did it hurt this much, Gitta wondered, for the fool to think?

Judging from Enyo’s indifferent response, out there in the forest, Elise’s thoughts were not particularly inviting.

Gitta nearly groaned. An actual daughter of the blood on her hands, and she was still forced to treat her like any other girl. Gitta knew she could sit in the tree herself and call the unicorn to her, but Elise had the magic as well. She wanted to at least attempt to treat this hunt as something more than mere playacting.

“No,” said Gitta, and Elise’s eyes popped open. “You must ... call her to you.”

“Enyo!” cried Elise.

“No. Within yourself.”

Elise looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

Gitta rubbed at her temples. “Do you ever—” How could she explain? After thirteen years, the magic was a second nature. “With your pug. Do you ever turn to it and wish it would come to you, and it does?”

To Gitta’s surprise, Elise’s eyes began to water. “No,” she said. “Bisou knows his name. He—” She looked at her lap.

A moment later, the unicorn came rushing out of the woods and stopped at Elise’s side.

Gitta started in surprise. Enyo had come so quickly, she’d hardly felt the change in the animal’s intentions.

Elise barely moved as Enyo softly nudged her snout against the girl’s arm until the unicorn could slide her head beneath it and settle down in her lap.

“There, there,” murmured Elise, as tears fell onto the unicorn’s mane. “Ma petite licorne.”

“My lady,” Gitta said in wonder. “You did it.”

The girl did not look up.

Gitta tasted the unicorn’s thoughts. Pity, deep as a river. What a stupid beast, to pity the instrument of its destruction. Gitta scowled.

Enyo turned in Elise’s lap and bleated at Gitta, then went quiet again, closing her cloudy eyes and relaxing in the girl’s arms.

Gitta’s brow furrowed. And then she felt a tug at the edge of her consciousness, an awareness of something stirring in the woods. It was as if the very trees breathed, their leaves spinning fast in a world gone suddenly still.

“Elise,” she said softly. “Are you sure there are no unicorns in these woods?”

Elise lifted her head. “Of course. Not for decades. Used to be many, though. So many. In fact—”

But the feeling was gone. Gitta searched again, but it was as if she’d caught a note of a song too distant to hear. Perhaps it had merely been the remnants of Elise’s nascent magic that had her confused. Elise’s call to the unicorn had to have been a strong one, to bring Enyo there so fast.

“So,” said Gitta. “That is how you will do it. And then, you must hold tight to her, for the men with their spears will make her angry.”

“Angry?” Elise asked.

Gitta nodded. “Yes. She will wish to protect you. So just continue to be calm, and soothing, no matter what. I shall be hiding in the tree above in case anything happens, and at the right time, I shall shoot her, and then it will be over.”

“You will shoot an arrow at us? But what if you miss?”

“I never miss.”

“What if it passes through Enyo’s body and kills me?” said Elise.

“I never miss,” Gitta repeated, annoyed. “I would prefer not to do it at all, but your cousin insisted—”

“You didn’t present him with options.” Elise rose and dusted off her dress. The unicorn remained by her side. “You could have suggested we end the ceremony with the presentation of the body of a white kid, or a fawn. But instead you just stood there and drove up the price. He would not hesitate to spend my money—”

Elise hadn’t presented any options, either. Gitta narrowed her eyes. “I have haggled with your kind before. The only time they ever back down is when there is money—”

“You do not want to kill the unicorn!” exclaimed Elise. “I can see it writ on your face.”

Gitta turned and walked into the woods.

“Stop!” Elise came clomping through the underbrush behind her. “Sister Maria Brig—”

Gitta began to run.

Who needed the ill-mannered nun anyway? Elise yanked up another weed from her flower bed, then tore off its leaves in a fit of frustration. She’d called Elise a prig. She’d called her illiterate. She’d doubted the de Commarque claim to unicorn hunting; she’d doubted Elise’s own powers. She knew nothing—nothing of Elise, nothing of her family, nothing of anything except how to dress badly and eat with a knife and sharpen a sword and name a bunch of naked, pagan gods.

