Page 74 of The Heart and the Hawthorn

George Stubb’s unicorn was alone in a willow grove. A male with a lavender sheen across his hooves stood amongst the trees with his head down, as if he’d galloped himself to exhaustion to get there. Whether chasing something, or being chased, it was unclear since there was no one else in the painting with him. Just the unicorn and the willows. In the LEZ, Issy had willow trees in her enclosure and Frida suddenly wondered if this was the reason why. She’d always thought it was because they looked pretty, but that was silly, wasn’t it? Everything Management did was for a reason. Maybe they’d wanted people to connect Issy with this painting. For some reason, this filled her with disquiet.

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s no magic. Just art.’

Dian nodded, but it was clear they didn’t believe her.

She sank down deeper into Sir Joshua’s chair and wondered where he was. America. Japan. Sumatra. Downstairs. She didn’t know which she hoped for, anymore. The flicking firelight cast eery shadows over the painting. What was the definition of magic, anyway? In her time, people didn’t even say the word. Why though? Because they were jealous of it? Because they were ashamed that they’d wiped it all out? Because they were afraid?

‘It’s a painting of the unicorn from the garden, isn’t it?’ Her voice was flat from holding everything inside, her emotions and magic on lockdown. ‘Before . . .’ She trailed off. Before his horn was stolen. Dian gave another nod, and she ran her fingers through her hair, her rosewood box scarily close to cracking. Everyone had always wondered how Stubbs had managed to make his stallion so realistic. The tour guide had said he’d just used a male horse.

Why hadn’t anyone known there’d been a male unicorn here? Particularly as this painting was heralded as a masterpiece, the unicorn representing the very spirit of freedom. Maybe there was magic in it, she thought, with a sudden raging fury. It certainly seemed like a spell to capture someone’s soul so thoroughly in paint and leave it trapped forever in a golden frame. ‘I could never understand why he looked so sad,’ she finally bit out, choking on the words. This painting was the biggest lie of all. ‘I get it now.’

‘He is heartbroken.’ Dian’s voice cracked.

Suddenly she wanted to throw the painting in the fire. Instead, she hastily leafed through the stack of papers in front of her to distract herself. They were in here to try and find some answers to the wards, some answers to the Jewel, anyway. What better place to start? It gave her something to do with her hands, too, which were trembling traitorously, and her head wouldn’t stop spinning. There was a grandfather clock in the corner, and the slow ticking of the hands was hypnotic, a terrible reminder of the ticking clock in her own library. Moth was so quiet, she wondered if he was asleep, or hiding.

She focused on the words written on the ivory paper. Picking one up, she ran her fingers over the surface. It felt so different to modern paper. More like cloth, the weight infinitely heavier. Black pen strokes, a measured, neat hand flowing in tight lines. Sir Joshua’s, she realised, a spark of her old excitement rearing back up. Pulling the sheet closer, her eyes moved back and forth over the words. Although each letter looked as if it had been placed with infinite care, she struggled to make sense of any of it. As if the letters danced before her, taunting her.

She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms and tried again. She could smell the faint scent of sandalwood, hear the popping of the fire.

The 25th day of July, 1837.

She stared.

The date, the top line of a letter.

Suddenly, the fog in her head cleared. It wasn’t 1837. It couldn’t be. Her grip on her magic slipped a bit in her shock. Somewhere, a moth was circling one of the oil lamps in a gleeful spellbinding panic, a mouse instructing another mouse where to find food, and in the fire, an insect gave a shriek and then died.

She stared at the date. If this was right, and she hadn’t misremembered the history, then the terracotta dragon hadn’t been here for a day or two. Not a week, not even a month. She’d been here two years. Unable to believe it, thinking she must have made a mistake, she scoured the rest of the desk, finding other papers bearing dates from the summer of 1837.

She sounded out a single word, low at the back of her throat. ‘Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.’

Her eyes returned to the first paper.

Dearest Horatio,

Her breath caught as she dropped the page, guiltily shoving it back on top of the pile. Horatio Denver. Joshua’s childhood friend. Renowned trader, disgraced portrait-holder, and slave owner. Most of Lord Denver’s money had been made from sugar plantations in Jamaica. Antony’s great-great-great grandparents had been enslaved in Jamaica.

She’d asked him once what he would have done if Denver’s portrait had still been up in the Extraordinary Café. Whether he would have still wanted to work at the LEZ. He’d just looked at her and asked what she would have done. It had taken her a few beats before Hamish had cut in, and answered solemnly, We’d have drawn a penis on Denver’s face and covered him in Extra Strange Sauce, before throwing him in the bin, obviously. She wished she hadn’t taken those few beats. Especially now, sitting at this desk.

Dearest Horatio.

Suddenly she couldn’t hear the grandfather clock, or the crackling of the fire.

I write in haste for I have much to update you on, but the Board, our dear friends, are on their way here for dinner.

She stifled a gasp and couldn’t stop her eyes from darting to the heavy door, knowing that just on the other side, there were still the faint sounds of laughter and the soft notes of piano keys and violins. Was it possible he’d written this today, barely a few hours ago? If this was 1837, this was after Sir Joshua and Lord Denver had argued famously in parliament. How could Sir Joshua still be friends with this arsehole?!

You enquired after my sisters, and I am pleased to report they are all in fine fettle. Dahlia, as ever, sends her most ardent affections and asks after you tenderly. Jane devotes herself to the pianoforte, and Hannah continues to paint. Sadly, she still shows little inclination for subjects beyond peonies, despite my gentle urgings, but what more can one reasonably expect?

Frida bristled. What the hell did he mean by that? Because she was a woman?

She begs that, upon your next return, you might bring with you some specimens of exotic fauna as yet unseen on these shores. I fear, despite all I endeavour to provide for my sisters, they are dreadfully bored. ‘How appalling!’ I hear you cry. Yes – what terribly spoiled creatures they are.

Frida blinked. Reading that sentence again.

You smile – I know you do. Nothing so enlivens you as the plight of my long-suffering family. But now, to business Sir. I must apprise you of our latest discovery here within the walls of Forge House. You will recall, I trust, my many trials with that cursed dragon we brought here – what, nigh on two years past?

Frida found the words starting to swim before her.