Those Prevailing Happy Stars

A Mansfield Park & Stardust fanfiction

Chapter Four:

Unicorn

Susan Price was livid – white from hairline to chin with an icy rage she could scarcely suppress. Here she was, unwillingly tramping along in the unknown wilderness after two men she found it increasingly difficult to believe considered themselves gentlemen.

How grossly deluded these two uncongenial lumps were, the white-haired one and the doe-eyed one with the fat leather Bible under his arm both!

Whatever Fanny thought of the latter!

And the aforementioned Fanny, docile as a lamb, was consenting – very voluntarily – to be carried about in their arms! She made no fuss whatever when her favourite – the Bible-towing one, Edmund – said he was tired, declared that to carry her for another half mile would be quite beyond his power, and asked Tom to take her for a bit; she most willingly put her arms about the neck of the smug elder brother and rested against him, while he, for his turn, remarked drily upon her 'creepmouse mannerisms' as if he was rather astonished (though untroubled) by them; but she seemed only truly contented when her favourite had taken her back again.

With him, she was all ease.

Susan began to wonder if they would ever stop. The sky had gone light – lighter than she'd ever seen it; for they never were up this late. Indeed, Fanny's head was lolling against Edmund's chest by this point and small whistling noises – very like snoring – were coming from her nose.

"I'm tired," she declared, stumbling over a raised tree root. "I am not accustomed to being awake during the day – and day it certainly is by now."

Tom glanced at her over his shoulder. There was a slight war about his face. For a moment he had an expression which suggested if she were anybody else – if she had not thrown mud and rocks at him and quarrelled with him so earlier, not to mention readily disabused him of any notion of her ever being willingly helpful to him – he would have softened. Then – a prideful shadow flickering behind his eyes – he seemed to entirely tense up, to recall her poor opinion of him, and to conclude the rude little hoyden should fend for herself and expect no assistance from his end.

And serve her right, too!

"You would not be so tired, perhaps," he said at last, "if you were not such a damned bloody rattle."

In return, Susan declared him to be chawbacon and a wet goose.

Edmund was kinder. "I understand if you are growing weary – I am footsore myself, truth be told. I do wish there was some way of knowing when we might reach a town, some manner of inn... Then we should all have a much-needed rest."

Fanny, not quite awake but aware Edmund was speaking, gave a subconscious little moan of agreement.

She really was, mused Edmund, a darling little thing!

Simply from carrying her about for a few hours he found he was growing very fond of the star. He was almost sorry she could not stay in Wall after being presented to Mary Crawford – he should have liked nothing better than to keep her for a friend, to visit her and consult her on ill-boding days. She seemed the sort of lady who would keep a sweet little parlour in a sweet little cottage and who would never grudge an overtired parson a place by her fire. Edmund could imagine this poor little mite, once her leg was better, going about a neatly arranged sitting-room and watering flowers (geraniums, probably; he'd never known a gently-bred girl who did not fancy geraniums) and tending the fire before placing a nice wool blanket about the lap or shoulders of her guest and retiring herself, across from them, with a volume of poetry.

He wondered, on that account, what sort of poems Fanny Price would like best – Miss Crawford loved Byron and Shelly, but Edmund was partial to Cowper himself. Which might Fanny most enjoy when she was at liberty to read?

Stars must read, mustn't they? If not, she ought to be taught, certainly as soon as possible, and he would have liked nothing better than to do it himself. Oh, how he hated to think she should miss what he imagined would give her great pleasure only for want of knowing her letters!

And he had another thought, too; a very fine one. Would it not be the happiest outcome for all involved if this sweet star should – rather than ever go away – remain, not only to be his friend, but Mary's? What sweeter influence, what better companion, could he ever find for her? He should like nothing better than to see them together. A living, breathing companion would do Miss Crawford more good than any mere bauble might.

The amber cross seemed to be poking into his spleen from where it rested in his waistcoat. He longed to have never taken it from Tom's hand, to have never kept it, for it to be truly lost. Life on earth must surely be indescribably better for Fanny than up in the cold, dark sky? Besides, stars fell, they did not – not usually – go back up – it would be a little unnatural, would it not?

"I do not require a town," said Susan, tersely, interrupting his thoughts. "Neither does Fanny. We can sleep there – under those pretty trees we are coming up to now."

"You don't dictate to us–" began Tom, warmly.

