A Charm for a Unicorn (22 page)

Ann looked up from her perch on the three-legged stool, but didn't say anything. Cook came over and stood next to Leonie, her amber eyes sharp. Even Bob, who was in the kitchen at that moment, came over to stand by her.

Leonie looked at everyone. Bob, with his patient, gentle ways. Cook, who fussed at them and cared for them with all her heart. Ann, with her bright gold mop of hair and unswerving loyalty. Her father, who had lost what he loved the most, but who tried his best. Love had surrounded her since she was born, and she'd never realized just what it was. She was starting to understand. But some things still escaped her.

"You see part of it here,” said her father. He nodded. “Yes, this is part of it. But love is often confused with passion. Passion often changes to hate when the first flare of enthusiasm wears off. True love is not passion, and cannot be turned into hate. Sir Wulfe never loved you, Leonie. He confused passion with love, and he wanted to own what could never be owned—your spirit."

"I'm starting to understand,” she said. “But they are very similar. Passion and love, I mean."

"It's hard to tell the difference. I thought Sir Wulfe loved you.” Her father shook his head. “I was blind."

"Or maybe you just didn't really see me. It must have been hard to see past the charm,” said Leonie. “And the fact I looked so much like my mother must have made it even harder for you."

"It did.” He gave her a shy smile, and she realized they'd never really seen each other. Her father had always seemed bleak, distant, and stern. In reality, he was quiet, introverted, and conscientious.

"Is it still hard to see the real me, now that I'm scarred?"

"Your face will get better and your scars will fade. But yes, it's still hard. It's always hard to be a father. I feel guilty about wanting to marry you to Sir Wulfe. I never bothered to look beneath the surface at the real Leonie, and I apologize."

"I don't hold it against you,” she said. She was touched, though. “I think I'm starting to understand the difference between love and passion. None of you would want to hurt me, because you love me. If I leave here, none of you will love me less because I want to go away. If I'm happy, you're happy for me. That's love."

"You've learned an important lesson,” her father said, and bent down, and to her amazement, gave her a hug.

Ann cried out, just as the scent of burned popcorn filled the kitchen. “Look what I did!” She dumped the blackened, smoking kernels onto the fire. “I can't believe it. I've never burnt popcorn before."

Leonie laughed. “And I've never gotten a lesson right before. There is certainly a lot of change in this household."

Claude came in, stomping his feet. “First snow fall outside,” he said. “Didn't you notice?"

"No!” Ann jumped up and ran to the window. Leonie's father helped her to her feet and half carried her to the window, where she saw huge, fat snowflakes falling. Already a thin blanket of snow hid the courtyard and the trees and hedges were dotted with white. In the gray distance, a horseman came riding. Leonie's heart pounded, and she knew she was hoping with every fiber in her body that it was Renaldo.

No one else noticed until he turned into the narrow lane leading to the castle. Then Cook, with her sharp eyes, said, “Someone's coming! I better fix something to eat. Guests are always hungry."

Claude crammed the last of the molasses bread into his mouth and tried not to look guilty.

Leonie pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, and leaned comfortably against her father. It would be Renaldo, she was sure. And she had much to tell him.

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Renaldo and Leonie were married in a very small, private ceremony at Castle Veil and afterwards there was a party. Ann was the bridesmaid. The king and queen of Windtide came, and so did Sylvain, standing stiffly in a new cloak and hose. He didn't dare look at Leonie. He still loved her when she was near. His father stayed far from her too, as if she had the plague. But his mother came and kissed her brow, and said she was happy for her, and happy for Windtide.

Renaldo was still on crutches, and he hardly left Leonie's side. Sylvain wanted to offer a toast to the newlyweds, but the atmosphere was more sorrowful than joyous. Bromley had declared war and soon his father and Renaldo would leave for the front. He was staying in Windtide to run the everyday tasks of the kingdom. Even the minstrels, brought along for the occasion, couldn't lighten the mood. When the sun started to set, King Miles bid everyone goodnight and that ended the wedding party. Sylvain was glad to leave. He could hardly look at Leonie without feeling a sharp pain in his chest, and he wondered how Claude could stay there and remain so serene.

