Taffeta, One.

In looking back, Taffeta could only describe her life as being singularly uninteresting. Because of her kingdom’s relative isolation her bevy of handmaidens were all from the surrounding countryside and woefully unqualified to discuss anything of any interest, her wardrobe was filled to the brim with silks in colours and cuts that were in fashion at least three seasons ago, and by the time gossip reached her, it had long since been resolved and wasn’t even the least bit scandalous any longer.

She had, in fact, spent the last fifteen years in tragic boredom. Who, she wondered, would want to sit through tiresome assemblies about the state of the kingdom, and this peasant’s dispute, and that local warlord’s latest conquest? Who, she demanded, would think this position a privilege?

Well, certainly not her.

* * *

“Blah, blah, blah” the Minister of Expertly Dyed and Woven Goods droned on, so that all Taffeta could occupy herself with was the remarkably large mole on his chin and wondering how, exactly, he convinced his wife to kiss him.

It couldn’t be because of his station; certainly, he was more important than the Minister of Crudely Dyed and Woven Goods, and definitely more important than the Minister of Quite Nicely Woven, But Not Very Well Dyed Goods, but he was hardly very important in the grand scheme of things. There were at least 37 more important ministers that Taffeta could think of off the top of her head, so she couldn’t imagine that his wife would kiss him because she thought it would be politically beneficial.

Perhaps she had to! Perhaps she was being forced! Now that would be perfectly dreadful. For one thing, she would have to tilt her head at a most improbable angle to avoid that horrible mole, and that was likely to lead to all sorts of neck problems.

She had been pondering this for quite some time when she realized that everyone in the court was staring at her, and that they were all sideways, so Taffeta quickly righted her head and smiled prettily at her mother.

“Taffeta, darling, do you need another servant for your hair?” Her mother gave her a sympathetic smile, her hand held at the ready to call for another servant immediately.

Taffeta’s expression immediately flattened like a fallen soufflé. “No, mother,” she clarified, casting a glare back at her Chief Hair Carrier. He was always yanking on her hair and she had decided very early on that one such bumbling oaf was more than enough.

“Are you sure, darling? It has grown quite a bit in the last few months…” Her mother continued to smile tentatively at her, which only served to perturb Taffeta further.

“I’m fine, mother. It’s not even half as long as yours and you only have one Hair Carrier.”

Her mother glanced nervously at the large, superbly muscled attendant currently holding thirty-feet of her long blond hair on an ornate pillow.

“Yes, darling,” she admitted, “but Rotherick is quite a bit bigger than Chester.” She smiled apologetically at Chester, who only blushed furiously and very nearly dumped Taffeta’s golden tresses on the ground as he tried to bow to the Queen.

“Well how is Chester to get any bigger if he doesn’t get practice holding my hair?” Taffeta was becoming more and more exasperated by the minute. The only thing more tedious than sitting through court was her mother interrupting court to coddle her. She was fifteen for heaven’s sake! She’d be married off to some prince or especially well-off baron soon, and her mother wasn’t going to change that by treating her like a child. She only hoped her husband wouldn’t have an unforgivably hideous mole like the minister. Or a weak chin like Chester.

Her mother only hesitated a moment. “Alright.”

She was still staring at Taffeta.

And so was everyone else.

Which meant they expected something from her.

But what?

She was beginning to feel perturbed all over again when the minister cleared his throat. How could she possibly be expected to know what it was he wanted? Inwardly, she grumbled about the presumption of the lower classes.

“What do you think?” her mother prompted carefully, giving her eldest daughter an encouraging look.

Taffeta pulled herself up to her full height, and brushed a stray lock of hair away.

“Well,” she began imperiously, trying to remember what they had been talking about.

“Of course,” she began again, trying to stop thinking about the minister’s hideous mole.

“Of course,” she said, and at last decided to finish with: “I completely disagree.” She usually disagreed, so that seemed safe.

That was, of course, until the entire court seemed to gasp as one.

“You disagree, darling?” Her mother sounded very concerned now, and Taffeta could only quash her own growing worry with more irritation.

“Yes, of course I disagree!”

“Then,” her mother began shakily, and Taffeta became very worried when her mother blinked back a tear, “Taffeta will indeed marry the minister’s son. May it be a joyous day for all.”

That was the last thing Taffeta heard before she very abruptly fainted dead away.

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Rose, One.

