The Secret Horses of Briar Hill

I know now why the Horse Lord crossed into our world and called himself Thomas and lived in a little cottage. It is because our world that stretches out below—the hills and the trees and the sun breaking over the rooftops—is more than just brown and gray. There is color there. There are greens and reds and blues as deep as the sea.

You just have to know where to look.

WHEN I WAKE, I am staring at white clouds.

It takes a moment to recognize the painting on the ceiling of Anna’s room. My head aches in a dull way, and my throat is very dry, but I feel warm.

I sit up.

The windows are open, and fresh air drifts in. A tray of steaming tea sits on the bedside table. The silver bell to ring for the Sisters. A brand-new bottle filled with syrupy yellow medicine. Dr. Turner must have come.

Little Arthur is sitting at the foot of my bed, drawing quietly, bent over a fan of loose pages. Anna’s broken pencils are scattered on the quilt, and he is trying to draw with the broken nub of the blue pencil.

I look out the window. How many days have I been here, recovering? The last thing I remember is Foxfire’s wings beating the air as the sun rose above the horizon, casting the sky in shades of pinks and purples. And the sun was so beautiful, a soft ye

llow, the same yellow as the butter that is melting on a piece of toast next to the tea.

Toast.

I’m famished.

I draw in a deep breath, hesitantly testing my lungs. I take a bite, and the toast slips down my sore throat. That clawing pain has lessened. I feel better.

I whirl to look at my open door.

The red ticket is gone.

I spin toward Arthur. “What happened?” From the way my body aches, I must have fallen off of Foxfire and tumbled down to earth. “Did the Sisters find me in a snowdrift?”

But Arthur never speaks, and he does not speak now.

A strange worry creeps into my stomach and I whirl toward the side mirror. It is empty. I pick up the hand mirror that Thomas gave me—empty too. And so is the one above the dresser. I grab up the teaspoon and stare into it at my misshapen reflection.

Nothing.

Where are the winged horses?

Where have they gone?

I roll over and paper rumples. I pull out a wad of messy pages that someone has left beside me. The Popeye comic book! The last I saw, it had fallen in the snow. It is warped and dirty, but someone must have found it and tried to smooth out the pages. There is a note attached in Benny’s writing.

I’m sorry I broke your pencils. I’m glad you’re getting well. I forgive you for stealing my comic book. You may borrow it, if you like.

Sincerely,

Benny

(P.S.—but only until you feel better!)

I stare at the inscription.

Benny has shared his dearest object with me.

Have I floated into a different world, a gentler one? I look around in a daze, but the same gods still float on the ceiling, the same wool blanket is pinned back by the window.

And then Arthur sighs at the broken blue pencil that won’t draw, and I realize that I have done something magical. I have been to the heavens on the back of a winged horse—I am a real explorer, just like Anna said I was.

An idea strikes me. I take out Anna’s sewing knife from the secret drawer, and the closest pencil, the orange one. It is snapped in two, the point broken. I press the blade against one of the halves and shave. I shave until it is sharpened into a point as fine as Anna kept them, and then I sharpen the other half, too.