"Perhaps a short rest would not be amiss," Edmund cut him off, squatting to place Fanny down against a tree trunk.

"Where are we?" murmured Fanny, eyelashes fluttering as she peered out at the bleary, sunlit world. "What is this sweet place? It looks to be a kind of avenue."

"It is not a proper avenue, I think, Fanny," was Edmund's reply. "Only a little clump of trees – not even a grove."

Tom kicked sullenly at a grass clump, insisted he preferred they go on, stopping in strange places under strange trees in Faerie hardly his idea of safety and comfort, and – moreover – that he was mortally overcome with hunger and wanted to halt – alleged short rest or not – no place where he could not have his breakfast.

"Sleep for but an hour. You cannot think of food when you are asleep," and Edmund was stretching his legs and resting his head upon a root already as he spoke.

"You might not, but I can," grumbled Tom.

Susan suddenly screamed and, hiding her face as if in absolute terror, flung her arms around the trunk of a tree. Tom was – none too gently – about to tell her to stop shrieking like a banshee, for the love of all that was good in the world, when he saw what had alarmed her was the falling menacing shadow of a speckled falcon circling very low above their heads.

What interested him most was what the creature carried in its talons. It appeared to be Tom's own pocket pistol, the very one he'd lost when the Babylon candle unexpectedly transported them from their old campsite to where the stars were.

"Hang me if that is not mine!"

And, as if it understood, the falcon dropped the pistol so it landed near his feet.

Susan, revealing her face and loosening her grasp on the tree trunk, screwed her courage and made a lunge for it. She was thinking – even though she was frightened of the bird, which seemed savage and not right to her – if she could only get hold of this weapon everything might be all right. Fanny would not have to rely upon Edmund for protection (even if disengaging her sister's already too attached heart in regards to him proved a slight snag, one hopefully to be overcome by the gentle reminder Mr. Edmund Bertram already had himself a professed lady love and therefore could never have need of Fanny as she had of him); Tom would not be at liberty to push them about and make them do as he said; they should, with this, be able to find their own way through Faerie.

But Tom was faster. He had the pistol in hand before Susan could stumble past the tangle of tree roots. He couldn't eat the pistol, which made the victory less immediately pleasurable to him, but he was moderately placated by the notion he could now kill and eat something if it came by – and he hoped for a second, less intelligent bird, preferably one less obviously gamy. He wished the owl he'd thrown their supplies at before, at the other campsite, were here; fat, puffy thing would probably be enough to fill them all right up.

Despite her exhaustion, despite this stop being primarily for her sake, Susan did not sleep; instead, she sat up and watched the others drifting into slumber while her adrenaline-charged fingers worked at a discoloured daisy chain for lack of any other occupation.

She had a mind to steal Tom's pistol, to force the brothers to fashion some manner of makeshift splint for Fanny's leg, and then be off.

Not the most brilliant plan, perhaps, but she was growing ever more desperate. All she could think was how she loathed the odious Tom Bertram and how very, very unhappy she was with these two.

As soon as she was certain he slept soundly, she crept her way over to him, reached under his coat to where she'd seen him conceal the weapon, and promptly found herself seized, an arm wrapping about her waist and pulling her against him.

He burrowed his chin against the side of her neck and gave a little sigh, followed by a low grunt.

She was dismayed to find he had both his arms coiled tightly about her after that. Then he rolled over. And here she had supposed it could not get worse.

"Drat," she muttered, struggling and failing to move out from under him. It would appear Tom, all but outright snuggling with her, was a great deal friendlier in sleep than he was when awake. "Fanny!" She tried to get her sleeping sister's attention. "Fanny, I cannot free myself! Help me." Alas Fanny slept on as if she hadn't a care in the world. "Fannnn-neeeeee!" Well, there was nothing for it but to try and wriggle until she had an arm free. She could spy an acorn within reach – she got her arm out, gripped it (only just, another half inch and it would have been beyond her fingertips), tossing it so it grazed Fanny's elbow. "Fanny!"

Feeling her elbow vibrate as the acorn clipped it, Fanny's head lifted, and she began to drag herself over when she saw Susan all but pinned under Tom's bulk. "Susie! Whatever's happened?"

"There's no time to explain. Come, lift this oaf off me – between the two of us we should manage it."

