A Lady Under Siege - By B.G. Preston Page 0,34

replied.

“From who?”

“Lions and tigers and things.”

“Your unicorns have wings—they’re not going to stand around poking their head at a bunch of hungry lions, they’d fly away.”

“They do have wings, you’re right.” Betsy slowed her trampoline act so she could examine her pyjamas, which were covered with supercute My-Little-Pony-style cartoon unicorns, with manes like the hairdos of homecoming queens. “A Pegasus is a horse with wings.”

“Those are Pegacorns,” Derek proclaimed. “Those are some clever marketer’s idea of what six year old girls want to cuddle up with.”

“I’m not six, I’m ten,” Betsy protested.

“Doesn’t matter. You were hooked at six. Or three. Now they’ve got you for life. At ninety-three you’ll be dusting your little glass menagerie of crystal unicorns and porcelain Pegasuses, or would that be Pegasi? My own dear mother treasures a shelf of little glass birdies in her nursing home, I swear on a stack of Bibles. They’re her best friends, I’d say.”

Betsy finally noticed her own mother, standing on the deck. “Mom,” she called. “Derek says unicorns are a crock.”

“Don’t lie,” Derek scolded her. “It’s most unbecoming in a child. I said no such thing.”

“You did!”

“I never used the word crock. They’re mythical beasts, myths are never a crock. They’re beyond that, like Santa Claus or the tooth fairy.”

Meghan came down into the garden. “Time you got out of those unicorns anyway,” she said. “Go get dressed. And then, my dear, I think it’s practice time on the piano.”

“Really? You haven’t made me practice it in weeks.”

“Exactly.”

Betsy attempted a cartwheel on the grass. Her form was excellent, a perfect whirling swirl of a circle that brought her to a standing stop in front of her mother. She beamed up at her. “I’m getting good,” she squealed happily.

“Practice makes perfect,” said Meghan. “Same for the piano.”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” Betsy said, holding up her bandaged finger.

“If you can do cartwheels on that hand, you can play a piano. Anyway, your pjs will get all grass-stained if you’re not careful,” Meghan said. “Go get changed.”

“In a bit.”

“Betsy, I need to talk to Derek. Alone.”

Derek set his hammer down. “Sounds ominous,” he said.

“Is it about me?” Betsy asked.

“No.”

“If it’s about me, I have a right to listen,” she insisted.

“It’s not about you.”

“Is it about your dreams?”

“Possibly.”

“Mommy has strange dreams,” Betsy said to Derek.

“So you mentioned,” he answered. “She’s lucky to remember them. I never do. Or maybe I’m the lucky one, I guess it depends on the dreams.”

“Hers are really strange—”

“Betsy,” her mother cut her short. “Go inside, get dressed, and I want to hear that piano for a good half hour before I see your face out here again.”

“You don’t have to yell,” said Betsy.

“I wasn’t yelling.”

“It’s most unbecoming in a mother.” She smiled at Derek, expecting him to appreciate what she thought was a splendidly clever echo of a phrase he’d just used himself, but he was looking down around his feet for a can of beer he’d set there. He picked it up and drained the last remaining dribble. “Just let me grab another, be right back.” That left Betsy alone under her mother’s withering glare. She slunk into the house.

“AREN’T PEOPLE SUPPOSED TO wait until noon for that?” Meghan asked when Derek returned.

“Maybe. But then I’d have to keep track of the time.” He took a swig from the can and said, “Working in the sun like this gives a man a thirst.”

Meghan said, “I’m not sure how to broach this. You’re going to think I’m strange.”

“Normal is strange to me,” he replied.

“This is not normal. Betsy’s right. I do have very odd dreams these days. It’s really one dream that continues every night, and related to it, I need to say something to you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Have you ever heard of anyone named Thomas of Gastoncoe?”

Derek shook his head no. From inside the house the first notes of the piano could be heard. Betsy was playing a childlike, somehow compelling version of Good King Wenceslas.

“Well, Thomas is someone who looks just like you,” Meghan continued. “And I have reason to believe he might be in your head, listening to me now, so I’d like to speak directly to him, if I may.”

Derek looked amused. “Fire away.”

Meghan clasped her hands together at her waist, like a child composing herself to sing in front of strangers. “Thomas,” she began. “In my dreams last night I heard what you said to Sylvanne. I was there, in her mind. If there is anything I can do to help you, to cure