Chapter 13 Pane
Pane
Sunbeam kissed me for liking her biscuits?
Wonder how she’ll thank me when I praise her pot roast.
Will clothing come off?
Stop it, Pane.
There will be no further thoughts of tongues, lips, or other body parts.
Because now I know who she is. The only reason a person kisses a man they just met is because they’re either starved for love, or they’re a social climber.
Rowe wants to use me. This is an old game.
Her plan is to see if she can seduce me into handing over half my fortune.
She’ll play coy for two months until I’m tied up in knots over her.
Then it won’t matter if I save the farm, because in sixty days I’ll be proposing.
She’ll have landed a prize much better than her home.
Me.
Well, it’s not going to work.
My heart thuds against my ribs as I drive us into town. It hasn’t stopped pounding since we left the house. It feels like my chest is too small for my heart, like it’s going to pop right out of my rib cage.
Worse—with it comes all these strange feelings. Tangled and knotted desires that sink into my bones. Rowe’s wildflower-and-sunshine scent permeates the truck’s cabin, smothering me.
Thoughts of plucking flowers and giving them to her pop into my head.
What is wrong with me?
Must be the magic in the land or something, because I am not, I will not be taken in by a fortune hunter.
I won’t be fooled again.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and I shove all these strange emotions away and focus on the drive.
“Turn left up there,” she says from the opposite side of the bench seat. Rowe’s squeezed her body into the smallest pretzel possible as she sits pressed against the door.
She hasn’t looked at me once since we got into the truck. I’ve returned the favor.
As we enter town, my gaze sweeps over Mystic Meadows, and I can say with complete certainty that I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.
It’s as if a unicorn caught a violent stomach flu and vomited grimy rainbow sparkles over every building.
The facades—once white, I assume—are now streaked with years of neglect. Instead of the polished, gleaming surfaces I expect from a town that supposedly thrives on tourism, every inch is coated in a dull film of grime, as though dark ash has settled deep into the pores of the wood.
Swinging placards creak overhead, weathered by time and indifference: Mystic Sweets. The Enchanted Café. The Horned Hat Boutique. Most of the businesses cling to the unicorn theme, though their names do little to distract from the chipped paint and sagging awnings.
The central square is technically busy, though it has the energy of a party long past its prime.
A few sluggish tourists drift near a massive unicorn statue, snapping pictures more out of obligation than excitement.
The statue itself—rearing back on its hind legs, front hooves pawing the air—hasn’t escaped the decay.
Its once-shimmering surface has been dulled by time, its proud horn chipped at the tip.
I spot a billboard advertising The Unicorn Water Park!, complete with faded cartoon drawings of prancing unicorns. Another sign boasts Unicorn Zip Lines! And then there’s Unicorn Mountain!
Mystic Meadows certainly knows how to commit to a theme.
We cross a wooden bridge, the tires of my truck rumbling over the worn planks. Below us, a creek snakes through the landscape, leading toward a waterfall in the distance.
I glance down, expecting to see glistening water.
Instead, I see sludge.
I do a double take. Surely I’m seeing this wrong.
But no—the water is a murky brown, thick and lifeless. Even the waterfall looks, for lack of a better word, sad. It doesn’t cascade with the sparkling brilliance I’d imagine—it dribbles down the rocks like it’s lost the will to fall.
And the worst part? There’s a sign boasting Inner Tube Rides! Fun for the Whole Family!
I stare at it, incredulous. Who the hell would voluntarily sit in that mess?
Fingers drumming against the steering wheel, I exhale sharply. “What happened to this town?”
Rowe, who has been mindlessly scrolling on her phone, finally glances up.
“Interesting that you would ask.”
“I doubt it.”
She shoots me an unimpressed look. “Well, if you must know, the shops have been painted. They get a fresh coat every year. But within a few months, they all end up looking like this again.”
I frown. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but . . . why?”
She shrugs, stretching out her legs and crossing her ankles like she’s about to deliver the world’s most casual doomsday prophecy.
“Because the town lost its magic. No one really knows why, exactly. Some folks think it’s because the unicorns were overbred—Sally Ray’s grandfather is the one they blame for that.
According to my dad, Mystic Meadows didn’t used to look like this.