"It would be rather easier, I imagine," whispered Fanny, bringing the nail of her little finger anxiously to the corner of her mouth and biting at it, "if we woke him first."

Susan's face went crimson. "No! No, you mustn't. Just help me get him off. Do not wake him. Oh, dear. Ugh. No, no, no."

"What is it?"

"Mercy. It's moved."

"What's moved?" Fanny was all innocence.

Susan would not say. It seemed too shocking, much too shocking. Then, she muttered, more to herself than her sister, "That is not the pistol, I think."

Fanny deliberated for a moment, dithered, then decided, "I will wake Edmund – he'll know what is best to do here." Tom was his brother, after all.

Susan turned her head and snarled, "Don't you dare!" There was no need, she insisted – all but begging – to drag Edmund into this. "Do not wake Edmund! I shan't ever forgive if you if you do."

But Fanny was already crawling over, dragging herself across the length of earthy loam which surrounded these quiet trees, with surprising speed for one with a broken leg, and Susan could not prevent her shaking Edmund's arm beseechingly until he awoke. Whereupon he frantically enquired if Fanny were all right, if something was not amiss.

Then he saw Susan's predicament and fought a smile of wry amusement; his twinkling eyes utterly betrayed him.

"When we were boys," recalled Edmund as he stood to come to Susan's aid, "Tom once stole one of our sister Maria's dolls to vex her; I tried to retrieve it, she was crying over its being taken and our aunt Norris was threatening to keep Tom from taking tea with the family ever again if he did not produce it" – here he left out the fact that Tom was enjoying being banished to eat his meals with the servants in the kitchen, because he wasn't old enough yet to have felt the insult; he was not even at Eton then, as this was back in their nursery days – "and so I endeavoured to sneak it from him while he slept."

"Oh, it is a charming story, I'm sure," said Susan, not as if she actually thought it charming at all. "And I hope your sister got the doll back, after your adventure, and fairly brained him with it."

"I ended up in the same position as you find yourself now," was Edmund's beaming conclusion to this tale.

Not the same position, perhaps; I rather doubt you elicited the exact same reaction... But she could not, of course, say this. (No true lady could – and despite her rough edges Susan was – the pardonable coarseness of her youth and natural lack of timidity left off – undeniably ladylike; she might, in a heated moment, swap oaths with Tom across the chasm of a breeched crater, she might make a dry comment with a pointed meaning, but she had her natural limits as gives credit to her sex; she would never, say, speak out of turn at anyone's dinner table or make vulgar puns unprovoked. There was a difference in attempting to slyly make her plight known to her sister, to an elder sister who was gently ignorant rather than truly clueless, and in saying anything bordering on unsavoury within Edmund's hearing.) Moreover, she wished he would not smile at her so, even if she judged him, however reluctantly, to be near as innocent in his estimation of the situation as Fanny; his amusement made him look a little – admittedly a very little, but it was enough to provoke – like his brother.

Truth be told, she had quite made up her mind she loathed them both.

The Admiral leaned back in his mauve-cushioned chair, his narrow fingers drumming thoughtfully against the polished knobs at the end of the gilded wooden arms. "A star – very possibly two stars – and you know this for certain?"

Henry, standing before him in fine livery, nodded. "I've had the word from Mary herself." And he explained about the young man – Edmund Bertram – and the accidental errand. "I've sent Maddison to assist them, when necessary, to keep them safe as per my sister's wishes, and to report back to me."

"Mary was a dubious child at times," said the Admiral, a trifle gravely. "I know how you have always loved her – and such affection does you credit, nephew – but we mustn't be mistaken in this. I wouldn't place my hopes on a flimsy piece of gossip from a girl like Mary, unless I had your full assurance I might. Do you actually trust this rummy Maddison person you've employed to keep an eye on our new charges?"

"No, sir, indeed not – trust, I grant Mary by virtue of affection and blood; it is not a privilege I extent toward errant, disreputable servants – but, all the same, I know – as readily as I know how to control winds and bring up storms with a twist of my tongue – he will not betray me again if he values his life."

"Mmm. That may suffice." Fear was a sort of power in and of itself – he could well believe Maddison feared Henry's retribution, and such feelings – in addition – no doubt proved the man was, at least, not stupid. "Are you prepared to secure one of these stars for me as you did the last one?"

