The unicorn, minus a horn, stood in the moonlight, at my back door. A jagged stump protruded from his forehead. I heard his voice in my head. "May I come in, Madeleine?"
       "Whoa, beastie boy," I said. "I'm hallucinating. You're nothing but a mythological phallic symbol, and gallons of sewage have flowed under the bridge since I was a hormonal adolescent. Frankly, I'm not in the mood."
       Silver tears glistened in his large black eyes, trickled down his nose, and splashed onto my concrete path. "But I'm an injured beast, you're a veterinary surgeon, and you took an oath."
       I sighed and beckoned him in. This was a quandary. I'd staunched wounds, removed foreign bodies from, and probed every orifice of creatures ranging from Irish wolfhounds the size of small elephants to unspeakable things that small boys keep in matchboxes. An anthropomorphic manifestation with a broken horn was, however, outside my area of expertise.
       I led him into my treatment room, positioned his head under the light, and examined the stump. "How did you lose your protuberance?"
       "I was ambushed by poachers and de-horned."
       "What possible use could they have for it?"
       "Are you kidding? There's a fortune to be made selling powdered unicorn horn on the Dark Web."
       "Spare me the details. I'd rather not explore the murkier depths of the human psyche. Is there any chance it'll grow back?"
       "That's up to you, Madeleine. We've both been injured. There's a link between us. If you can heal yourself, so can I."
       "There's no cure for what ails me."
       "Of course there is, girl. All you need to do is see the fly-bitten codpiece that you married for what he is and be thankful that he dumped you."
       "I'm not discussing him. The best I can do for you is to mix a dollop of dental stone, make a cast of the stump, and find someone who can manufacture a prosthesis to attach to it."
       "Ask the Caledonian lad next door. He's good with his hands."
       "You mean Rab? How do you know him?"
       "I know everything that you know, including things you don't know that you know. I told you, we're linked."
       I refused to believe this was really happening, but his pleading eyes compelled me to mix the plaster and make the cast.
       When it was complete, I led him to the backdoor. "I can't promise anything, but I'll take it to Rab tomorrow."
       "He'll do it. I'll come back when it's ready." He trotted outside. A cloud crossed the face of the moon, and he vanished.
       I left the cast on my treatment table, climbed the stairs to my living quarters above the surgery, and flopped into bed. The unicorn's manifestation had somehow lessened my disillusionment with the world and everything in it, and I slept better than I had since I lost my faith in human nature.
       Next morning, before my first patients arrived, I took the cast next door to the business premises occupied by Robert MacEllen, known locally as Dundee Rab. The sign in the window said, "Wood Works!" Smaller script underneath said, "Bespoke furniture and ornamental creations. Enquire within".
       I stepped inside. The workshop smelled of Wheeler's Traditional Beeswax, and I fancied I could taste sawdust in the air. Rab sat at his bench, rubbing wood stain into a lifelike metre-high statuette of Nelson Mandela. Its outstretched arms and one foot raised, ready to break into dance, captured the great leader's exuberance and love of life.
       "I'm sorry to interrupt you, Rab," I said, "but a need a favour."
       He turned towards me. His left cheek was smeared with wood stain, and his long hair was tied back with a frayed shoelace. "Dinna fash yersel, Maddie," he said. "I owe ye a guid turn for helpin' oot wee Nicola." I'd removed wood splinters from his cat, Nicola's paw, without charge, when he had a cash-flow problem. "Wha' cannae do for ye?"
       "It's for a friend." I showed him the cast. "Can you make a prosthesis to fit that?"
       He examined it, "That's a helluva broken tuth yer friend has."
       "It's not a tooth; it's a horn." He raised his eyebrows. I told a half-truth. "It snapped off a unicorn."
       "Wha'wiz it made from?"
       I shrugged. "Dunno. What are unicorns usually made from?"
       "Moonlight, according to my auld granny, and I widnae argue wi' her."
       "Assuming you don't have any moonlight in stock, what's the next best thing?"
       "Maple, strong but light, wid mak a bonnie horn. I'll hae it ready tomorrow. Noo skedaddle aff and I'll get tae."
       I thanked him and skedaddled aff.
       Next day, in my lunch hour, ignoring an inner voice telling me that a unicorn with a broken horn was a fantasy caused by reading the wrong kind of books, I returned to "Wood Works!" Wee Nicola lay, on the roof of a semi-constructed birdhouse, curled into a ball of black fur rising and falling with each soft snore. I called, "Rab, I've come for the horn. Is it ready?"
       He emerged from his storeroom. "Och aye, Maddie, but ye might wanna rephrase that. Folk might take it the wrong way."
       I stifled the urge to giggle. I'm not a woman who's given to giggling, so I deduced that this bizarre situation was causing me to behave out of character. He handed me the horn. I ran my fingers over the smooth surface. It felt warm to my touch. "It's beautiful," I said.
       "D'ye ken yer friend will be pleased?"
       "He'd better be."
       He shuffled his feet and coughed, "Er, I hope ye dinnae mind ma askin', but are ye and he-?"
