I quickly drop the comic book on the bed and take a few steps backward. Benny’s father gave this to him. Benny has a father off fighting somewhere, just like I do. My stomach is doing flip-flops. This is why he reads and re-reads this comic so much, even though comic books are childish things. It is something to hold on to, something from before. And suddenly I miss my papa, my mama, and Marjorie, and the smell of apple pie on cold winter mornings.
I spin toward the mirror. “I don’t know if I can take this. It matters to him.”
But the horse is gone. Only my face looks back. Teeth a little uneven. Nose too red.
And then another face appears behind me, and I freeze. Unfortunately, this face is on my side of the mirror.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Benny snaps. He folds his arms, awaiting my answer.
I glance at the comic book from the corner of my eye, thankful that I put it back exactly where he left it. “None of your business.”
His expression darkens. “You’re supposed to be up in your room, not down here, snooping through…” He glances at his bed, and sees the book. “What are you up to, you little thief??”
“I’m not a thief!”
But my cheeks flame with the lie as I think of Jack’s toy train, and the princess’s belongings in the attic, and Dr. Turner’s medicine bottle.
Benny reaches suddenly for my pocket and pulls out the Horse Lord’s latest letter. I gasp and snatch for it, but he holds it over my head.
“What’s this, then?”
“It’s addressed to me!”
His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Who would write you a letter?” He unrolls it, reading it quickly.
“Give it back!”
But he holds me off with one bony hand while he finishes reading. Then he crumples it in his fist, turning to me with a sneer, and the rawboned hound is back. “The Horse Lord?” And then he starts laughing. I slap and claw at him, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He laughs so hard he has to wipe a tear out of his eye. “Who wrote this? Dr. Turner?”
“The Horse Lord is real! We’ve been writing to each other for weeks. I told you about the winged horses in the mirrors and in the garden. You didn’t believe me, but it’s true.”
His eyes waver as though he’s almost afraid what I’m saying is true and that he’s going to look like the fool for teasing me. But then he blinks. “Someone is playing a joke on you, Emmaline.”
“No.”
“It’s probably Dr. Turner. Only he could get paper this nice. But then again, Sister Mary Grace does have all that ribbon….”
“Ask Thomas,” I snap. “He’s seen the winged horses too.”
Benny’s face lights up. “Thomas! Of course. You dolt, Thomas is the one writing these letters. Only it isn’t a joke at all. It’s a trap.” His eyes go wide, as he holds the letter high out of my reach. I strain on tiptoes for it, and we spin around and around as he drops his voice. “Didn’t you listen to the stories? He’s trying to lure you into his cottage so he can make you into shepherd’s pie!”
“That isn’t true!” I’m screaming now, and the other children peek at us through the cracks in their doors. “Thomas can’t even write!”
“There is no Horse Lord. There are no winged horses. They’re all in your head.”
The angry words on my lips die. I stop spinning, legs weak, and collapse against the wall. A door squeaks as one of the children accidentally bumps it too hard. Benny glances up and sees our audience. For a second, he doesn’t seem to know what to do. A dozen hallway mirrors reflect his raised hand in the air, the Horse Lord’s letter crumpled in it, the red ribbon dangling.
He lets the letter fall and stomps on it with his shoe.
“Get to your room,” Benny commands. “And the rest of you, stay away from Thomas. I warned you.”
He glares at me with that hound-face of his, and then struts into his room and flops on his bed. He snatches up the Popeye comic book, flipping through the pages deliberately.
So orange.
As orange as his hair. As orange as fire.
They are all in your head.
Some of the children snicker. I hear giggling about flying horses and make-believe princes. The mirrors are all empty now. But the horses were there. The one with the gray snip on his nose, who led me to Benny’s comic book. He was real. And the letter…No. It can’t be.
I fall to my knees and try to smooth the letter out the best I can, but the writing is smudged from Benny’s shoe. I feel the urge to cry. The red ribbon is torn. I eye it sidelong, wiping away the start of tears. Is it like the spools in Sister Mary Grace’s sewing kit? And the paper…is it like Dr. Turner’s prescription forms? But no, his forms are perforated. These have crisp edges.
Benny is wrong. Benny doesn’t know the first thing about winged horses.