"You are too kind, uncle." His hands slipped behind his back and his feet shuffled, his shiny high-heeled shoes shifting almost imperceptibly.

"Kind?" The Admiral's brow lifted; he seemed genuinely puzzled. Of course he was kind to Henry – naturally he was kind to Henry – he delighted in Henry – there was no question of that – but he did not entirely see how the word, in this context, applied.

"Too kind in thinking well of me, in granting me credit, for the merger assistance I gave you when I was scarcely beyond boyhood – I did so little, and only wished to increase your good health."

"Stop talking nonsense, my boy." His smile was wry, if not exactly wise. "Modesty does not become truly powerful men, and you are a powerful, powerful man." Raising one hand, he lifted an index finger and wagged it at his nephew pointedly. "You must allow nothing to dampen this great power of yours as you move through the world; d'you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good lad." And he began – with a groan – to pull himself to his feet. "You will dine with me before you set off after our prize." The Admiral here leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I shall make a present to you, in your dinner stew, of the final scrap of heart meat from the last fallen star. So little is, of course, not potent enough to considerably increase your youth, no more than was the little taste I gave you years ago when I had my share – but as you do not want for natural youth and vigour, at your age, this can hardly matter so very much. And I want you to keep up your strength on your journey."

"That is very kind, uncle, though I must be straight with you and confess I have no intention of making a long journey."

His brow furrowed slightly. "Eh, what's that?"

Henry held up a hand. "If you will but grant me a Babylon candle from your store, I mean to use Maddison's report to place myself – seemingly in some sort of establishment, perhaps an inn – and cut them off on the road. That way, they may come to me. Indeed, to us, if you care to join me."

The Admiral was clearly impressed by this plan; his brow settled back into place, into a relaxed, trusting position. "That is what I call ingenuity!" He beamed at him. "Exactly what I call ingenuity. Working cleverly, what. And it will, of course, ensure our star – whichever we snatch up, if fortune does not favour us with both, as it may yet – is in a merry mood. Her heart will be glowing and healthful and much more use to me. Bless me, if you can give me a heart in such good condition...glowing bright as it would if it were plucked straight from the sky...I shall let you eat half. Oh, you don't know the pleasure this gives me! You are the best of nephews and the best of warlocks. There isn't a magician in a hundred – nay, not in a thousand, I daresay – like you, my boy."

And, his vanity delightfully stoked, and by one whose esteem he put so much store in, Henry could scarcely keep from preening and strutting – pleased beyond expression to be petted and fussed over and to have his mind so praised – as he followed his uncle and the accompanying servants out of the room so they might take their dinner.

He did, after all, eat up the last scraps of star heart in his stew – his uncle insisted upon it. He found it overall sweet, though a trifle tangy as well, possibly from being kept – being stored – so long.

It took some effort to chew properly.

"She was an unfortunate little thing," remarked the Admiral by way of conversation as he chomped upon the venison chunks spooned from his own stew. "The last star, that is. Even glowing at her full strength, she was weak. I hope our next is more hardy." He placed his spoon down and dabbed in a pensive manner at his chin with a lacy napkin. "Hmm, we will need two very sharp knives, I think – one for slicing open the chest, or for making an incision about the ribcage – it will need to be strong enough to slice bone – and another, a finer-pointed dagger, for carefully removing the precious organ itself. Have you a dagger which you think might suit?"

Henry told him he had. "The fine ruby-hilted dagger you gifted me for the moral holiday of Michaelmas is my first choice."

"Oh, but that one is very fine, you know – perhaps too much so – you could as readily stick a sewing-needle in to saw out the heart – too much work, I shouldn't wonder. I did mean that dagger to be a ceremonial sort of present, to look well on you, more than for your common usage."

Chewing the last bite of heart and swallowing daintily, Henry said, "Ah, sir, but I find – when it comes to these matters – a small hole, of the sort your dagger would manage, is the best. Only a small hole will do. I cannot have satisfaction otherwise. It is too easy, and too base and quick, with any other."

"I take your point," conceded the Admiral, a trifle vaguely and not quite as if he meant it.

"Poor ill-fated star – I almost can pity her – though, if she can fall quickly into our trap, after such a short time in Faerie, such a short time on earth at all, well, I will say she – not unlike the last, such a little green girl she was – has a constitution which nothing could save."