And Elise had it on good authority that the hunter hadn’t even been sleeping in the house. Her maid had informed her that the scullery quarters had apparently not been good enough for this foreign nun and she’d taken off. Sleeping in the mud, perhaps. Would explain the smell at least.

Why should Elise bother to speak to her at all? Just get through the ceremony, give the ugly git her mark of gold, and send her on her way. Why should she even try to help the nun with her vicious, peacock-killing Enyo? Elise had problems of her own.

She moved on to the parsley beds. Since when did a commitment to God require a woman to forget herself in matters of personal grooming? So the hunter didn’t need to catch a man. She should at least consider shaping her eyebrows. God created the world in beauty. He had to appreciate it in His servants.

By the time she reached the mint, Elise had worked herself into quite a froth. These beds were a mess. She’d been neglecting them too much. She’d been neglecting the entire estate while she waited for the dust to settle. First, the shock of her father’s death, and then the stress of Adolphe’s arrival, the Vicomte’s dire predictions about her future, and the preparations for the wedding. Even now, Elise would rather be up in her room, nursing poor Bisou. She and the maid had tied up his leg in a splint, but getting him to lie still had proven to be an even bigger challenge. In the end, they’d had to bring in an old birdcage and shut him inside. He’d spent the whole night crying, growing even more agitated when the Vicomte’s men had arrived and set up camp outside her door. This morning, he’d been wan and listless. He wouldn’t eat and when he tried to drink, he’d vomited yellow foam all over the floor.

The only comfort of the day had been those few fleeting moments when the unicorn had laid its head in Elise’s lap. Then, it had seemed as if all her cares had melted, that there was nothing but the unicorn and the smell of moss and wood and ash and earth. It was thrilling and restful all at once. And so, Elise did not want to see Enyo killed—particularly not for the pleasure of a person like Adolphe.

The unicorn hunter could rot for all Elise cared. But what of the unicorn?

She’d almost finished her work when the sound of clanging metal rang out over the garden, followed by shouts. She stood and hurried toward the courtyard and the origin of the sounds. Had a fight broken out between the Vicomte’s men and Adolphe’s?

When she arrived, however, it was to see members of both groups watching and jeering as two figures sparred in the courtyard. The air shimmered with dust and swords as the two people whirled about each other, their bodies clashing and retreating. Elise stopped under the arch, horrified to realize that one of the figures was the unicorn hunter—and the other was Bernard de Veyrac.

“Take that!” yelled the hunter, jabbing. Bernard lifted his sword arm, and the hunter darted in, pressing back against Bernard and blocking his arm with her body. His hand was round her chest for a moment, and then they spun apart.

The men’s cheers turned vulgar.

“Italian tricks!” Bernard called back, and laughed. “Do you know this?” He swung his sword with a twist and a flick that Elise had seen him perform in many tournaments. But the hunter was again too quick and deflected his thrust with a flash of her own blade. Bernard was disarmed.

The men all shouted; in agony or triumph, Elise was not sure.

Grinning and unashamed, the nun pretended to bow like a man. Her attempt was shoddy and rough, though that did not surprise Elise. Did she not realize what they thought of her?

Bernard also wore a grin on his face, then caught sight of his fiancé. “My darling!” he cried, striding over. “Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament, and only herald to the gaudy spring...” He bowed—the bow of a true chevalier—and kissed her fingers. “Did you see me there, brought low by a woman?”

“Indeed,” said Elise, glaring at the hunter, who had miraculously grown even more dusty and sweaty. Her face was flushed, her amber-colored eyes sparkled like true gems, and beneath her shapeless tunic, her breasts rose and fell as she panted. “Quite the display.”

Bernard turned to the men. “Gentlemen. My beautiful bride!”

The men let out a cheer.

Elise blushed.

“And everything a bride should be, I hear,” he said softly, so only she could hear. “Your blossom is even lovelier when placed next to this bulb of garlic.”

Elise giggled, which she knew Bernard found charming. “Oh, really? You seemed quite engaged by this bulb.”

“Gitta?” Bernard raised his eyebrows. “She might as well be a boy.”

