Note:
Eroania is pronounce E-roan-i-a.
A ute is a two or four door vehicle with a tray on the back.
Chapter Two: The Answer.
I can’t wait for my usual lunch time visit, and head over to Ashlyn’s as soon as I’ve had breakfast. She is smiling when I arrive so I’m guessing the news is good.
“They’ve given you a pass!” she says as I slide open the back door.
As I step inside the kitchen, she throws her arms around me. I hug her back, lifting her off the ground before placing her down. She looks up at me, our faces so close that if I reached down a fraction, we’d be kissing. I let her go instead.
She holds up an envelope. “Your golden ticket.”
I take the envelope and look inside. It is not, in fact, a golden ticket, but a Tiger’s Eye gemstone on a black cord.
“You’ll have to wear it the whole time we are in Eroania. If you take it off, you will instantly be deported.”
“I’ll guard it with my life,” I assure her.
“C’mon, let’s go tell Thistle the news.”
We walk side by side to the stables. Belle joins us, trotting happily beside Ashlyn.
I have a red cattle dog named Rusty. Belle and Rusty get along great, which works out well if the future I have planned eventuates.
Belle lingers in the stable doorway. She has never liked to get too close to Thistle.
Thistle’s stable is the most elaborate I have ever seen. White walls with purple cushions spread along the middle of the grass floor. Small trees line the sides of it, interspersed with flowers.
A small fountain serves her drinking water, and her food is given to her on a white gold platter.
As Thistle is the only unicorn I know, I couldn’t tell you if it is over the top.
Thistle is resting on one of the large purple cushions and rises when Ashlyn opens the stall door. The stall is at least the size of four stalls put together.
She is the colour of pearl, her hooves white gold, and her mane and tail white with lavender strands intertwined.
Thistle dips her head at Ashlyn, her long and very sharp pearlescent horn dipping with her. She raises her head, her amethyst eyes piercing mine before moving to Ashlyn.
“My Queen.” Although this is directed at Ashlyn, she speaks it also into my mind to be polite. “Master Evans.”
Thistle prides herself on her impeccable manners.
Ashlyn bristles. She hates being called that, especially since she ditched the crown prince everyone thought she was going to marry and chose to live on Earth instead. Bad for the prince, great for me.
“I have been invited home for the holy days celebrations,” Ashlyn tells Thsitle. “I have accepted the invitation.”
“Where my queen goes, I go,” Thistle replies.
That makes it at lot easier.
“Samuel is coming with us,” Ashlyn tells her.
“If that is what you wish.”
“We leave this Saturday and will return on Christmas Eve.”
The Wednesday after. Five days on another world. I rub the back of my neck. Five days to try and impress Ashlyn’s aunt.
“I shall be ready.” She dips her head.
“Thank you.” Ashlyn runs her hand down Thistle’s cheek and steps back. She closes the stall doors and we head out.
Belle rejoins us once we are out of the stables.
“Were you able you able to order a snow jacket?” Ashlyn asks.
“Yep. Got the shipping notice this morning. It is due to arrive on Friday.”
“Good.”
She stops near the chicken coop and Belle sits at her heel. I’d gladly stay and feed the chickens and collect eggs with her, but I have to get to work. I pause though. Just a few more seconds won’t hurt.
“So,” I say. “Snow jacket’s been ordered, Issy is booked, I’ve got my border pass and Thistle has been told. Anything else we need to do?”
Her chestnut hair falls loosely down her back. She takes a black band from her wrist and ties it into a ponytail. “Just packing, I guess.”
“Right. What should I pack?”
“Just clothes.” She taps my watch. “That won’t work, so leave it at home. Same goes for your phone.”
“Just clothes. Got it.”
We say our goodbyes and I drag myself to my ute. Leaving her now is tough. It’s going to be brutal having to leave her after spending five whole days with her.
Lord help me.
(Stay turned for chapter three!)
© Rochelle L. Sharpe, 2025.
Rochelle L. Sharpe 