His eyes go wide. “I wasn’t lying about that. I saw them. I swear.
”
“Liar!”
The left side of his face crinkles as if he doesn’t know what to do. His hand runs over his mouth, kneading at the skin and the bridge of his nose. “I’m not a liar.” He glances over his shoulder at Sister Constance. He turns back to me, and his eyes are determined. His mouth is set firmly. “There’s something I haven’t told you. I did write those letters, yes, but I didn’t make it up.” He sets his hand over mine. “Emmaline. I am the Horse Lord.”
I stop crying. The clock is tick-tick-ticking in the hallway. Behind us, Sister Constance’s lantern is flickering.
Thomas’s eyes are so green. Thomas, the Horse Lord? Thomas, who shovels turnips and throws sticks for an old collie—the Horse Lord? Thomas, the monster in all of Benny’s stories—the Horse Lord?
Over his shoulder, the mirror above the fireplace is still empty.
“I don’t believe you.” I am shaking my head, shaking and shaking and shaking some more. “You’re still lying. There is no Horse Lord. There are no winged horses, and there never were!”
His face flickers. Sister Constance has one hand pressed to her mouth, and the lantern is shaking in the other. A sulfur-tasting bubble rises up my throat. The stillwaters, fighting back.
Thomas cradles his face in his hand, shaking his head too, and then suddenly he looks up. His eyes aren’t sad anymore. “I can prove it! Wait here.”
He pushes up from the floor and runs past Sister Constance down the hall. His boots echo in the long corridor. So does the sound of the kitchen door slamming shut. Bog starts barking from outside. The snow is coming down harder now. The car is still running, its engine clunking outside as the windshield wipers go back and forth, back and forth.
Can I tell you a secret?
I want to believe Thomas.
I want to believe he is the Horse Lord. I want to believe that Foxfire is safe in the sundial garden and that Anna has a set of wings now and that the winged horses still live in the mirrors and that Volkrig, sinister Volkrig, will forever be prevented from landing on this protected place.
The kitchen door slams again. Thomas comes running down the hall, snow caught in his hair and eyelashes and the shoulders of his coat. He gets to one knee and holds out a wooden box.
It is beautiful, this box. It gleams with polish. There is an insignia carved into the top, a regal-looking crest that couldn’t belong to anyone other than a king or a prince—or a lord.
Thomas opens it and hands me a shiny silver medal on a crisp red ribbon.
I run my fingers over it slowly as my eyes go wide.
On it is a majestic horse rising on two legs. Two wings stretch out from its shoulders as it takes flight. A rider sits on its back in a magnificent crown and cape.
My mouth drops open.
“You mean…”
“These are precious treasures from my land beyond the mirrors,” he says. “I brought them with me when I crossed over.”
My eyes go even wider as I look at the treasure. They look like soldiers’ medals, but these are different. Special. I can just tell. Many have horses on them. Some with wings, some without. Some with riders, some on their own. The horses’ magnificent metal muscles tear across unseen wind. Each ribbon is a different color of the rainbow: purple, and red, and blue as deep as the sea.
And there is more treasure too. There’s a gold ring that seems almost too big for Thomas, a pair of emerald jewels, and a golden pocket watch. Everything gleams in polished silvers and golds, more valuable than anything I’ve ever seen in my life. In the lamplight, the Horse Lord’s treasure shimmers.
“These are precious treasures from my land beyond the mirrors.”
Is it true?
Is everything he has said true?
Thomas closes the box. Words are carved into the wooden top around the royal insignia:
Utrinque Paratus. Bellerophon et Pegasus.
It must be the language of the world beyond the mirror.