“Gitta?” Was that this hunter’s given name? How crude. Gitta was even now staring at her fiancé, her gaze one of almost masculine intensity. Why wasn’t she the type of nun to wear a veil? Shameless.

Bernard’s hand slipped to her waist. “Are you not done with the training? I grow anxious for our wedding—and our wedding night.”

He spoke these words out loud—too loud, as the men set about again with their catcalls. Elise’s becoming blush drained from her face. “Bernard!” She slapped his hand from her stomacher. Elise was no peasant, no immodest Roman nun.

Gitta glanced at them, her expression of disdain as impertinent as ever.

Elise lifted her chin and walked away.

Gitta had been on her knees for hours, but God had not seen fit to provide her with an answer. The stone floor of the chapel was cold and hard, but her penance was slight compared to the fate that would await Enyo should she not find a way to resolve this situation.

“Holy Father,” she prayed, “please come to me in this hour. Please guide my hand for the benefit of Enyo, the least of your creations.”

But she could not give herself over fully to her devotions, for always in the back of her mind were the words of Elise de Commarque. Gitta could have fought harder on Enyo’s behalf. She could have come up with an alternative. She could have saved the unicorn’s life. She could have killed it for a nobler cause than that of these foolish French and their tepid, half-forgotten wedding traditions.

And every time she put that guilt from her mind, it allowed another to rise, warm and bitter as bile: the feel of Bernard’s body against her own in the courtyard that afternoon. She’d never sparred with a man before. Now she knew why.

“I beg you,” she whispered, then switched to her native tongue. “Bitte. Bitte, bitte.”

“Gitta.” The name echoed through the empty chapel, deep and commanding, and Gitta started. But it was not the voice of the Lord. No, it was something much more of this Earth. She turned to see Bernard walking down the aisle toward her.

Gitta rose from her knees, disoriented, as if woken from a dream. She was not used to being interrupted while at prayer. No one would dream of doing it in Rome. There, your only privacy was in communion with God.

“I had hoped to see you at supper,” Bernard said. His dark hair was mussed, but his features were aristocratic and fine. He’d washed since their battle. “I skipped a meal with my father to find you.”

“I’m sorry,” Gitta replied.

He smirked. “As you should be.”

Gitta was confused. What breach of etiquette had she committed now? If only she were back at the Cloisters. Or out in the wild, alone in her communion with God and unicorn.

“I looked for you in the kitchens.” His tone was chiding, as if he spoke to a child. “Is this where you hide?”

“This is where I pray,” she said.

He smiled as if she’d been joking. “That’s right. You’re a nun. A bride of Christ.” He flicked his fingers at the wooden cross around Gitta’s neck. “How are you enjoying that?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” He was standing so near. As near as he’d ever been during their match. His gaze bored into hers, his pupils wide and black, swallowing up all the color in his eyes.

He leaned close, and his voice dropped to a low murmur. “Serving the needs of Christ.”

Something hot rushed through Gitta at Bernard’s words. Her face and throat burned, and her throat went dry. She barely knew what he said, heard only the deep rumbles of sound from his throat. No man had ever spoken to her like this. Alone. In her ear, as if he knew some great secret in the depths of Gitta’s heart.

“The way you moved today, Gitta,” Bernard said, and it seemed like he was all around her, “set me on fire.”

Yes, Gitta could feel this fire. Was it the heat of Hell?

“I have never known a girl like you.” He was all around her. His arms had caged her against the altar. “I have never known a girl could be like you. So strong, so agile. It was extraordinary.”

His hands were on her arms. His thighs brushed her own. His face was inches from hers. Gitta’s skin sparked. She didn’t know why her clothes were not aflame.

“You are...” he breathed against her, the air hot and wet and heavy between them. “You are what I always wished for. You are everything I want. And you’re a girl.” He pressed his mouth to hers.

The kiss turned the fire to ice in her veins, and Gitta froze. She had never been kissed, never known what it was like for a man to even look upon her with desire. So this is what it was. So this is what Elise lived for.

Gitta gagged and shoved Bernard away.

He tripped over his own feet and fell, sprawling, on the stones. “Gitta!”