Ann had tucked a sprig of the bride's bouquet in everyone's buttonhole, and the scent of winter jasmine accompanied them all the way back to the castle. In the dark, in the jolting carriage, Sylvain could not see his parents’ faces. But he knew his mother was upset. He heard her sniff, and then her dress rustled as she searched for a handkerchief.

"Here, Mother,” he said, handing her his.

In the darkness, their hands collided. “Thank you,” she said.

"Let me light the lamp,” said his father. A spark struck, then his father's face sprang into view as he carefully lit the small glass lamp on the side of the coach. Warm light filled the small space.

Sylvain's mother sighed. “Are we doing the right thing, Miles?"

"Who knows?” His expression was bleak. “I have tried my best to be a good king to Windtide. After the last war, I swore I would do everything in my power to avoid another one. Unfortunately Bromley seems intent on swallowing us whole.” He turned to his wife and said, “I am sorry to be fighting against your homeland."

"It's not my homeland, Windtide is,” she said fiercely.

He kissed her hand. “At any rate, I want to thank you for being my queen. I was most fortunate that my fate was to marry you."

She actually blushed. “No, I was the fortunate one."

They looked at each other, and Sylvain could see the love in their gaze. He shifted in his seat. Would he ever find someone to inspire such devotion? He knew many maidens, but for some reason, when he thought of love, the image of a bright red cap of curls and Ann's serious face sprang to mind. How odd. But he liked thinking of Ann, so he sat back in his seat and thought that perhaps he'd invite her to visit him at the castle when everything was over and Windtide was victorious. He couldn't bear to think that there would be any other outcome to the war. He was desperately afraid for his brother and father, and wished he could go to battle too. But someone had to stay in the castle.

He closed his eyes and let the rocking carriage lull him to sleep. At least now he was no longer the Unwanted Prince.

Back at Castle Veil, Leonie and Renaldo turned to look at each other. Leonie had a new bedroom now. It had been her mother's room. It was bigger, with a huge chimney and two closets. Ann and Cook had decorated it with candles and posies for the wedding night, and Leonie didn't recognize the room. It was new. Everything was new. Her dress, the flowers, and her husband.

Renaldo gave her a crooked smile and her heart leapt. Would it always leap so when he smiled at her? She hoped so. An answering smile on her lips, she crossed the room and melted into his arms. Tonight they would be together, and tomorrow. But then he had to leave and she would be just one of many soldiers’ wives waiting for her husband.

Downstairs, Claude got ready to leave. He was going to go with Renaldo as a medic magician. He would fight if need be, but mostly he would be in charge of healing the wounded. Sir Casper helped him pack a bag with potions and herbs, bandages and a spell book.

"Have you heard from the Crow Callers?” asked Claude.

"No, the wizards’ guild hasn't replied. They will take their time deliberating, for it is a weighty decision they must make. Stripping Sir Wulfe of his powers will take many wizards and much magic energy. The council will debate for a while yet, I'm afraid. And in the meantime, I fear for Leonie and Renaldo. Sir Wulfe is not above taking revenge on them."

"What about you and Ann, sir?” Claude asked.

"Ann is immune to magic.” Sir Casper smiled. “She can't even be lifted in a whirlwind. So he can't hurt her. And as for me, well, if he doesn't catch me unawares like he did last time, I should be fine."

"Good, then I won't worry."

Sir Casper looked startled, then smiled. “Just worry about yourself. I pray this war will be over soon, and we can go back to our lives as before."

Downstairs in the kitchen, Ann and Cook finished tidying up. Ann took off her apron and hung it on its hook, and sat next to Bob, who was lounging on the bench near the fire. He made room for her, and she leaned comfortably against his strong shoulder. The fire crackled, Cook put the tea kettle on, and Bob stirred the embers with the poker, making red sparks fly.

Ann saw that there was a piece of paper under the bench. She tossed it in the fire, but it rose on the smoke, dancing just above the flames as if teasing them.

"How funny,” she said, pointing. “The paper flies without any wings or magic."

"It's not funny, it's logic. The fire sends hot wind upward. You can see the smoke rising. Paper is light enough to ride on the wind, that's all.” Bob shrugged.

