The Pitchfork
You grab the rusty pitchfork off the wall and hold it out in front of you like a knight's lance, which would work better if it weren't taller than you are and wobbling.
The unicorn looks at the pitchfork. Then at you. Then at the pitchfork again.
“That,” she says, in a voice like tired silver bells, “is for hay.”
“It's for emergencies,” you say with dignity, and put it down, because honestly it was getting heavy, and because nothing with a voice that sad was ever going to hurt you.
“Wise,” says the unicorn. “Besides — if I meant you harm, Madison, a garden tool would not save you. And if you mean me harm, you are the politest hunter I have ever met.” She shifts in the straw, wincing, and you see the grey wound along her flank. “My name is Seraphina. Sera. And I am in a great deal of trouble.”