The Secret Horses of Briar Hill

My lungs are feeling heavy. It is difficult to draw anything but a shallow breath. But I fight past the feeling, and snatch the altar cloth. It slips like silk beneath my fingers as I ball it up and stash it under my coat, and then slam the closet door. The rest of the objects—the nightgown, engine, and beads—weigh down my pockets.

“Emmaline?”

Sister Mary Grace, in the chapel doorway, peers at me curiously. She is wearing heavy men’s boots that are caked in dried mud, and there is a bucket of sheep’s milk in one hand. “What are you doing in here?”

I know now why foxes sometimes freeze when the hunting dogs chase them. It is because any direction they run might be the wrong one. “I just…” I gape. “I was just…praying.”

She raises an eyebrow. “With your coat on?”

I swallow hard, thinking. “I couldn’t find my sweater and I was cold.”

“Well.” She seems a bit uncertain, but the pail is getting heavy in her hand. “Praying is…good. But you should do so in your room. You don’t want Sister Constance to catch you out and about.”

She goes down the hallway, casting one last look over her shoulder. Once she turns the corner, I scramble through the library window and then take off across the field to the gardens. Bog barks from the barn, but I shush him and keep running, and then scale up the ivy. It’s hard to climb with just one arm, the other one holding the cloth so it doesn’t get snagged. But I manage, and drop down on the other side.

Foxfire swivels her head at me.

“I hope you’re grateful for this,” I say. “I was nearly caught.” But looking at her, I know it was worth it.

I shake out the beautiful purple cloth. In the sunlight, it shines even brighter. Foxfire seems taken with it, and she comes closer through the mud to inspect it. I take off my mittens and tie the cloth’s corners carefully to the ivy, making sure it doesn’t drape in the mud. Next to the red ribbon and the yellow bottle, I string up the turquoise necklace and the green toy train and, blushing, the ladies’ nightgown. This has officially become the most colorful corner of the hospital grounds.

I reach out and pat Foxfire on the nose, then nuzzle my own nose into her neck and breathe in her horse smell. “See? Your wing looks better already. It’ll be healed in plenty of time for me to get this cloth back by next Sunday.”

I write the Horse Lord another note.

Dear Horse Lord,

It worked! At this rate, Foxfire is going to be safe until she is a creaky old knock-kneed mare—how long do winged horses live, anyway? I am only missing two colors now, blue and orange. I’ve hung up all the other objects, even the pink ladies’ nightgown. (Which was embarrassing!)

Truly,

Emmaline May

Post script: Your handwriting was shaky in your letter. I hope nothing is the matter. Please write back.

I start to climb back up the ivy, but something tugs at my coat. Foxfire, nipping at the hem. I drop back down. She stamps her hoof, impatiently.

“I don’t have any more apples. I’m sorry.”

She stamps her hoof again, and then noses at my shoulder, hard enough to push me back against the ivy. The air whooshes out of me.

“Hey, watch it, I—”

She noses me again, harder. It truly hurts this time. The Horse Lord needs to teach his horse some manners! I’m about to give her a good shove, when a shadow passes over the garden. Whoosh. At first I think it’s just another cloud crossing the sun’s path. But it flickers. It has wings stretched far like an airplane, but then the wings pull in, and draw out again.

I tilt my head toward the sky, filled with dread. The shadow is gone now, but Foxfire and I both know what it was.

THE BLACK HORSE.

I turn to Foxfire with a gasp. “You were trying to warn me, weren’t you?”

She noses me again toward the wall of ivy. She is a smart horse. She knows that is how I can get to safety—but I shake my head.

“I’m not going to leave you.” I pull her closer against the wall, and raise the corner of the altar cloth to hide us both under. I know the Black Horse can’t see us because it is daylight, but he can still smell. The altar cloth holds the church’s scent of incense, and, with luck, it is enough to mask our own. I wrap my arms midway around Foxfire’s neck and close my eyes. Our warm breaths mix together beneath the tent of the altar cloth.

Is he there, flying overhead?

But then, footsteps sound on the other side of the garden wall. Maybe it is Thomas, walking through the fallen leaves. But no, it is Thomas’s day off, and after church he goes to Wick.