Jane
Jane was alone. At least, as she awakened the morning after her rather eventful night with Gifford, she didn’t hear the sounds of his breathing. Horse breathing or otherwise.
She checked over the side of the bed to find his blanket nest empty. He must have crept out just before dawn.
She leaned back on the pillows and closed her eyes, thinking about the adventure they’d shared, the gratitude they’d witnessed, and the laughter that had come from both of them. He’d made her laugh. She’d made him laugh. And the cutting little remarks that had defined their relationship thus far had possessed an almost friendly quality.
A thrum of pounding hooves sounded outside. Her heart thundered in response, anxious. Last night had been so— She searched for just the right word. Not magical. Not pleasant.
Satisfying. They’d done something. They’d helped those people. But now it was light out and Gifford was a horse once again. The magic (maybe it had been a little bit magical) of last night was over, burned away with the sun’s heat.
Jane rolled out of bed and found her trunks had been unpacked. Her dresses hung in wardrobes, all perfectly arranged. For a moment, she considered calling in a maid to help put her together, but she changed her mind and chose a simple dress to wear today. When she was presentable, she took a book—The Formation of Mountains and the Balance Achieved in Valleys: a Theory of E?ian Magic in the Mundane World—and a small sack of breakfast foods outside.
Gifford was running in the meadow, head tossed back and mane streaming in the wind. His tail was flagged, dark and glossy in the early summer day. In motion, he was a creature of complete beauty: his legs stretching out before and behind him, lifting him, carrying him across the grassy land.
As Jane approached a broad-trunked apple tree, Gifford switched directions and trotted toward her, snorting. She bent to place her book and breakfast on a large, protruding root, and when she straightened, Gifford stood a few feet away, watching her with those dark horse eyes.
“Good morning.” She held out a hand and approached him.
He sniffed, soft whiskers brushing her palm, and allowed her to pet his smooth, flat cheek. It was easier to touch him when he was a horse. As a horse, he, one, couldn’t talk back, and two, seemed less human and therefore was less intimidating. Which made her preferring him like this more awkward, considering they were married, but having a preference at all seemed like a step in the right direction.
“There’s something I wanted to tell you.”
He adjusted so that she rubbed between his ears, then gave a little shake as if instructing her to scratch.
She obliged. “I was thinking about the E?ian attack last night, and your actions. Or, rather, what I perceived as your inactions.”
Gifford angled his head so she’d scratch at the base of one ear. Was he even listening? Could he really listen, in this form?
That made it easier to keep going.
“When I saw those people in trouble, I wanted to help them. I had no idea what I’d do, though. I couldn’t have fought off the Pack. I couldn’t have saved their cow. And if I’d gone in all highborn, as you put it, they might have been offended. I hadn’t even considered that, but you did.
“I thought you were trying to prevent me from taking action, but the truth was that you were protecting me from myself. You prevented me from climbing down rocks I had no business trying to climb, and prevented me from confronting E?ians I had no power to stop.”
Gifford didn’t appear to be listening. Finished with the ear scratching, he’d wandered toward her breakfast and was nosing through the bag.
Jane sighed. “What I’m trying to say is that I appreciate what you did, but don’t expect me to ever say it again. I hope you’re paying attention.”
The stallion snorted in triumph as he pulled an apple from the bag, the red fruit pinned between his teeth. He tossed it into the air, caught it, and gobbled the whole thing down within seconds.
“I was going to eat that,” she said, not that Gifford even bothered to look ashamed. She shooed him away—“Go run”—and sat down on the tree root to read and eat her breakfast, but instead, Gifford lowered himself to lie next to her, his front legs tucked to one side. He watched while she propped the book on her knees and started to read, carefully keeping crumbs away.
She was halfway through The Formation of Mountains and the Balance Achieved in Valleys: a Theory of E?ian Magic in the Mundane World when Gifford nipped at the corner of the page she was turning.
“No chewing the books,” she reminded him, and offered him another apple, which he inhaled immediately. But when she dropped her face to read again, he nudged the book with his nose and stared at her. She glanced up. “What? Use your words.”
He blinked and nudged the book again.
“You want me to . . . read to you?”