I do a double take. Surely I’m seeing this wrong.
But no—the water is a murky brown, thick and lifeless. Even the waterfall looks, for lack of a better word,sad. It doesn’t cascade with the sparkling brilliance I’d imagine—it dribbles down the rocks like it’s lost the will to fall.
And the worst part? There’s a sign boastingInner Tube Rides! Fun for the Whole Family!
I stare at it, incredulous. Who the hell would voluntarily sit in that mess?
Fingers drumming against the steering wheel, I exhale sharply. “Whathappened to this town?”
Rowe, who has been mindlessly scrolling on her phone, finally glances up.
“Interesting that you would ask.”
“I doubt it.”
She shoots me an unimpressed look. “Well, if youmustknow, the shopshavebeen painted. They get a fresh coat every year. But within a few months, they all end up lookinglike thisagain.”
I frown. “IknowI’m going to regret asking this, but ... why?”
She shrugs, stretching out her legs and crossing her ankles like she’s about to deliver the world’s most casual doomsday prophecy. “Becausethe town lost its magic. No one really knowswhy, exactly. Some folks think it’s because the unicorns were overbred—Sally Ray’s grandfather is the one they blame for that. According to my dad, Mystic Meadows didn’t used to look like this. When the magic first appeared, everything sparkled—the water, the trees, the buildings. People came from all over to see it.”
Her voice is matter-of-fact, but there’s something almost wistful beneath it.
I glance down again at the sluggish, brown water beneath the bridge, my stomach twisting. “And now?”
She gestures vaguely at the dreary town around us. “Well ... more unicorns kept being born. But with every generation, they had less magic. Until eventually ... there was none left. And the town started fading.”
I let that sink in. The whole town, its entireexistence, was built around magic—real, undeniable, tangible magic. And when that magic started to wane, the town did, too.
We rumble over the last stretch of the bridge and into the heart of downtown.
“So you’re saying the unicorns were overbred, their power got diluted, and that somehow caused the town to lose its sparkle?”
She tilts her head. “I mean ...maybe. It’s not like there’s a scientific study on this.” She huffs. “All I know is that unicorns aren’t born with magic anymore. Not like they used to be.”
I shift my grip on the wheel. “And I’m supposed to infer that this town is still desperately clinging to theideaof its magic, trying to keep tourism alive ... but since the unicorns have lost their luster, no one’s coming anymore?”
She meets my eyes. For the first time since Rowe got in the truck, she looks serious.
“Exactly. The world has forgotten about us. People in Atlanta don’t even visit the way they used to, like when I was a kid. One thing led to the other. The magic died here—except for in a few places, likemy farm—and because that magic died, people said the unicorns were nothing more than horses with horns sewn onto their heads. They said the same thing about my piggies.”
A ripple of guilt hits me, because that was what I had thought, too. But Rowe, for as frustrating as she is, seems honest and forthright. “So not only is your offseason slow, but your busy season is slow, too.”
“Right.”
I nod, beginning to understand what I’m up against. This isn’t just about one farm. It’s about the entire town. “So those who do visit, what happens? They see a unicorn once and that’s it? All the luster’s worn off?”
“Pretty much. Once you’ve seen them, what else is there?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen one.”
She frowns. “You haven’t? What am I saying? Of course you haven’t.”
“It doesn’t sound real,” I murmur.
“What doesn’t?”
I wave my hand in demonstration. “Magic being here. Unicorns. All of it. I mean, I know that I’ve seen what your plants can do. It’s just a lot to take in.”
