Minutes later, as his wife stomped into the bedchamber, and G then mimed the action of a man carrying a woman across the threshold, he decided that the bedchamber was not the appropriate place to disclose his secret. Too quiet.
After that, the only other possible time to tell her would’ve been the few seconds between the act of stripping off his boots and then falling downward, and he happily would’ve told her then, only his lips were smashed against the wooden slats of the floor before he could get the words out.
But he’d promised the king he would tell Jane, and a promise was a promise. So just before the world went dark, he said, against the floor, “Mah Lavy? I ammmm a horrrrrrfffff.”
“Pardon me?” Jane’s voice came from somewhere in the black clouds behind his lids.
He could not repeat himself. Besides, it wasn’t his fault his wife couldn’t understand plain English.
G wasn’t sure what awakened him. Perhaps the distant sound of servants beginning breakfast preparations in the kitchen. They always started so early.
Or maybe it was the sound of soft breathing coming from the bed above him. G was not used to sharing a bedchamber with another person, although at the moment, because of his hazy brain, he couldn’t remember exactly who it was.
Or perhaps it was the gray tones of the impending dawn.
Dawn.
DAWN!
G threw off the blanket covering him (his new wife must have draped it over him at some point during the night) and using the fringe hanging down the side of the headboard tapestry, he pulled himself up.
Jane was asleep, her red hair splayed out over the pillow like a halo of fire. G paused for a moment, admiring the soft swell of her cheekbones, and wondered why he had not previously noticed that her neck curved in a very delicate and appropriate way as it connected to her shoulder. He would have to include that particular body part in his poem about her pout.
Dawn, he reminded himself. It was moments away.
G reached out and jostled her shoulder. The change was so close, he could feel it. Jane moaned and shook off his hand.
“My lady, wake up!” She didn’t respond. “Jane!” he shouted louder, nudging her.
She turned toward his voice and her eyes fluttered. “It is not morning,” she said.
“Yes, it is. What do you think that light through yonder window is? I must warn you of something, and it really is not extraordinarily consequential, but it can be rather alarming if you’re not prepared for it—” Why was he using so many words? Why hadn’t he practiced this speech? He’d barely ever said two words to her in a row, and now suddenly he was using all the words. “You’ve heard of that ancient, some would say beautiful, magic of our ancestors—” Uh-oh. It was too late. In one swoop, he was standing over her, much taller than he’d been a moment ago.
Jane’s eyes went wide. She scooted to the farthest edge of the bed and brought her fingers to her lips. “Wha—?”
G stepped backward, his hindquarters smashing up against the wall. This bedchamber was certainly not made with a horse (on his wedding night) in mind. Originally he had planned on sharing his equestrian news, gently excusing himself just before dawn, and trotting down to the stables. Of course, that plan would have required significantly less ale.
Jane furrowed her brows. “Gifford?”
It’s G, he thought, but then he remembered he hadn’t had the time or the mental acuity to tell her to call him G. He threw his head back and let it drop again in what he hoped would look like a nod.
She raised a gentle hand toward his face. G leaned down and sniffed her palm and then the curves of her fingers, his equestrian instincts taking over. He caught a whiff of wine on her wrist, surely left over from the night before, and used his horse lips to try to draw out the remnants.
Oh, no, he thought. I just nibbled on her wrist. He couldn’t help it, though. The wine had been particularly aromatic last night. (He would have to ask the servants which year was used.) But before he did anything else, he had to force himself to stop nibbling her wrist. He needed a distraction from the smell of wine, so he lowered his head to the table next to the bed, and promptly ate the bridal bouquet. There. That would satisfy his nibbling for the time being.
When he was finished, Jane sighed and gathered up the torn stems of what was once a bundle of White Roses of York and a dozen cowslips. G remembered because his mother had picked them out specifically, having pledged her troth holding a similar bouquet when she’d married G’s father.
“You are an E?ian?” Something between awe and yearning appeared on Jane’s face.
G gave his best nod.
Jane set the stems down on the table and turned back to G. “You must tell me everything. How did you get the magic? When did it first appear?”
G tried to follow her questions, but a sensuous odor wafted into the bedchamber, filling his large nostrils and making his mouth water.
He sniffed loudly and whinnied.
“Gifford? Are you listening to me?” Jane’s voice cut through his preoccupation with his olfactory senses.