His uncle's reply was a mutter which sounded a bit – to Henry's ears at least – like, "Poor star, nothing – what rot and gammon," but might actually – just as easily – have been a reprimand to the servant nearest at hand, for putting too much salt on the stew when he asked for a small increase.

After an initial groggy blink at Edmund (who was shaking his shoulder), during which he did not seem displeased, or indeed anything less than contented, Tom was far from delighted to be woken up with an irate Susan in his arms.

Rolling free as soon as he released her – with something very like a shove – she spluttered out her worst insults at him, making a number of angry accusations, all of which he coolly countered by pointing out he'd been innocently asleep, minding his own business, and she'd come creeping up to him – clearly in a botched attempt to steal his pocket pistol, bad form in and of itself – so how the deuce did she presume to suppose the end result of her troublemaking could be his fault?

"You don't touch me," Susan growled, scrambling to her feet and hastily smoothing her skirt and shooting a glower in his direction. "D'you hear, Tom Bertram? You are never to touch me again!"

He gave a snort of derision, narrowing his light eyes and folding his arms pertly across his puffed-out chest. "You speak as if I had any desire to touch you. Nothing – nothing whatever, truly nothing in the world – I assure you, could be further from my mind."

"It is not your mind I worry about," muttered Susan.

"I beg your pardon?"

She coloured and turned her head away. "I did not speak."

"You did," Tom insisted, scowling, attempting – as he stood – to make her look at him again. "You did indeed say something. Have out with it."

"I merely catch my breath!" Not for anything would she have repeated herself, much less been drawn out – been forced – into a ready explanation.

"Ah." Tom smirked, biting onto his lower lip – his mood had turned from harshly argumentative to teasing, a more natural state of being for him. "So you concede I take your breath away – truly high praise from one whose general hatred for me is so open."

"Open?" Susan's pursing lips parted mockingly. "Oh, dear. And here, sir, was I, trying with such great efforts to keep it concealed!"

Edmund was obliged, then, to attempt to split them up before one – and it was anybody's guess which – decided enough was enough, their tolerance limit was exceeded, and actually lunged at the other and attempted to throttle them.

In observing this, Fanny bemoaned her new friend's place in the middle of their quarrel. She was, despite her preference for Edmund, liking Tom a great deal – certainly her general view on him was far kinder than that of her sister – but even so it was impossible for her not to be prejudiced, not to dwell on, albeit privately, how Edmund worked so very hard, put himself entirely out of his way, to keep the peace – regardless of the situation – and his brother never worked at it at all.

Was it always thus? Fanny wondered, and looked upon her friend with growing affection. How patient he must be, how good!

She pondered a great deal upon his goodness, upon his excellence of person, thinking over and over again how she had not met another being like him apart from her beloved brother William – and that, of course, was a very different kind of thing – while he carried her about that afternoon. She hoped his Miss Crawford was worthy of him, yet could not shake the nagging fact from her mind: his dearest Mary, however beautiful and gentle and good he professed her to be, had still, undeniably, sent him out – far from home – into the wilderness of Faerie to find a star to prove his love for her. But... But what – and Fanny could not swallow her indignant feelings over this – was she doing to prove she loved him? Having his affections in themselves ought to be enough! And she, presumably, sat in complete comfort at some cosy English parsonage, with nothing materially to wish for, while Edmund – for her sake – was obliged to sleep out of doors and keep his brother from quarrelling with Fanny's sister. Tom, at least, was here with him! The same could not be said for Miss Crawford. Thus Fanny, however much she might wish it, couldn't easily like the idea of this woman marrying him; Edmund seemed to believe she would understand all perfectly when she met her, but she could not believe, nor credit, that.

Sometime after the sun was too high for their liking, and Tom had begun to complain of hunger again (provoking Susan's ire and guillotine-sharp tongue, however gently Edmund attempted to intervene again and keep them civil to one another), they came to a halt near a thicket of dark brambles that might have in actuality been blue or purple as readily as they looked black at first glance.

Edmund's arms were tired, but Tom – too busy telling Susan exactly what he thought of her opinion on his being too hungry to go on much further – was not on hand to take her as he ought to have been, so he resolved to set Fanny down on a little worn boulder for a moment.

"Are you comfortable, Fanny?" he asked, sounding anxious. He reached up to rub at his throbbing temples. "I fear we may be stopped here a while."