“Get away from me, you pig,” she said. “How dare you take such liberties with a holy woman?”

He pushed to his feet and dusted himself off. “You weren’t so very holy a moment ago,” he said with a sneer. “It’s a wonder you can still control that unicorn, since you act like such a harlot.” He grabbed her arm. “You feel it, too, don’t lie.”

“I have no need of lying,” said Gitta. “God knows all of my failings. If I was tempted, I shall ask forgive—”

His hand came down on her other arm, trapping her there with him. “ I won’t forgive you,” he insisted. “Not when I know there could be such pleasure between us. Gitta, you know who I am.”

She struggled to break free.

“And now I know you. I touch you, and I feel true fire. I hold you—my soul erupts with poetry. Listen!” he cried. “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments—”

Gitta began to laugh. Bernard stopped and looked upon her with surprise. She wriggled out of his grasp. “You are a most unworthy man,” she said, trying in vain to catch her breath. “You are ... not only a fool, and a scoundrel, but you are a liar as well. Does your betrothed know of your faithlessness? Does she know, at least, of your thievery?”

Bernard sputtered.

“I am not as unlearned as Elise or the other girls you attempt to ensnare, sir.” Gitta laughed again. “Your verse is not your own, and my body will never be yours to use as poorly.” She drew her dagger. “Do not come near me again.” She edged her way around him and began to back down the aisle toward the entrance to the chapel.

What a cad. And how very weak she’d been, to entertain his flattery, even for a moment. To want in that moment to know what it felt like to be desired. To be beautiful, like Elise.

She’d condemned Elise for this, but apparently she was subject to the very same weaknesses. And Elise had been trained all her life to find it complimentary, admirable. She’d been brought up for love and flattery, as Gitta had for weapons and war.

But now Gitta knew the truth. Elise de Commarque was not so very different from her. They each were far too good for swine like Bernard.

She stepped out of the chapel and ran smack into Elise.

“There you are,” said the younger girl, her golden hair concealed beneath a thick woolen cloak. “I must speak to you.”

Elise had brought a lantern, and with it, she guided Gitta to the far edge of the garden and beyond. To her left, the barn and stables, to the right, a series of low hills. Beyond lay a cluster of peasant cottages, and farther than that, the dark shadowed line of the forest.

“Where are we going, my lady?” Gitta asked as Elise led them around the side of one of the hills. Into the hill was set a crude wooden door, tied shut with a knot of rope. Elise undid the knot and motioned for Gitta to follow her down a series of earthen steps.

“These are the wine cellars,” she explained, though it was probably obvious to the hunter from the rows upon rows of bottles they passed. They crept through three chambers of these, and then Elise took a path to the left, where they passed one empty room, and then the tunnel grew narrow and short. Eventually, they hit a dead end, or what looked like one. “For this next part,” she said, “we must crawl.”

She set down the lantern and pushed aside a great rock to reveal a dark hole in the earth. She wiggled her way through, then reached back through the hole to retrieve the lantern. She peered at Gitta on the other side. “Come through.”

Gitta gave her a skeptical glance but shrugged and crawled through the tunnel, stumbling a bit as she tumbled out on the chamber floor. Elise waited, the lantern shuttered and dim, as the hunter pushed herself back up.

“What is going on?” Gitta asked. “Why have you brought me down here?”

Elise studied her carefully. “Can’t you feel it? I was sure you would. I never knew what it was before. Simply a thrill, I thought, because I was doing something forbidden. Sneaking around. But today, in the forest, I felt it again. And tonight, I put it together. I realized what it was. What it has been my whole life.”

Gitta shook her head. “I don’t understand. What are you saying? Where are we?”

Elise lifted the lantern. “My secret place.”

The walls were alive. Great dark lines swirled over the stone, delineating giant beasts and lithe human figures. Drawings of hunters chased drawings of one-horned animals around and around the inside of the cavern, tossing long spears the color of dried blood into the sides of creatures painted with broad, curved strokes. Gitta gasped as the magic rushed through her. She hadn’t felt this way since the last time she’d been within the walls of her own dear Cloisters in Rome. These paintings held the same magic as the Order. This chamber held the same magic as the unicorns.

