Chapter One #2
There was little magic in Delia’s family.
Father’s weak gift had brought him a baronetcy, one step below real power.
A parent or sibling with strong magic would have increased Delia’s appeal to suitors even more than having a gift herself, for magic ran in bloodlines, even if in some cases it skipped many generations.
Since the use of magic somehow prevented conception, which meant a mage who wanted a child of his or her blood must abstain from all magic for an indeterminate amount of time, it was not usually passed from parent to child.
As for the thaumatypica, the mere mortals who made up the remainder of society, they had their own politics and hierarchies, below the level of real power, but significant enough to themselves. Or, in Delia’s case, to her mother.
How silly it all was. Delia had to be able to play the piano, embroider with tiny perfect stitches, and draw and paint pictures that looked like whatever was portrayed.
She must be able to dance gracefully, whatever the dance might be.
Graceful was also Mama’s adjective for the appropriate way for a lady to enter a room, seat herself, serve tea, wave a fan, descend stairs, ride a horse, or perform any of the other activities of a normal day.
To be sure, the required skills also included useful things, like running a manor house and keeping accounts.
But these would not be visible to a suitor, who would, presumably, base their selection on her grace and ladylike accomplishments, since she had been ordered to remove from her conversation any evidence of personal interests, intelligence, or ideas.
Except that no suitor had ever regarded even the surface appearance as worthy of a second look. Her mother had given up trying to market her to the neighborhood’s eligible gentlemen years ago, and competing on one of the regional marriage markets had never even been considered.
As for London, only the elite need bother to try. The expense of such an exercise would be wasted on Delia, and both she and her parents knew it.
All of which meant that Delia could not even look forward to as dismal a marriage as that suffered by her parents. She would dwindle into old age, feeding the hens, running the house on Mama’s behalf, and repeating the lessons that seemed more and more futile every year.
Nonetheless, no one could argue with Mama, and only Father could override her dictates.
Which he was not inclined to do where his daughter was concerned.
Father had no hesitation in pointing out to Delia that her conception had cost him eight months of abstaining from all magic, and that, since she had had the temerity to be born female, she owed him either a strong magical gift or a powerful marriage alliance.
At twenty-three, Delia had managed neither and was therefore a complete disappointment, even though she did and had done everything within her control that they asked of her.
Her hands fumbled when the door opened with a crash and her brother burst into the room. “Dee, Father wants you in the stables! Quickly!”
She was on her feet and hurrying out of the room before she had recovered the presence of mind to ask, “What is happening?”
“Something is wrong with the new foal,” Edgar said, and added, sulkily, “No point in asking me what, for I was not allowed in, so I do not see why Father should want you.”
Edgar was the coveted heir. Perhaps her brother would improve with age, but at fifteen years, he was a pest with a strong sense of self-entitlement based on Mama’s conviction that her son could do no wrong.
Delia did not know how long Father had foregone magic use in order to sire the longed-for boy.
It was not the sort of thing she could ask.
Personally, she did not think Edgar was worth it.
Perhaps Father agreed, because Edgar had so far not shown any signs of magic, and would not, therefore, inherit Father’s estate and honors.
At the stables, the head groom was guarding the door. She could hear the crashing of hooves and an occasional high-pitched whinny, as if a horse was in distress. “Miss Nettleford,” said the groom. “Thank goodness. Go straight in, miss.”
When Edgar tried to follow her, the groom stopped him. Delia didn’t stop to hear the boy’s complaints and demands, but hurried down between the stalls to the bigger loose boxes at the end, outside of which her father waited for her with several of the grooms.
“Here is Cordelia,” he said to one. “Girl, Nettleford’s Lightning has birthed a unicorn. A colt. We need you to go in and calm him down so we can get the mother out and washed free of the scent of men. Otherwise, the colt will need to be hand reared.”
A crash against the side of the stall was accompanied by another loud equine complaint.
“Hurry, child,” said Father. “That colt will damage himself and his mother if we do not calm him.”
Delia, though, was frozen with shock. This was a disaster on so many levels.
The mare, Nettleford’s Lightning was one of their most important dams, the mother of champions.
A unicorn meant not only the loss of an entire breeding year, but a lower price for future offspring, since the propensity to produce unicorns passed down through the generations.
It was rare, though. If Delia remembered rightly, the entire royal herd of unicorns consisted of only a dozen beasts, all born in different years, and all sent to the queen.
This colt, too, would have to be sent to the queen, as would the girl who could handle him.
Her. The girl who could handle him would be Delia. Father was jerking his head urgently towards the stall door.
“Quickly, before he hurts himself or his dam.” His eyes narrowed and he lowered his voice to growl at her, “Unless… Cordelia Nettleford, have you been with a man?”
Everyone knew that unicorns could not tolerate the smell, sound, or sight of men, or of women who had been with men. Only an untouched maiden could approach them.
Even then, if the unicorn was upset enough, he might attack a maiden. Still, he was a newborn. How much harm could he do? And presumably her father would have her rescued. Mind you, he and his men should not be standing so close to the stall.
“I have not,” Delia answered. “Take the grooms to the far end of the stable, Father. Or outside. He can still hear and smell you all. Once you move, I shall go in.”
Father’s head reared in indignation at being given an order by his daughter, but the grooms were all nodding and were already walking away. He gave an abrupt nod. “Slow movements. Gentle words.”
She knew. She had been helping in the stables since she was a small child. “Yes, Father.”
He walked away, and Delia took a deep breath, opened the stall door the barest minimum to let herself inside, and slipped through the gap. She had a bare second to take in the sight of the little colt before he charged her. White coat. A scream of sound. Eyes red with anger.
The charge would have been more effective if he were not still shaky on his long baby foal legs, and if the knob on his temples were pointed and larger than a crabapple.
Even so, she would have a bruise where he connected with her hip.
She flung her arms around him and began babbling soothing nonsense, while twisting her legs out of the way of hooves that tried to kick and trample.
He continued to fight for a long moment, then suddenly the battle went out of him and he collapsed against her with a huff of breath. She patted his neck. Poor frightened baby.
She hadn’t seen Millie among the men outside the stall. Another girl would be helpful. Millie could clean out another loose box, and Delia could move the colt there while Millie and perhaps some of the manor’s maids cleaned the mare.
But Delia could not go and find help until the colt was more settled, so she sat leaning up against the wall of the loose box, the unicorn half in her lap with his head against her chest, and scratched him on his neck while murmuring nonsense.