Page 2 of Unexpected Magic

Mama protested. “But Sir Arnold, just think how sweet it would look on a lead! And none of the other ladies in the shire have one.”

“Nor do you, Lady Nettleford,” said Father, firmly. “Dragons belong to the most senior peer in the neighborhood. In our case, that would be the duke. He is set up to house, feed, and train the beast. We are certainly not. Dragons hatched from bird or reptile eggs take their nature from their parent species, which means this fellow is a bad-tempered dragon-shaped rooster, and he’ll either be able to breathe fire or spit poison. How would youlook to your friends if your pet set fire to the house? Or killed the parish priest? Besides, whether or not I am willing to have such a creature under my roof, we cannot keep it. The law says that this dragon belongs to the duke.”

Mama gave an angry flounce and huffed her indignation. “I hope the duke intends to pay for the chickens eaten by his pet, Sir Arnold,” she said.

Father sighed. “I shall send a message to the castle,” he said. “Cordelia, go and ask cook for half that lamb she has hanging in the cellar, and feed the dragon. I hope the duke will send someone quickly, before that little fellow outgrows that cage.”

*

Due to theexcitement, Cordelia was late finishing her chores. Furthermore, she had a bandage on her left hand, where the dragon had bitten her during the capture. Even so, Mama insisted she could not skip piano practice. “You may be twenty-three, Cordelia, but I do not despair. Perhaps, this very week, an eligible gentleman will visit the neighborhood. And you must be able to give a creditable performance on the piano.”

So here Delia was, playing scales and then moving on to the piece she had been learning for three weeks, and therefore knew well enough to be able to allow her mind to drift over all the skills her mother insisted she must learn in order to capture the attention of potential husbands.

Ifa gaggle of potential husbands should descend upon the neighborhood, it wasn’t about to happen without magic. AndifDelia had shown even a trace of a magical gift, she would have been immediately elevated into the aristocracy and married off before she was twenty.

In Society, there were only three ways to become one of the upper sort—only a little less than royalty. Even royalty’s descentfrom the top was assured if they didn’t take one of the paths to success: either have a magical gift, or marry someone whose family had strong evidence of a gift, or be the fortunate relative of magic users that a magic-seeking peer’s child chose to marry.

Those with magic could hold power and status commensurate with the strength of the gift. Those without could only breed wisely, and hope a child would become entitled to such wealth and power—and be ready to share.

Since the gift could pop up without warning in the most unlikely of families, and stubbornly refuse to appear even where it might be expected, none of the usual routes were assured, which made it all the more evidence of divine favor that the current king could trace his ancestry back, albeit in wavy lines, to the kings of England and Scotland in medieval times.

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.Gracefulwas 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.”