“There were once many unicorns on this land,” said Elise. “And there were once many hunters.”

Gitta dropped to her knees, speechless with awe. These paintings were older than her nunnery, older than the Church itself. If she touched them, would they crumble like Egyptian scrolls?

“I have never shown anyone this before,” said Elise. “Not even my father.”

“How did you—”

“My grandfather’s sister,” Elise walked over to the largest of the unicorn drawings and held her hand up, a few inches from the paint. “She showed me when I was very young. This is our legacy. But it belongs to the women. The daughters of the blood, as you say.”

“Was she a hunter?” asked Gitta. “I mean, like me?”

“She was married at fourteen to a man who beat her to death by the time she was forty,” Elise replied.

“I am sorry.” The nun clutched at her cross.

“It was a bad marriage.” Elise shrugged. “And it was not her choice. We never have a choice, you see, Gitta. Not in our family. The best we can hope for is that our husbands are harmless. They can care for us or not, but gentle indifference is preferable to devoted mistreatment.”

Gitta stared at her, her face drained of color. “Elise, your fiancé—”

“I know,” Elise said softly. “You think I’m a fool, and maybe I am ignorant, but I’m not stupid. I know my fiancé is a cad whose love is fleeting, at best, and that his father sees me only as chattel. I know my cousin wishes me dead. And I know that I must cast my lot with one or the other. I have chosen life and the de Veyracs. You, who may go where you please and are answerable only to God, please do not judge me. My dog—my little Bisou—died tonight, of injuries inflicted by my cousin on a whim. I have only this cave to call my own.”

The words fell into the ancient dust at their feet, and Gitta did not speak. For she had been guilty of judging this girl, of thinking her beauty and her softness meant that her life was just as sunny. She had not looked close enough at the gilt to see that the shine hid the bars of Elise’s cage.

“Thank you,” she said at last, and fumbled in the shadows for Elise’s hand. “Thank you for showing this to me.”

They stood in silence, their hands joined, and stared at the unicorns on the wall.

“You wish to save your unicorn,” said Elise. “I wish this as well. Enyo should not die like Bisou. My cousin has spilled enough blood. We have several hours until the hunt. Let’s form a plan.”

Gita nodded. Elise sounded very determined, but her hand trembled hard against Gitta’s, like a heavy bow held for far too long.

Now Gitta knew why Elise had been so quick to draw the unicorn to her side. The girl had never been trained as a unicorn hunter, but she knew the taste of the hunter’s God-given magic. It was marked onto the very earth where she’d walked every day of her life. The lines on the walls were made with unicorn blood—their power reaching out through the ages to the two girls who stood in the chamber and plotted in whispers to prevent more blood from being spilled. Now Gitta knew who Elise was, beneath the powder and the stays and the springtime-colored silks. She was a warrior, just like her. She was a sister-at-arms, if not in vows, and Gitta would help her in any way she could, as any woman in the Order would step forward for the sake of another.

Before the dawn broke through the trees, Gitta released Enyo into the forest. She crouched low over the unicorn and whispered words of reassurance and love into her aged ears. Not this time, my dear one. Not this time.

Enyo disappeared into the darkness. Gitta turned and started hiking back to the tree where Elise and the hunters would meet for the ritual. The forest smelled wild today, as full of magic as Elise’s painted caves. She carried her knife and bow, but neither helped her when she was set upon by five armed men.

They bound her head and foot and stuffed a rag in her mouth to muffle her screams as they dragged her deep into the forest.

“He said to keep her until after the ceremony,” one said.

“Did he say what we could do then?” said another.

Gitta closed her eyes and reached out to Enyo in her mind. There was no response from the old zhi —she was either too far to hear, or she heard another call. Elise’s perhaps. Had the hunt begun? Was Gitta too late?

“Is this one as good with a sword as they say?” a man said above her.

“Dunno. But good enough for Dufosset to want her out of his way.”

She begged for the unicorn to save her. She prayed to God to protect His devoted daughter. She called upon every scrap of miracle or magic she’d ever known.