       "No. He's not that kind of friend."
       He stopped shuffling. "Weil then, wid ye fancy chummin' me for a night oot on the skite?"
       Time seemed to slow down. He looked at me in a way I hadn't been looked at for a long time. It didn't displease me, but I'd forgotten how to react. My face felt hot. I was sure I was blushing. I looked away to compose myself. Wee Nicola opened one yellow eye and glared at me as if she were challenging me to accept Rab's invitation. I returned her glare. She yawned, licked her paw, and slipped back into slumber. I turned to Rab, and time righted itself. "Yes," I mumbled. "I'd like that. Must go. Surgery..." I fled.
       What have I done? I said to myself. I can't go for a night out with anyone. It's too risky. Maybe he won't mention it again. If he does, I'll make some excuse.
       I reached the safety of my front door and breathed easily. Three clients were sitting in the waiting room: an aged lady with a cage containing an unconscious hamster, a tattooed biker with a snake draped around his shoulders and a small boy with a matchbox. They glanced at the wooden horn, and the biker winked at me.
       Somehow, I managed to get through the afternoon without killing anyone's beloved pet, but I was unsettled. I'd made a cocoon for myself in which I felt safe, and I didn't want to come out. Not yet.
       After I closed the surgery, I rummaged through my bits and pieces cupboard and found a tube of Superglue. The label claimed it would stick anything to anything. I hoped it could cope with maple to moonlight. I also found a tin of silver paint. I'd used it to beautify a cluster of pinecones for a festive table setting the first Christmas after I was married. I hadn't bothered with them since.
       When the moon shone through the window, I opened the backdoor, and the unicorn trotted in. I held the horn against his stump. It was a perfect fit. I smeared it with Superglue and pressed it in place for a few minutes. When I was confident that it was stuck fast, I painted it silver and gave it a blast with my hairdryer. "What do you think?" I asked him.
       "It'll do for now. Climb on my back; we need to take a journey."
       "To where?"
       "Back to a time when you believed life was worth living, and you weren't afraid to live it."
        I remembered the statuette of the dancing Mandela, and in spite of my fear, I longed to experience that joyous spontaneity again. I followed the unicorn outside, sat astride him, and entangled my fingers in his mane. He leaped forward, and the moonlight swirled around us.
       We emerged through the clouds over the docklands in the city where I grew up. The moon made silver ripples on the black river and lit up the Welsh mountains on the horizon. I saw myself as a child, walking along the waterfront with my grandfather. I heard him telling me the story of a dragon that flew from the mountains and across the river. The Liver Bird had screeched out a warning to the citizens to defend themselves or be devoured in their beds. He showed me where the bird still stood, upon the Liver Building's domed roof, on guard against incoming Welsh dragons. I held my grandfather's hand, feeling safe and unafraid. The world was good.
       The unicorn and I sped through time to my teenage years. We were immersed in the city centre sounds and smells of the cellar clubs and coffee bars. I watched myself enacting time-honoured courtship rituals, and I saw my chosen mate choice placing a diamond ring on my finger.
       The unicorn took me to the parish church of Saint Anne. I heard my mate, and I make vows that I intended to keep, but he didn't. I watched the wedding party emerge from the church. My white gown defined me as innocent and untouched by lust. I wasn't. My family and friends were arrayed in the best that the summer sales in Primark and New Look could offer. My infant bridesmaids in their frothy concoctions bounced around me like lilac marsh mallows, and Uncle Ian, in need of liquid sustenance, fumbled for his hipflask. My father, who detested the bridegroom, wore the suit he usually reserved for funerals, and Auntie Rita's wide-brimmed hat wouldn't have looked out of place at the OK Corral. We arranged ourselves in preparation for the wedding photographs. My new husband lit a cigarette.
       The photographer scowled and told him to put it out. He did, but not before he'd accidentally burned a small hole in my veil. My father shook his head, and I tried to ignore his pitying glance. He'd seen more than I had. Less than two years after our wedding day, my husband would walk out of my life forever. I'd sell my engagement and wedding rings, donate the proceeds to a shelter for survivors of domestic abuse, divorce him, ditch his name, and take back my own. My physical injuries would heal, but the mental scars wouldn't. I looked at him now, sulking and fidgeting in the photographer's line-up. The shadow of Auntie Rita's hat obscured his face. I tried to picture his features, but the only image my mind would construct was that of a young man with a wood stain smear across his left cheek and his long hair tied back with a frayed shoelace. I smiled.
       The unicorn said, "Are you ready to go home, Madeleine?"
       "Yes," I said. "Are you?"
       "Yes."
       We stood at my backdoor, and I climbed down from his back. The wooden prosthesis clattered onto my path, and his newly grown moonlight horn glowed silver. "We're both cured," he said.
       I picked up the discarded substitute. "What shall I do with this?"
       He nuzzled my neck and whispered in my head, "Take it back to Rab. He'll find a use for a serviceable piece of wood."
       Once again, a cloud crossed the face of the moon, and the mythical beast vanished.