He wanted to answer that of course he wasn’t listening to her. She obviously wasn’t the source of the scent.
He stamped his right hoof on the wooden floor, hoping the lady would understand the simplest of horse signals.
“Change back so you can speak to me,” Jane said. “Please.”
But to G, it sounded like wah wah wah and wah wah wah, for all he could focus on was the smell in the air.
Apples, G thought.
He closed his eyes and shook his mane.
With a helping of . . . hay.
The door to the bedchamber squeaked open an inch, and the aroma intensified. G turned away from the lady, who was apparently still talking because her mouth was moving, and toward the door.
“Lady Jane?” It was Billingsly’s voice coming through.
Jane pulled the bedcovers up to her neck. “Yes?”
“It’s Billingsly, my lady. I believe Lord G is still within the room? I am here to help.”
“Please come in,” Jane said.
Billingsly entered carrying an apple in one hand and clutching stalks of hay in the other. G released a full-blown neigh at the sight.
Billingsly held out the apple and G latched on to it with his teeth, the succulent juices dripping onto his tongue.
“There’s a good boy,” Billingsly said, scratching G’s neck.
Before he could consider how it would look to Jane, G nuzzled Billingsly’s cheek in response. He quickly pulled back and shook out his mane, in what he hoped was a very dignified manner. Yes, he was a horse, but he was still a man. Except anatomically. And he would be treated accordingly, with the utmost respect.
“Here, boy,” Billingsly said, dangling the hay in front of G’s nose and then tossing the bundle into the far corner of the room. “Fetch!”
G sauntered over to the corner and began chewing.
“I asked him to change back to talk to me, but he won’t,” Jane said. “It’s disrespectful to remain a horse in the bedchamber, I should think.”
Considering what had to have been a monumental shock, she seemed to be taking the equestrian news rather well.
“My lady, Lord G does not have the ability to change as he pleases. He is a horse from sunup to sundown.”
“Does not have the ability? I’ve read about E?ians who undergo their initial change in moments of great emotion, but the ability to control it can be learned through focused training. All it requires is determination and discipline. Perhaps Gifford simply lacks that, but I would be pleased to help. I’ve quite a knowledge of E?ians.”
And, good feelings gone. He blew a raspberry toward her and she flinched.
“I’m sorry, did I offend the beast?” Jane said.
“My lady, you might consider leaving the bedchamber to Lord G for the day.”
Her lips pressed together. “Why should I be the one to leave?”
“Because Lord G, in his present state, cannot fit through the door.”
(This was true, for the average size of a human being during this age was much shorter than it is today, and the doorframes reflected that.)
At this, G looked frantically about for escape options. The window was nearly large enough for him to leap through; however, they were at least fifty feet above the ground, and horses were not known for their ability to absorb the impact of a fifty-foot free fall.
G scraped his hoof along the floorboards, as if he were a bull looking to charge. The only problem was, he had nowhere to go. He snorted. With no place to run, the curse was feeling very much like a prison as opposed to its usual feeling of freedom.
“My lady, Lord G has an affinity for running when he is in this condition. And now that he is trapped here for the day, and he has eaten . . .”
Jane held her hand up. “Say no more, Billingsly.” She turned toward the horse. “Lord Gifford. It seems fitting that you be relegated to your room all day, considering your behavior last night. Perhaps the confinement will provide the impetus you need to develop the ability to control your gift.”
Gift. G’s nostrils flared. There’s no controlling it, he thought. And call me G!
He spent the day pacing. He knew this situation was only temporary, and that he would not be trapped in this room forever, but for G, running across the countryside, tethered to nothing, was an essential part of his soul. He often wondered if that was how he got the curse in the first place. Something deep inside of him yearned to run, to break free of the disappointment his parents displayed toward him. Not only was he the second, and therefore unimportant son—the one without the esteemed nose—but as he grew up, he was always “wasting” his time reading poetry and plays. Rubbish, his father had called it. As a boy of thirteen, he’d skipped out on his fencing classes to read under a tree behind Durham House. When his father caught him and threatened severe punishment, G had run across the field, down the road leading away from London, and didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the dark forest.