Ann propped her chin in her hands and stared at the paper, floating above the flames. In her mind, she saw a fire burning in a sort of boat. The boat was attached to a giant piece of paper by many silken ropes, and the boat rose into the air, pulled by the paper straining to rise away from the fire. But that would never work. How could a boat hold fire? And how could paper be strong enough, or large enough to carry a boat?

Her mind, quick and logical, discarded several solutions before hitting on silken cloth. It could be made into a huge balloon and filled with hot air, and then it would rise upward, taking the boat with it. The boat would have to be very light—perhaps made of wicker. The silk balloon would have to be enormous. But if she took all the sheets in the castle and sewed them together ... her father would be furious. And there was still the problem of setting a fire in the wicker boat. It would burn. Unless the fire was held in a very small brazier. Perhaps some magic could be used, just enough to contain the fire. But the flying would be done by technology, not magic.

She leapt off the bench and began to pace. What would happen to the whirlwinds? They would cease to function. The wizards would have to either transform into birds, using Crow Caller magic, or they would have to ride. Most were lamentable riders. Her father, for one, never once sat on a horse's back, saying it looked more uncomfortable than anything else. But if she did invent the flying machine, then wizards like Sir Wulfe would be more easily contained. He wouldn't be able to sow mischief. And for the war, it might be useful too. Bromley had a whole troop of magicians that used whirlwinds to fight with.

Ann stood for a minute, undecided, then ran up to her father's room, bursting in on him and startling him so much he dropped the ocelot he was holding. It fell, and the two marble eyes dropped out and rolled across the floor.

"How odd,” he said, picking them up. “I never noticed the eyes were marbles."

"Leonie put them in there. I lost the real ones.” Ann took them and put them back in the ocelot's eye sockets. “Father, I just had an idea. I need your help. And Cook, and Bob, and Claude too."

"What about Leonie and Renaldo?” he asked. He peered at the ocelot. “What color were its real eyes?"

"Father!” Ann was dancing with impatience. She sat at his desk, and without asking permission, took a roll of paper, seized his quill pen, and started to draw. “Look, if we sew the silk together like this, and then attach it to the chair like this, then put the fire here, I think, above the chair and out of reach of the passenger's hair. It should work."

"Passenger?” Her father leaned over the drawing. “Well, I'll be. A flying chair. Carried by a balloon full of hot air. How do you mean to steer it?"

"For now, all that is important is getting it in the air before Bromley hurls its whirlwind wizards at our forces."

Her father patted her shoulder. “I think it can be done. And we've not a minute to waste. Tell Cook to gather the sheets together, and I'll go see Bob about the chair. And Claude can start working on a case to hold the fire."

Ann dashed down the stairs, and soon she and Cook were sitting at the kitchen table, a pile of silken sheets between them. Cook threaded the needles, and Claude used his magic to sew the sheets together. Bob, meanwhile, had started to weave wicker into a basket large enough to safely hold a person. He had decided that a chair would be too unstable, and had suggested a basket. It would be more sensible and the balloon could be tied to the basket's edges.

They worked until it got so late the fire was just a pile of embers and the stars had begun to fade. Ann stood and rubbed her eyes, and Cook yawned and stretched the kinks out of her back. Bob had finished the basket, and was busy weaving the ropes into the top of it, and Claude had fallen asleep with his head on a pile of sheets.

Ann poked him and he woke up, blinking sleepily. “Is it morning?"

"Almost. We should get some sleep.” Ann could hardly keep her eyes open. She didn't bother undressing, but fell onto her bed and dropped off to sleep at once.

The rooster's crowing woke her up at dawn, and for the first time she thought about putting him in a stew. Then she got out of bed, blearily brushed her hair and washed her face, and changed her dress. When she got downstairs, she saw Cook had finished sewing the sheets together, and everything was outside in the courtyard. Her father and Claude were discussing how to attach the magical bowl that held the fire, and Bob was putting the final touches on the basket.

Leonie and Renaldo came downstairs, hand in hand. Leonie looked radiant, and Ann realized she'd never seen her sister look so happy. She'd always had a trace of worry in her eyes. That had vanished.