Upon reflection, Rose supposed she had had a rather singular childhood. Her father had taken her hunting for the first time when she was two, for example. True, it had only been as bait, but even she had to admit that such depth of hunting experience at such a young age was quite extraordinary.

And even when she stopped filling the role of tasty morsel, her childhood was still anything but ordinary. When she was seven years old, her father had stopped tucking her into the picnic basket with a small dollop of mayonnaise on her forehead, and instead had let her help set the snare traps and chase after spent arrows.

And when Rose was twelve years old, she had been given her first red riding hood. Of course, everyone knew what that meant.

* * *

– Years Later –

Rose absently pushed back the red hood of the riding cloak that had been her family’s legacy for two centuries, and sighed.

“Really Rose?” her father asked. He was trying not to look disappointed, which made her feel worse.

“I mean, I suppose…” Rose said, biting her bottom lip and staring down guiltily into the picnic basket tucked into the crook of her arm, but didn’t finish.

“You’re not as awful as you think.”

She was reasonably sure that was supposed to be comforting.

“Well, yes, you’re awful. But you’re so pessimistic.”

It wasn’t, particularly.

“How awful do you think you are?”

He was giving her a questioning look, which meant he really did expect her to answer.

“Oh, um, let’s see,” she let out a puff of air and stared up into the sky, trying to decide how exactly to answer her father’s question. Was this a test? Maybe if she told him she was fairly certain she was terrific, she wouldn’t have to continue this conversation. Or maybe it would just get longer. Truth was probably the best way to go.

“Pretty… pretty awful, I think,” she finally nodded.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“Well… pretty awful isn’t so bad,” he said awkwardly.

“It’s, um… pretty awful, actually,” she pointed out.

“That doesn’t mean you have to quit trying though! I’m sure we can find something for you to do!” His eyes darted from side to side as his mind scrambled for something, anything.

She had been wrong, lying couldn’t possibly have ended this badly.

“Remember how good you used to be with the mayonnaise?”

“Look, dad,” she said quickly before he could continue down that path any further, “some girls are meant to be Red Hoods and some girls just aren’t.”

“But your great-great-”

“Great-great-great-great-great- grandmother, yes, I know dad. I don’t think she’ll mind.” She had been dead for nearly two hundred years.

“But-” he began, and she knew the conversation wouldn’t end until she brought out the big guns.

“I’m not happy, dad.” There. She had said it. And it did make her feel better. For the brief moment between her half-mumbled confession and her father’s face crumpling.

“Oh Rose.”

She hated to see him looking at her like that, so much so that for for one perfectly deluded moment, she imagined being the Red Hood he wanted her to be; she imagined dashing through the woods, leaping from branch to branch with easy grace; she imagined hurling herself at her quarry, knives barred and gleaming in the sun; she imagined felling the biggest beast the Red Hoods had ever seen; what big eyes it has, they would say, and what big teeth!

But for better or for worse, she wasn’t really a Red Hood, and if she were going to be at all honest with herself, she had to admit that she never would be.

“I’m going to the city,” she told her father after a deep breath to steel herself. “I’m going to seek my fortune!”

“But whatever are you going to do?” her father asked, as if he didn’t think there were any vocation for a young woman outside of being a Red Hood. And, she had to admit, he probably didn’t.

“Well. I haven’t, actually, entirely, quite decided… what I’m going to do… yet.” She followed the statement with a brave smile and added, “but I’m sure I’m good at something!”

“Maybe… maybe you could work at a sandwich shop.”

He was trying to be helpful.

“Because of the mayonnaise.”

He really was.

“You were so good with the mayonnaise.”

And with that, her father started sobbing.

It was all Rose could do to wrap her arms around him and give him a tight squeeze, reminding herself that she couldn’t let this shake her confidence. There would be something she was good at, she knew it. Something, she promised herself, that had nothing to do with mayonnaise.

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Unicorn magic is a place where anything can happen!

Where unicorns frolic in a meadow of crudely drawn artwork and silly stories about unicorns, frolicking in meadows.

It’s a place for me to be creative in whatever ridiculous ways that I choose, so while I can’t promise that it will make any sense, I can promise that there will be lots of unicorns.

I dabble in fantasy writing, in doodling, in crochet, in knitting, in sewing and stuffed animal making, and in other forms of creativity and dorkery, and I hope to share it all here, where unicorn magic is reeeaaaaaaal!!!!

(So, I feel it’s only fair to warn you now, it’s going to get pretty dorky in here. Pretty dorky indeed.)

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