When the magic first appeared, everything sparkled—the water, the trees, the buildings. People came from all over to see it.”
Her voice is matter-of-fact, but there’s something almost wistful beneath it.
I glance down again at the sluggish, brown water beneath the bridge, my stomach twisting. “And now?”
She gestures vaguely at the dreary town around us. “Well . . . more unicorns kept being born. But with every generation, they had less magic. Until eventually . . . there was none left. And the town started fading.”
I let that sink in. The whole town, its entire existence, was built around magic—real, undeniable, tangible magic. And when that magic started to wane, the town did, too.
We rumble over the last stretch of the bridge and into the heart of downtown.
“So you’re saying the unicorns were overbred, their power got diluted, and that somehow caused the town to lose its sparkle?”
She tilts her head. “I mean . . . maybe. It’s not like there’s a scientific study on this.” She huffs. “All I know is that unicorns aren’t born with magic anymore. Not like they used to be.”
I shift my grip on the wheel. “And I’m supposed to infer that this town is still desperately clinging to the idea of its magic, trying to keep tourism alive . . . but since the unicorns have lost their luster, no one’s coming anymore?”
She meets my eyes. For the first time since Rowe got in the truck, she looks serious.
“Exactly. The world has forgotten about us. People in Atlanta don’t even visit the way they used to, like when I was a kid.
One thing led to the other. The magic died here—except for in a few places, like my farm—and because that magic died, people said the unicorns were nothing more than horses with horns sewn onto their heads.
They said the same thing about my piggies. ”
A ripple of guilt hits me, because that was what I had thought, too. But Rowe, for as frustrating as she is, seems honest and forthright. “So not only is your offseason slow, but your busy season is slow, too.”
“Right.”
I nod, beginning to understand what I’m up against. This isn’t just about one farm. It’s about the entire town. “So those who do visit, what happens? They see a unicorn once and that’s it? All the luster’s worn off?”
“Pretty much. Once you’ve seen them, what else is there?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen one.”
She frowns. “You haven’t? What am I saying? Of course you haven’t.”
“It doesn’t sound real,” I murmur.
“What doesn’t?”
I wave my hand in demonstration. “Magic being here. Unicorns. All of it. I mean, I know that I’ve seen what your plants can do. It’s just a lot to take in.”
She props her arm on the door and rests her temple on her fist. “Just because you can’t hold magic in your hand—just because you can’t buy it—that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, I could buy it.”
She snorts. “You can’t buy the magic in my land.”
“People would pay a lot for it, especially since it appears to be the only magic around. At least, from what you’re saying. And that’s, why?”
“First of all, not selling,” she snaps. “Secondly, I think the reason why my property still has some power is because the ley lines are so close by. And third, seeing a unicorn—a real one, one with power—is an experience.”
I quirk a brow. “I thought you said they don’t exist.”
“There may be one or two left.”
We reach a stoplight and I take the opportunity to turn to her. “How so? Tell me, Miss Wadley, how is seeing a unicorn an experience like no other?”
She thinks about this, tapping a finger against her phone as she figures out a way to explain it. “You know how piggycorns are just cute?”
“No, I don’t.” The light turns green, and I rip my gaze from her back to the windshield. “Explain this mystery.”
Rowe shakes her head in annoyance. “They are cute. It’s just that your cute button is broken.”
I scowl. “My cute button?”
“Yeah, the button inside a person that makes you want to watch adorable animal videos and say things like, Ah, that’s so cute. Now I want a sugar glider.”
“I don’t have that.”
“No kidding. Anyway, where piggycorns are cute, seeing a unicorn for the first time is mind-blowing, to put it mildly. There’s something ethereal about looking into the eyes of such a mystical creature and wondering if you’re worthy of it.”
“Worthy of it?”
“Yeah, to stand in front of it and feel its power, or be healed if the creature thinks you’re deserving.
There are a few that can do that. But those are rare, and they don’t just heal anyone—and before you ask, you can’t take some of their DNA, spin it down, and extract the gift from them, either.
In case you were thinking of doing that. ”
As if. “Why would I do that?”
“Obviously because you’re rich and money corrupts.”
This is news to me. “Money would make me want to map a unicorn’s DNA?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. I’m not only rich, I’m also an evil scientist.”