Getting up to stretch, she decided to forget about it. Later, she would apologize to her father. It would all be fixed.
In the meantime, she would do some research. Tessa pulled all the books she could find that included unicorn folklore from the shelves. Maybe reading about unicorns would put her weird dreams to rest. Or at least put a better spin on them.
By break time Tessa was settled in a back corner of the storeroom with her dinner, practically barricaded in by a stack of thick volumes that constantly threatened to topple over without an occasional steadying nudge from her sneaker. She selected one called the The Legend of the Unicorn.
She skipped the prologue, took a bite of veggie wrap and read from chapter one. The earliest description of a unicorn was recorded there, by a historian from 400 B.C.
The unicorn has only one horn in the middle of its forehead. It is the only animal that ventures to attack the elephant; and so sharp is the nail of its foot that with one blow it can rip the belly of the beast.
“Okay,” Tessa murmured. “Maybe that’s not what I needed to know.” She skimmed ahead a few centuries. She had never realized unicorn lore was so extensive. The book said that in the Old Testament there were references to a unicorn called re’em in Hebrew. And in Japan the word for unicorn was kirin. It had a lion’s face and a body covered with scales. The Persians even had a unicorn, known as a shadhahvar. Apparently the shadhahvar looked cute and gentle; it lulled the unsuspecting with lovely music it created by channeling wind through its hollow horn. Then it cut them to shreds.
“How sweet,” Tessa commented, closing the book. She picked up another that looked more promising: The Compendium of Fantasy and Folklore. At least this one had more pictures. An illustration on thick, glossy paper in the segment on unicorns looked more like what she’d always pictured them to be. A white horse, basically, with an elegant spiral horn. It was grazing in a moonlit meadow. It looked so peaceful, so pretty. “That’s more like it,” she murmured. But on the facing page another picture caught her eye. Interestingly, it was a picture of a tapestry entitled The Unicorn Hunt.
In this one a wavy-haired maiden with a pouty mouth and vacant eyes sat in a clearing in the middle of a forest. A silvery unicorn knelt by her side. And it was wounded; a long spear hung from a gash in its side. Its anemic-looking head was nestled in the girl’s lap. One of the girl’s tiny hands was resting on the unicorn’s head, as if she was petting its mane. The caption underneath read: Medieval legends tell of the unicorn being hunted for its horn or its blood. Both were said to cure disease and even bring immortality. Hunters could capture the unicorn only by placing a virgin in its haunts.
A virgin in its haunts. Tessa frowned. She’d heard about that part of unicorn legend before. But now something really bothered her about the whole thing: the cruelty of it. And just how did the unicorn know the girl was a virgin, anyway? Tessa glanced again at the maiden in the picture. She looked kind of spacey—she was gazing off into the distance. She didn’t seem to even notice that the poor unicorn was bleeding to death in her lap. What was her deal? Why would a girl do something so rotten as to trick a beautiful animal, to trap it?
Tessa closed the book.
A girl like that would have to be incredibly stupid, she decided. Or completely heartless.
Chapter 10
“Ms. Gerome?” Moncrieff’s husky voice was deferential over the phone. A smile stretched Lila Gerome’s crimson lips. Even after all the years he had worked for her, Moncrieff maintained this formality. She knew it was because he was afraid of her. She liked that about him. It was his most dependable characteristic.
“I’ve found your tapestry and the book,” he said. “It took some time to track them down, but it seems a bookstore owner from Portland, Maine, bought them. As I said, it was an unfortunate accident. I’ll contact him and get them back.”
“Do it now,” Lila ordered. “Get them. I’m flying back immediately.”
“Yes,” Moncrieff said. “We’ll have to pay. Something considerable, perhaps.”
“Pay it, then. Whatever it takes. Just do it quickly and quietly. I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. You know that.”
“Yes. I know.”
Hartescross, 1511
The Earl of Umbric, Will de Chaucy’s father, slammed a flagon of wine to the table. The echoing clang rang against the stone walls of the great hall of Hartescross Castle.
“Has the whole bloody world gone mad?” he bellowed. “What do you mean the boy’s missing?” He righted a toppled goblet and said more quietly, obviously struggling to control his temper, “How could Will just disappear without word, without trace?” His glance shot to Hugh, demanding answers.
“No one has seen him since we left for London,” said Hugh wearily. “Everyone at Hartescross assumed he accompanied us.” He pressed his knuckles against his tired eyes. He had not slept since returning from court. He had questioned every inhabitant of the castle, from the char sweep to the falconer, as to the whereabouts of his younger brother. Will was gone. As completely as if he had been spirited away.
“What of his horse?”
Hugh shook his head. “Gone.”
“A fortnight, then?” The earl’s fists tightened. “My son has been missing a fortnight while I have cooled my heels at court, waiting for King Henry to deign to see me?” He finished in a low mutter, “All to plead my case for my own bloody land.”
“There is more,” said Hugh.
The earl gave a curt nod for his elder son to go on.
“There’s been talk in the village.” Hugh’s usually ruddy face was pale, and the circles beneath his eyes told of sleepless hours. “Talk of a beast. In the northern woods.”
“What kind of beast?”
