“Come now, little master.” Rimbaud looked up. He had been sitting on the stone step of the church, hands dangling between his thighs, head bowed. The beadle had slipped up on him unawares. “Why so sad? It’s a beautiful day. You should be out romping in the fields with the other boys.”

“It’s my unicorn, sir.” Rimbaud reached over and stroked his unicorn’s pure white flanks. “He’s sick.” More...