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My blood thumps in my ears.
Not go outside?
Not go to the garden?
“You don’t understand! Foxfire needs me. It’s the full moon and the spectral shield isn’t finished yet and the Black Horse might have already gotten to her!” I tear at the quilt, trying to get out of bed, but Sister Mary Grace holds me down. She’s stronger than I remember, or else I am weaker.
“I’m so sorry. You must get some rest.”
“I have to save her!”
“Em—”
“It’s true! Everything Benny said is true! I did steal his comic book and I did steal the altar cloth and I’m sorry for all of it, but Foxfire needed it more than we did!” I swallow, try to speak more calmly. “If I don’t go to her the Black Horse is going to kill her. Tonight.”
Sister Mary Grace looks like she is almost in tears. She stands, brushing at her eyes, and takes a deep, bolstering breath. “You’ve been talking nonsense in your sleep, and trying to get out.” Her hand falls on a gleam of brass right above the knob. “Sister Constance had Thomas put a bolt on the door, for your own safety. We’ll move you to Anna’s room tomorrow. You’ll be warmer there, and there’s that pretty painted ceiling, won’t you like that?”
I stare at the lock.
A bit of brass that wasn’t there before holds me in now. Thomas must have come up with hammer and nails and turned my room into a prison cell. He knows about Foxfire. How could he do this to me?
I ball my fists in the quilt.
“Tell Thomas to come. Tell him I need to speak to him urgently. Alone.”
Sister Mary Grace hesitates. Other than to bring up firewood, Thomas rarely enters the upper levels in a house of nuns and young children. He almost never is alone with one of us, except for Anna, who was bedridden and needed extra help. Thomas is a young man, and even now, even in war, there are rules that must be followed.
Sister Mary Grace runs her finger over the lock, and then nods. “I’ll tell him.”
I SLEEP. I do not want to sleep, but it comes upon me as stealthy as a fox. I dream of my father and Thomas’s father together on the Capuzzo front in armored cars. All around them, long black feathers rain down instead of bombs. Each feather slices at the car’s armor, piece by piece by piece, letting in the snow.
Cold. It is so cold.
When I wake, the attic window is open a crack, which I do not remember doing. The thought of moving across the room to close it is too exhausting, so I just pull the quilt higher. My stomach rumbles, and I reach for the tea, and—
A letter rests beside the cup.
A letter on beautiful paper, rolled up in red ribbon.
My heart flit-flit-flits, just like the wounded bird that Marjorie found, as I pick it up with shaking fingers.
Dear Emmaline May,
As you know, my horses have been watching your world through the mirrors. They told me of your present condition as a prisoner, and I offer my condolences. In one of your letters, you expressed what—if I may presume—felt like deep anger toward the Black Horse. I fear this anger is misplaced. You see, the Black Horse does not bring strife because he enjoys it. He has a right to his life. He has a place in this world. He even has a name: Volkrig. My winged horses soar because that is what they do. Volkrig hunts because that is what he does. Try to understand. We can resist him. We can fight him. But we cannot blame him for doing what he was made to do.
Foxfire’s fate is her own, now. You have been a good friend to her—and to me.
Ride true,
The Horse Lord
I fold the letter. Volkrig. The name has a sinister ring for a sinister horse, and yet, it changes something.
A chill slips from the cracked window.
The Horse Lord must have climbed through it. All this time, he could have just come to me. He didn’t need the gardens, or the golden sundial. Why never show me his face?
Knock, knock.