“A unicorn,” answered Hugh softly.
The earl stared for a moment, then let out a dismissive cry. “Madness,” he said. His expression registered something between disgust and despair.
Hugh hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said. He paced before his father’s massive oaken chair as if to wear a groove in the flagstones. Hugh’s nature was one of action. He despised talk. He halted, and then, speaking in a curt monotone, said: “There’s an old woman come to the village. A traveling weaver. She says she saw the unicorn at the edge of the northern wood. She followed it into the forest and saw it attack a young noble. The description she gave sounds like Will.” He looked at his father with anguish. “I would say the old woman is raving, except that some of the villagers say they’ve seen it as well—a unicorn with a blood-tipped horn. And Will was …” Hugh broke off and cleared his throat noisily. “He was going into the northern woods on the day we left.” He lowered his head. “I might have stopped him. Or gone with him.”
The earl rubbed a heavy hand over his eyes. He was a brusque man with a titan’s temper. But his sons were as dear to him as his own breath. He looked at his elder son. “This is no fault of yours, Hugh. Gather a hunting party. Capture the beast. I will see it with my own eyes before I believe a word of this tale.”
Hugh shook his head. “The crone says the unicorn cannot be captured by ordinary means. A trap must be set, and then the creature must be fettered with iron shackles.”
“Trap? What kind of a trap?” the earl asked. His eyes brightened, seemingly despite himself, at the prospect of a challenging hunt.
“A virgin must be placed in its haunts,” said Hugh.
“Then make it so,” said the earl. “And if this is true, if there is such a beast,” he went on in a commanding tone, “kill it, Hugh. With your own hands, kill it. It won’t bring Will back to us, but such a thing must not be suffered to live. It’s a danger to the village.”
Hugh’s breath was ragged with emotion, and wetness glittered in his eyes as he answered:
“I will destroy it.”
Chapter 11
Tessa couldn’t sleep.
No matter what shape she punched her pillow into, it wasn’t comfortable, and every book she picked u
p she tossed aside. Her thoughts kept revolving around one idea: something was wrong.
Outside were the sounds of occasional cars passing, but the building was quiet. She was alone. Her father had called; he would be home a bit later. She’d heard music playing in the background as he spoke over the phone. “You’re sure you’re okay? I’m just around the corner, at Alicia’s.”
Tessa heard the carefulness in her father’s voice, and the worry. “I’m fine, Dad,” she’d said firmly. “And that thing I said this morning—I’m really sorry. It was stupid.”
“The way you feel is never stupid, Tessa.” He had paused as if to say something else but then seemed to change his mind. “I won’t be too late.”
Now Tessa heaved herself up from the bed and turned on the desk lamp. Her father was happy; it was a good thing. She should just focus on her own life. Or lack thereof.
She remembered what Hunter had said about the volleyball accident, about their having some kind of fate or destiny together. Tessa scowled. No. Hunter Scoville was not her destiny.
Anyway, she didn’t believe in fate. If everything in this life were preordained, destined to be, well, that would mean that someone, somewhere, had decided that Hey, on December 12, Wendy Brody will be in a head-on car collision on I-95 South. Make sure it’s when she’s coming back from a shopping trip. For Christmas.
Tessa recognized the same painful twist of sadness she always felt when she thought of that day four years ago. She pushed it away.
As far as she was concerned, life was one big series of accidents. Some were good, like when you meet your best friend during your most embarrassing moment on the playground in second grade. Some were bad, like when you kill somebody’s mom, somebody’s wife, by falling asleep behind the wheel of a tractor trailer.
There was no such thing as fate, or destiny. Only what you could make happen. What you could swerve to avoid. What you could fix.
Tessa looked over at the tapestry. In the shadowy light the fierce eyes of the unicorn stared at her. What you can make happen. Tessa stepped closer. She closed her eyes, reached out and touched it.
She was in a shady, wooded place. Here and there, spears of sunlight shot through the leaves to make pools of glowing, dappled color on the ground. She sat, resting on a swath of green moss. She let her eyes roam up over the latticework of branches high overhead. It was beautiful here. Peaceful.
Where was she? She couldn’t remember. She knew only what she had been told: she must stay here and be very quiet, very still.
Her hands worked nervously, smoothing the thick folds of fabric in her lap. She looked down. The beautiful gown was not hers. The blue velvet felt heavy and constricting and the lacings of the bodice stole her breath. Or perhaps it was her uneasiness that made her chest so tight. Her breath sounded clamorous in the silence around her. Be quiet, she told herself. Be still.
There was a monster in the woods, a beast that must be caught.
They said it killed William de Chaucy. He had been killed on the very day he had followed her into these woods. Proud, handsome, bookish William de Chaucy was dead. She had hardly known him. They had never even spoken. And yet why, when she thought of him, did she grieve? Knowing he was gone from this world … it made something inside her feel empty and locked away. It was as if something had been stolen from her.
An old weaver woman had come to the village, telling everyone how she had seen the beast slaughter the young nobleman. Now the earl was set on hunting it, set on vengeance for his son. There had to be a young maid for the hunt, a virgin. She had been chosen for the honor. The village was small and the choices few, she thought wryly. And her aunt had not objected to accepting the heavy purse of coins the earl had thrust forward. It was a handsome payment.