The reply came from the very heart of the woods.

Elise de Commarque, the last daughter of her line, led a procession to the tree where Gitta had told her to wait. The aristocrats behind her carried old weapons and sang snatches of even older songs about unicorn hunts. The mood was merry and light. This was the start of a party. A wedding party.

When they arrived at the tree, Elise sat down at the base, and the hunters dispersed among the brush at the edge of the clearing, lying in wait as the maiden called the unicorn like all the stories said. Many minutes passed until the woods settled around them again, and Elise felt as if it was time.

She wore her finest gown, which was getting stained by wet leaves. Her softest slippers were already a mess of mud. Her neatly powdered hair was keeping her from smelling the woods. And the stares of the men arrayed around her, bearing spears and bows and knives trained upon the spot where she sat, was breaking her concentration.

She peered up through the leaves, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gitta. The hunter had said if Elise could not call Enyo, she’d step in and do it herself. But Gitta was truly hidden among the leaves, no doubt trying to make the experience as authentic as possible for the aristocrats who’d come to partake in a traditional unicorn hunt.

Elise took as deep a breath as she could beneath her stays. She could do this. She must.

Enyo! Her mind cried. Come to me now!

But there was nothing. No hint of magic flooding through her system, no flash of wilderness, of rain and rot and stone and fire. Everything was perfume and dye, stitches and stays, poetry and prattle, lyrics and lies.

Elise’s hands slipped to the earth, and she stabbed her fingers into loamy moss.

And then, it was as if every man in the clearing inhaled at once. Elise opened her eyes, and Enyo was there by her side. Her clouded orbs peered deep into Elise’s, and she nudged her head softly beneath the crook of Elise’s arm.

“Enyo,” Elise whispered. “You’re here.” She stroked the unicorn’s mane, for once not caring about the dirt or the tangles. Enyo was warm, and real, and alive. The unicorn’s heart beat softly against Elise’s side. Breath from her nostrils warmed Elise’s arm. Elise traced each bump and twist of the creature’s long horn, then scratched at the base. Enyo sighed in pleasure.

“Are you ready?” she whispered. She drew from her pocket a wooden blade. “Play Dead.”

The unicorn let out a cry and slumped against her. An instant later, an arrow flew from the woods and slammed Elise into the tree. She gasped, but could not find breath to scream. The arrow was embedded in her shoulder. Pain shot through her arm and chest, pain such as Elise had never known. The unicorn started in her arms.

“Gitta,” she whispered weakly. Who had shot that arrow? Why wasn’t Gitta jumping down from the tree to help her?

Adolphe leaped out from behind a bush and came running. The unicorn had ceased its feigned death throes and was licking her face. Tears streamed from her eyes as she struggled to breathe. Adolphe drew near, and she hugged the unicorn to herself, surprised she even had the strength.

“Stop, Adolphe,” she said, as if she had a voice in the matter. He mustn’t kill the unicorn. Elise had promised Gitta.

But Adolphe did not stop. In fact, he drew out a long, silver knife. And then she almost laughed.

Of course. He wasn’t here to kill the unicorn. And he’d been the one to shoot the arrow. He did want her dead. This hunt had been his best chance.

Where was Gitta? Where were the de Veyracs? Was she to die alone, surrounded by men and beasts sworn to protect her?

“Now, my dear cousin,” said Adolphe, leaning in so no one could see what he said. “We shall have no more disagreements between us.”

“You’re right,” Elise replied. “We shall not.” And she set the unicorn free.

Enyo knocked Adolphe onto his back and then, with a growl, plunged her horn into his chest. Adolphe’s expression went from triumph to despair. His skin turned purple, and he never breathed again.

She heard a rustle from the other men, and lifted her good hand. “Stay.” The Vicomte rose from his hiding place and seconded her command with a gesture to the other men. She appreciated his help, but she no longer needed it.

