She is there.
I feel my chest lift with relief and the wonder of her.
She is standing in the lee of the highest wall, the only protection from the snow, though it isn’t much. Her wings are tucked into her sides but pulsing slightly, as if she wants to take off but can’t. Puffs of steam blow from her nostrils. Her feet are nimble and anxious, as though she’s never walked in snow.
No, this is not familiar to her. Whatever snow is like in her world, it isn’t this stretch of colorless blank.
I step on an old turnip and yelp, and her head swivels toward me.
Her eyes are so wide that I can see the whites of them. She skitters back into the corner, and she paws harder, boxed in. I hold my hands out so she knows I am no threat.
“Easy. Easy.”
Sometimes our horses back in Nottingham would get spooked. They were used to storms, but not bombs. Their eyes would roll, and they would kick the doors of their stalls, wanting to be set free. But Papa was away at war, and we couldn’t let them out or they would run wild through the streets and never come home. Marjorie would climb into bed with me an
d hold me tight, singing in my ear so we wouldn’t hear their cries.
I try to take a step forward, but the winged horse snorts in protest. She has pawed the snow in her corner of the garden into a muddy mess. But her prints are small and dainty, not at all like the rough marks on the roof.
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.