But if it wasn’t her…
The willow stick still rests on the fountain. I take a careful step to the left, moving very slowly so I do not scare her, and break up the frozen water again so that she can drink, and then set the stick back down. Mud has dulled her color. Beneath it, I know she is as white as chicken feathers, and just as soft. I ache to brush away the dirt and press my cheek to her side, feel the rise and fall of her breath, tend to her hurt wing like Mama does whenever I have a bruise. Her eyes are still wide, but they have stopped rolling. She lifts her right foot, and then sets it down.
Papa says you cannot rush a horse to be broken, or else it will be just that—broken.
We stand looking at one another, each of us taking in the other. I do not come closer, and she does not panic. We are just two warm bodies in the snow. I have heard that horses can smell whether a person is gentle or not. I imagine it is a scent like flowers, maybe lavender or Russian sage, but not roses, because even horses know that roses have thorns.
A gust of wind blows, and something flutters beneath the sundial. Paper. Someone has tucked a note beneath the sundial’s golden arm. Who else has been here? Did Benny finally get up the courage? Or the three little mice?
I tiptoe through the snow at the speed of growing ivy, until I can pull out the paper.
It is soggy with snow. It’s been here all morning, I think. The paper is thick, like the kind Dr. Turner uses for his prescriptions, but there is a silken red ribbon tied around it. I glance at the horse. She is watching me, breathing steam, as I untie it with numb fingers.
To whoever receives this message,
I am in desperate need of assistance. I have brought this horse to your world because her wing is broken, and I need a safe place to hide her. You see, she is being pursued by a dark and sinister force from our world—a Black Horse who hunts by smell and moonlight—and she cannot fly away to escape him. My own crossings between worlds are limited, and I would be forever in your debt if you would watch over her until I can return.
Ride true,
The Horse Lord
Postscript: Her name is Foxfire. She likes apples.
A letter from the world behind the mirrors! The Horse Lord himself—I didn’t even know there was a Horse Lord! Wind pushes at the letter. It is so cold that my eyes water and make the script swim, but I blink away the cold and read it again. No wonder she hasn’t touched my turnips—she likes apples. The handwriting is careful and lovely, with little flourishes at the ends of the t’s just like Anna makes. In my excitement, I crumple the letter accidentally, and then smooth it out the best I can.
“Foxfire?” I say to the winged horse. “That’s your name?”
She doesn’t answer; but then again, she is a horse. She turns toward the fountain. I step back. She comes forward cautiously, dipping her head to drink. Her muscles ripple beneath snow-white horseflesh. There are no markings on her girth or back from where a saddle would rub. She is wild, and too proud to have a master, so I think the Horse Lord must be more like a guardian. I imagine him to be a young and handsome prince, who takes care of the wild winged horses of his world.
She is closer now, as she drinks. I can see the muscles of her neck moving. If I took a few steps forward and reached out a hand, I could touch her. But I don’t. She wouldn’t let me, not yet. I have to earn her trust.
A dark shadow passes overhead. The same silent shadow as before, with outstretched wings, that I mistook for a German plane. Foxfire looks up through the snow. Her ears turn back. Somehow, we are linked—I feel her fear within me.
Overhead the shadow is circling, circling.
Only now I recognize the outline. The horses I’ve seen in the mirrors have been all different colors: white and dappled and chocolate brown, but never black. Until now. Flying through the storm like thunder embodied, circling like a crow, searching for Foxfire.
This is the dark presence the Horse Lord warned against. The gnashing beast on the roof.
The Black Horse.
I flip over the Horse Lord’s letter and take out my chalk, still in my pocket from last night. It makes fat lines, but I don’t need to say much.
I accept.—Emmaline May
I STAND OUTSIDE of the barn with my arms hugged tightly around my chest. Inside, someone is pounding a hammer. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. I take a deep breath and push open the door.
Thomas sees me and stops repairing the broken kitchen bench, which he has already repaired three times before. He’s sweating with the effort and his dark hair is smeared across his face and I suddenly don’t want to be here, but I promised the Horse Lord.
“Did you need something, Emmaline?”