The Secret Horses of Briar Hill

Something nudges me from behind.

I turn and gasp. Foxfire is right behind me. Her muzzle is poised to nudge my shoulder again, her warm horse-breath on my neck, her ears swiveled forward. I dare not move, afraid to spook her. She dips her head, horse-lips searching the folds of my coat, until she reaches my pocket. When she discovers that it is empty except for chalk, she snorts.

“I’ll bring you another apple soon,” I say when I can find my words. “And I’ll collect colors to protect you. I won’t let the Black Horse get you. I promise.”

Slowly, slowly, I lift my bare hand.

I bring it down on her muzzle. A single touch. I feel her velvet coat, her gentle warmth. She is so powerful. And then she tosses her head and prances off to her corner of the garden and watches me.

I smile.

It is a start.

I flip over the letter, and write on the back:

Dear Horse Lord,

I was afraid that I’d forgotten all the colors of the rainbow, but I know just where I can find them again. You can count on me.

Truly,

Emmaline May

ANNA’S COLORED PENCILS were a gift from Dr. Turner.

Anna has been at Briar Hill longer than any of the rest of us. She came two years ago on the first trains rumbling through the countryside. She brought two beaten-up suitcases with her. One was full of winter coats and stockings that her mother had packed. The other was full of naturalist books—that one she had packed herself. Sister Constance said Anna used to like to wander the gardens, like me, long before they were eaten by ivy. She would sit on a bench and read and read and read amid the spring flowers. But then the stillwaters got worse with the summer rains, and by August she was bedridden. She couldn’t see the flowers anymore. Dr. Turner brought her the pencils so she could draw them. I don’t think anyone has ever told her that all the flowers have long since died.

I knock on her door.

“Come in.”

Her voice is tired.

I push open the door, and she smiles and pats the bed, but I don’t climb up. There is a handkerchief in her hand that is primly folded, mostly hidden in her palm, and I wonder if there is blood inside. She has the mirror on her nightstand tilted away from her face. In its reflection, I can just make out winged horses beyond the mirror-window, grazing in the dead grass, with their wings folded tightly against the wind.

The winged horses are stirring.

“May I see your colored pencils?” I ask.

At first, I had thought to use the pencils for the spectral shield. But I could never take Anna’s beloved pencils away from her, not even to save Foxfire. And besides, the Horse Lord said the objects had to be large enough to be seen from a distance. But they can still help me remember the colors of the rainbow. They can be my guide.

Anna leans forward to open the secret desk drawer, and the motion stirs the stillwaters. Murkiness rises in her lungs, and she muffles a cough. She takes out the box of colored pencils and some paper, but I shake my head.

“I don’t need paper.”

She gives me a curious look, but doesn’t ask. She sets the box on the bed. Anna is nothing if not organized, and the eight pencils are arranged just as the manufacturer boxed them, a spectrum of rainbow colors.

845-CARMINE RED

848-BLUSH PINK

849-TANGERINE ORANGE

863-CANARY YELLOW

865-EMERALD GREEN

867-SEA TURQUOISE