Fanny assured him it made the nicest little seat and she was in no way inconvenienced.

The unexpected whinny – the noise of a horse in distress – did what Edmund was unable to do; it distracted Tom, who hastily shushed Susan and demanded of them all, "Did you hear it?"

Fanny had. "It came from there," and she pointed.

Going to investigate, Susan lifting her soiled skirts – now a far, far cry from their former gleaming white – and stomping after him and Edmund both – unthinkingly leaving Fanny quite alone – they pushed through a miniature wall of periwinkle-coloured bracken and discovered a unicorn with its gleaming silver horn caught in a chain of tangled thorns.

Tom was immediately awestruck. He handed Edmund his pocket pistol for safekeeping as he staggered forward to approach the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life. (That is, if one really can describe, in good conscience, what he did, namely sort of just thrusting the pistol handle-first under Edmund's ribs and expecting him to hold onto it, handing his brother anything.)

"Oof," said Edmund.

Susan attempted to nudge Tom out of the way and attend to the creature herself. She was unaware he was fond of horses, and, as unicorns and stars are something like allies, she thought it her duty to attend to it before he could cause the poor thing further harm.

However, star or not, the unicorn was frightened of her and – as much as it could – it reared up and shied from her, snorting and stamping. She was flung back, winded, and Edmund quickly pulled her away to safety.

"It's much too frightened, you great idiot – you will be hurt," Susan declared, a trifle hoarsely, leaning over Edmund's arm which was still outreached to steady her, when Tom again approached the snorting beast – his eyes sparkling and mouth gone slack.

But here she had gravely misjudged the situation.

Tom's manner, murmuring softly and holding out his hand and sort of singing to the unicorn under his breath had a calming effect. He pressed a hand to the unicorn's muzzle and whispered something gentle, getting a snort and a puff of breath in return. Humming and 'there, there'-ing, he began to disentangle the horn while the beast – completely at ease now – blinked its eyes at him and occasionally nickered or neighed.

"What a beauty you are!" cooed Tom, running his hands along the unicorn's neck now he had freed it. "And I'd wager a fair plum you're a right sweetgoer, too. Wherever did you come from?" His hands began to run the length of the unicorn's sides, stroking its coat and feeling curiously at its flanks. "I've never seen such a superior beast." Not even his lost Faerie pony – his precious blue pony he yet still, even in adulthood, privately recollected with the eyes of nostalgic affection which no other pet could be equal to – had been so magnificent as this.

"We will have to find his owner," ventured Edmund, but he sounded uncertain.

Tom, with a cool raise of one eyebrow (Susan found herself, inexplicably, noting it did not match his white hair), simply said, "It's a mare, Edmund. There is no his about it."

His younger brother didn't argue. Tom was wrong about a lot of things, one might argue most things, but almost never about horses – he had prevented their family being swindled by a crooked horse dealer more than once in the past – and a unicorn was, plainly, very like to a horse.

Then Tom happened to glance at his hand – the one he'd used to disentangle the unicorn's horn from the thorns – and gasped. "Edmund, look here!"

He looked at Tom's hand obligingly but could not see – at first – what had startled his brother so; it had the usual appearance of a hand, nothing more.

"Edmund," he said, slowly, "you must recollect, now I show it to you, how this is the hand I burned when I lit the black candle which took us to the stars." And he motioned his chin in Susan's direction. "There was a vicious red welt. Stung like the devil and no mistake! Now, only see for yourself! It's completely healed."

"Fanny's leg! We can bring the unicorn to Fanny and she will make her able to walk again!" exclaimed Susan, and Edmund was ashamed – instantly and deeply ashamed – because he had not thought of it.

He had been thinking, instead, of what the inhabitants of Wall would say when they saw Tom come galloping through the gap in the wall astride a unicorn mare; because, frankly, he could not imagine his brother willingly parting with a horse-like creature in possession of great power such as this. The unicorn would be more closely guarded than ever the unfortunate pony had been.

But he felt keenly, after Susan said it, he ought to have been thinking of poor Fanny's great need first.

"A splendid idea, upon my word," was Tom's remark, agreeable to it even if it had come from Susan's mouth of all places. "Fanny is a very good sort of girl, and no mistake, but I weary of carrying her about everywhere."

Edmund bit the inside of his cheek hard to prevent himself from snapping about how Tom had barely carried Fanny anywhere in comparison to himself.

