The Secret Horses of Briar Hill

MARJORIE IS SITTING ON the edge of my bed, wearing her yellow raincoat, reading Benny’s comic book. She smells like fresh apple pie and cinnamon, and oh, I have missed that smell. I have missed her. My sister. I try to sit up, but my head is so heavy that I crash right back down against the pillows. The attic feels too warm. I want to throw off the covers, but Marjorie is sitting on them firmly.

“That comic…” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. The stillwaters beast has shredded my throat. “Put it back. Keep it hidden….”

She flips a page and smiles at a drawing of Popeye riding a camel. “You worry too much, Em. You always worried too much.” She flips another page. My head feels like only half of it is there, but where would the other half be? And why is Marjorie wearing a raincoat indoors? When I sit up, my body careens to the left, and then to the right, and it feels like the entire attic is on the back of a camel, swaying and swaying. The stillwaters clump in my throat like rotting leaves in a marsh, and I know—I know—the beast is down there, waiting. I rub the center of my chest.

Marjorie tilts the comic book to show me a drawing of Olive Oyl tumbling down a sand dune. I press a hand to my head. The pages ruffle, showing the inscription.

Love, Dad.

“Marjorie.” My lips are so dry. “How did you get here?”

Marjorie didn’t board the first trains out of Nottingham. Neither did I. We both stood in front of our house, watching the neighbors dragging heavy suitcases toward the station, their faces somber, their parents trying not to cry. The night before they left, my mother sat us down around the dining room table. “Many children are leaving the cities,” she said. “Their parents believe it is safer in the country. But you must understand, girls, no place is safe anymore. Your father is not safe in Libya. Your uncle is not saf

e in London, working with the air chief marshal’s offices. And so we will stay together, the three of us. We will do ourselves the work your father and the bakery boys did. We will look out for each other. Marjorie, you will take care of Emmaline, and Emmaline, you will take care of Marjorie.” She paused, and then gave my hand another squeeze. “But I will take care of you both a little extra, because I am your mother, and you will always be my two special rabbits.”

Marjorie flips another page.

I can’t stop coughing. I paw at the corner of the quilt, pressing it against my mouth, trying to hold in the stillwaters, but there is no stopping something like that.

Marjorie watches, and shakes her head sadly.

“Mother was right,” she says. “No place is safe anymore.”

IN MY DREAMS I hear Benny. I know it was you, you thief. Marjorie comes and goes. She always wears her yellow raincoat. And then, suddenly, she is a black ghost with a white face, only it isn’t her at all anymore, but Sister Mary Grace in her nun’s habit.

She strokes my head.

“Shh,” Sister Mary Grace says. “Try to rest, child.”

There is someone else in the doorway. Muddy red hair and a muddy red sweater.

“It’s all right, Benedict,” Sister Mary Grace says. “You can go. She’s waking up now.”

He looks at me—wide eyes, no hint of his usual sneer—and then quickly looks down and leaves through the open door.

“He came and got me right away, and wouldn’t leave until you woke. Now, try to drink some tea.” Sister Mary Grace tips the edge of the steaming cup toward my lips.

I shake my head, trying to sit up. “I need to go outside. I need to visit the garden.”

Her kindly look fades into consternation. “Not today, Emmaline.”

How long have I been asleep and dreaming? Hours? A whole day? I throw a desperate look at the dark sky outside. I can just make out the garden wall in the moonlight. The moon, so bright it’s blinding. Perfectly round. Full. Full! Panic starts to gnaw at the edges of my fingers, making them itch to pull on my boots and race downstairs.

“No,” she says.

“Just for twenty minutes.”

“No.”

“Ten.”

She gives me a look.

“Five!”

Sister Mary Grace sets down the cup with a sigh. “Dr. Turner examined you. Your body is very weak right now. You can’t…” She looks down at the quilt. “You can’t go outside. Not for a long time. I’m so sorry, my child.” She looks over her shoulder at my door.

There is a new ticket there. A red one.