So the girl had put on the fine gown she was given; it had belonged to the earl’s wife, who had died. She unbraided her hair and brushed it till it shone in cascading ripples down her back. Dressed in finery as she was, and polished so, it was hard not to feel like bait. Or sacrifice.
You must wait here in the clearing. The unicorn will come to you.
The unicorn. That was the monster. A terrible beast with searing eyes and a single horn that could slash a man to ribbons.
But why should it come to her? Would it try to kill her too? No, they’d told her she was in no danger. She would be surrounded by armed men. They were hiding, even now, in the shadows.
The silence broke. She straightened, suddenly alert. There was a shout and a tangle of harsh voices nearby, then the blare of a hunter’s horn. But it was the barking that made her jump. She stiffened, then leapt to her feet. The yelps and snarls came closer. She whirled toward the sound. Dogs. Of course there were dogs in the hunt. Her fingers curled into fists and her breath came faster.
She was afraid of dogs. She cried out and began to run. All the careful instructions she had been given were dashed away by fright. She ran from the clearing and into the denser forest, stumbling through brambles. Faster. She had to get away. She had to hide. She had no idea of her direction, nor where the hunters were hidden.
She plunged deeper into the woods, where black vines clutched at her ankles and the skeletal trees creaked and snapped overhead. She kept running.
Gradually the voices and barking grew more distant. But now there was another sound.
Hoofbeats.
There were hoofbeats behind her, along the path she’d just torn through. It was the unicorn, the monster. She’d been a fool to run from the safety of the clearing. Now it would surely kill her, just as it had the young master. She could feel the pounding of the monster’s hooves on the earth as she ran. It drew closer. Closer, until she was sure she felt the creature’s hot breath sluice down the back of her neck as she ran. She wouldn’t turn to look at it.
But the gown! The mud-stained velvet twisted around her legs like ropes, slowing her progress. The tight laces of the bodice were iron bands, binding her breasts and making her breath come in short, exhausted bleats. She staggered at last, falling against a young sapling. She clutched the cold, yielding support of its trunk and pulled herself upright. She was about to die. She must see it. She twisted around, one arm raised to shield herself. The pale form exploded from the dark as the unicorn galloped from the dense cover of the woods, its head low, barreling toward her. She closed her eyes and waited for the pain.
But she felt only a rush of air and heat and the patter of a clod of dirt on her arm. She opened her eyes to see the unicorn land and shudder to a halt some yards away. She stared at it, dazed. She had never seen anything so beautiful. So terrible.
The unicorn looked like madness. Blood-flecked sputum frothed from its mouth, and its eyes rolled toward her, their whites showing all around. With a snort the unicorn reared and stamped down once more; the ground trembled. It stepped closer, tossing its head, and its long horn slashed the air like a sword. A step more and it would stab into her. But still she stood, frozen.
The unicorn stopped. It raised its head and its gaze locked on hers. She could not look away. There was something more than madness there. Something … familiar. The unicorn’s eyes were a deep golden brown color. Strange. They weren’t the eyes of an animal at all. They looked just like—
She screamed.
Tessa’s eyes flew open. She was huddled on the floor of her room, her arms clutched closely around her knees, shivering.
The Norn stood together.
“Another disturbance in the Wyrd,” said Weavyr. She sighed and bent over the fabric.
“There must be an explanation,” said Spyn.
“This one.” Weavyr spoke as she fingered a single strand in the Wyrd. “This girl. There is some connection between her and the missing threads.”
Spyn bent closer to peer at the path the thread took. She nodded. “Yes. She was there when the threads were stolen. In another life, five hundred years ago. Now she travels back, in her mind.”
“And makes another tangle in my work,” grumbled Weav
yr.
Scytha’s hand hovered over the human girl’s thread. “This can mean only one thing.”
The other turned. “What?” they asked in unison.
“She was the one who stole the threads,” Scytha replied.
Chapter 12
The next morning was Saturday. Tessa slept late. It was as if she’d been drugged. She could barely drag herself from bed. When she got downstairs, her father was sitting behind the store counter. He wore a puzzled expression as he hung up the phone.
“Tessa.” He brightened and smiled at her. “It seems there’s been some kind of a mix-up with the items from that auction.” He nodded to the phone. “That was a lawyer who represents the estate. He says that old book and the tapestry were never supposed to be part of the lot I bought. The owner wants them back.”
Tessa stared at him. “But they can’t do that! Can they? You paid for them.”
Her father ran a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “I know, I know, but just listen.… He seemed very upset about the whole thing. He began by offering to pay me the full amount of what I paid for the entire lot. But he only wants those two items back. Apparently the owner, a Ms. Lila Gerome, is moving to England. The book and the tapestry have been in her family for generations. I get the impression she’s kind of a demanding woman, a bit eccentric, and loaded. So get this,” he said, lowering his voice.
“What?”
“I told him I’d already taken the book to be appraised and you’d taken a liking to the unicorn tapestry. That’s when he got really worked up. Guess how much he offered me?”
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