And how fared Fanny herself at that moment?

Well enough.

The speckled falcon had reappeared and landed beside her, making a number of shrill noises, almost as if it wished to converse. She'd been frightened of it at first, though not as much as Susan had been, but seeing it was not trying to harm her she warmed to the poor bird.

She was intelligent enough to judge also this might not, probably was not, its true form.

"Pretty bird," she sighed, gingerly reaching a hand to touch its golden-brown breast feathers, finding she was not rebuffed or pecked at no more than she would have been slapped by a gentleman if she happened to reach out and examine his lapel. "I wish I knew your name."

In reality, Maddison was not a pretty bird, particularly, no more than he had been a very handsome man before Henry Crawford transformed him as punishment, but he preened at the compliment simply because he felt certain Fanny meant it – that, in her eyes at least, he was pretty enough.

It was almost a pity he was – from here – going to report to Mr. Crawford regarding how near they were, so that he and his uncle could decide where best to magically create an inn to entrap her and her companions.

Well, he thought, he could grant her the one boon – if she would have it. With his sharp talons, he scratched out, upon the boulder beside her, his name.

Maddison.

Fanny ran her fingertips over the untrained, crude, yet still mostly legible letters. "Maddison," she murmured, and withdrew her hand. "An honest name, I think."

And – unable to bear it, unable to withstand the mounting shame of imminent betrayal in his birdy body – the falcon beat his great wide wings and flew off.

Fanny could not watch him go without a few tears for him shining in her eyes.

The next moment Tom, Edmund, and Susan returned with the unicorn – and with a great deal of remorse for how ill they had used Fanny, abandoning her on the boulder for so long – and they made their apologies; all except Tom, who made more excuses than anything else, as was his way – pertly pointing out how they could hardly have been expected to anticipate how long it might or might not take to free the distressed unicorn, and Fanny had been very well in the meantime anyway, it seemed, in her nice cool seat – but he meant well.

He was as glad as any of the others to find her in the same condition she'd been left, and it was he – even before Susan or Edmund could remind him – who coaxed the unicorn to place her head on Fanny's lap in hopes the horn would touch her leg.

The magical healing was not as extensive as they had hoped. She could stand, and she could walk on her own, unlike before, but her new limp was considerable. Fanny had always been rather weak, even when in shining in the sky, easily tired, but even healed she could not – now – go more than a few steps without halting and pressing her weight against a tree and gasping for breath.

"By Jove," declared Tom, tsking, as Fanny – her weak knee buckling – almost crumpled to the ground after the second attempt, "this won't do. Never. It wouldn't do if we were out to picnic, having ourselves a merry stroll at leisure; let alone travelling as we are. You had better pick her up again, Edmund."

At last Susan saw her opportunity, braced herself, and cried out bitterly how Tom ought to be ashamed to make his brother carry Fanny – to even have suggested two disobliged and utterly fagged ladies walk – when they had a strong unicorn on hand!

If they were any real kind of gentlemen, she insisted, they should have allowed them both to ride while they walked at their side.

"It would be the kind thing to do," Edmund told Tom, reaching and squeezing his brother's arm before he could retort it would be a cold day in Hell before he let Susan ride what he'd already come to think of – in just these last few moments – as his unicorn, simply because she thought herself entitled to by virtue of her sex. "Here, let us help them onto the mare's back and get on with the day – I'm sure we'll find somewhere we can eat and rest properly soon. This can only make the journeying go faster meanwhile."

Still out of humour, Tom lifted Susan and gave her a quick, rough heave onto the unicorn's back, whereupon he ignored her glares – after all, she had made it clear, after what happened earlier, she never wanted him to touch her again and he had just put his hands on her without asking or even giving warning – daring her to say anything and give him a reason to yank her off again and make her walk.

Behind Susan, Edmund lifted Fanny and settled her with a great deal of gentle fussing as if she was made of fine glass, even carefully tucking in the skirt of her dress so it did not pull on her leg the wrong way.

Then he enquired if she were warm and comfortably seated enough for them to begin.

Fanny hadn't a moment to answer in the affirmative, however, because Susan – as she'd planned from the start – dug her heels into the unicorn's side and – with a small cry of "Yah!" – had them charging far ahead – too far and too fast – so that the Bertram brothers could never have the slightest hope of catching them up on foot.

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