Elise struggled against the tree and felt the arrow break loose from the bark. She stood, bleeding, the shaft still embedded in her arm, and addressed the aristocrats in the bushes. “My friends,” she said. “Adolphe Dufosset tried to murder me here where I stood, and you men—all of you men, and armed—weren’t able to stop it. Since the death of my father, I’ve counted on you for protection. Today you have failed.” She cast her eyes about the clearing, but the only face she could see was the Vicomte’s. Not even Bernard had come forward. “I think I shall have no further need of you.”

“My dear,” the Vicomte said. “You’re injured. It’s a wonder you’re not overcome. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do, my lord,” said Elise. She swayed on her feet, and Enyo came to her side, standing against her until her legs stopped shaking. “I will not be getting married to your son today. Nor any day.”

Now Bernard stood. “Elise! Think of what you are doing!”

Elise ignored him.

“It isn’t your choice,” said the Vicomte. “I have a contract.”

“I have a unicorn,” said Elise.

“You have more than that.” Gitta stepped out of the woods. At her back were a half dozen creatures out of legend. These were not small, goat-like unicorns as Enyo was, but tall, majestic horned monsters, their bearing as elegant as stags, their coats shining whiter than chalk. Their eyes were black as they looked upon the men in the clearing, and Elise felt murder in each of their hearts.

Gitta smiled and shrugged. “You were right, Elise. There are many unicorns in this wood. But they are very hard to call.”

The men cowered now as the unicorns fanned out to surround Gitta and Elise.

“I seem to have missed something quite grand,” Gitta whispered to the younger girl.

Only Gitta would see a man’s corpse and think that. Elise forced a smile through the pain. She raised her voice again. “I have made a decision. I am the lady of these lands. My house, my woods—you may remain at my pleasure, or leave on my command.”

The Vicomte stepped forward. “Elise,” he said gently. “Your father—”

“My father did not know what power I wield.” Gitta was now supporting her weight, but still Elise stood on her feet and spoke to the men. “My father did not know that I could protect myself.”

The unicorns, as one, turned their heads toward the Vicomte. Their horns stood out like swords.

“I think you should get used to seeing these animals on my lands, my lord,” said Elise. “For they shall be here, watching, if you or any other try to collect me. I will protect my property by any means I must.”

Somehow she remained conscious until the last man left.

“I don’t know if I can leave you,” said Gitta, who sat sharpening her sword by firelight. Enyo relaxed on the hearth, her belly full of pork, a half-gnawed bone near her snout.

Elise checked her bandages. “I am healing well. And even the scar won’t be so bad.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Gitta came over and sat by Elise’s side. “How do you know your own power will be enough to keep the unicorns around once I am gone? How do I know that the Vicomte won’t bring an army to your door as soon as I cross the border?”

Elise shrugged. “If he does, then I will meet him. I can hire men as well as he can. And even the threat of unicorns is a deterrent. I will watch over myself from now on.”

“I would have been there, if I could—,” Gitta began, for the fourteenth time.

And for the fourteenth time, Elise shut her down. “It is not your fault. I didn’t realize how desperate Adolphe had become. And besides, when you did come, you brought me something even better than your protection. The means by which I can create my own.”

Elise glanced out the window, where she could still see the unicorns in her garden. There were more and more every day now. They came, as if awakened from some deep hibernation in the wilderness, and clustered on her lands. Let the Vicomte bring an army. She was ready.

Beside her, Gitta was silent, staring down at her roughened hands. At last she spoke. “I don’t know if I can leave you,” she said again. “I don’t know if I want to.”

“You don’t have to.” Elise smiled in relief. “You can leave the Order. Stay here with me, where Enyo will be able to live out her days in peace. Stay here with me, where there are real, wild unicorns. Stay here and teach me all the magic I never got the chance to learn.”

Gitta looked away at the fire and said nothing. Elise peeked into Enyo’s mind, and her heart sank. She saw mountain trails and endless vistas. She saw deserts and islands and dusty plains. The unicorn dreamed of travel, just like its mistress. For a moment, Elise pictured the three of them, together in those exotic places, but it would never be. Gitta would move on, and Elise would stay here, where she’d made a promise to her people.

Elise felt her friend’s rough skin against her soft palm. “I don’t think you need my magic,” said Gitta. “You don’t need anyone. Your own magic is stronger than you think.”