“Yes, probably.”
She learns quickly. Annoyingly quickly.
At first, she’s stiff in the saddle, hands too careful on the reins, thighs tense against Buran’s sides. He feels it immediately and tosses his head.
“Don’t fight his mouth,” I tell her, walking beside them with one hand near the bridle. “He hates that.”
“What does he not hate?”
“Apples. Silence. Me, occasionally.”
“And now me.”
“It’s not the time to become arrogant.”
She looks down at me. “You first.”
Buran snorts. Traitor.
I adjust her foot in the stirrup, my hand closing around her ankle. “Heel down.”
“I know.”
“Then do it.”
She mutters something under her breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, husband.”
The word are witty in her mouth, but it no longer sounds strange.
Some words become true through repetition. Others become true because I’ve accepted this.
By the end of the week, she can ride Buran around the enclosed arena without my hand on the bridle. By the end of the second, she takes him through the garden path at a walk while I ride beside her on a gray mare I barely tolerate.
“She looks smug,” Alexei says from the fence one afternoon.
“She is smug,” I answer.
Anya hears and turns in the saddle. “I’m accomplished.”
“You’re still not allowed to canter him.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to.”
She smiles at me, bright and wicked. “Eventually.”
Buran chooses that moment to toss his head, nearly ruining the effect.
She corrects herself before I have to move. Pride moves through me, satisfying, leaving some warm in its wake.
Aleksei sees this and smirks. “Look at you,” he says quietly. “Teaching your wife to ride your murderous horse. Domesticity suits you.”
“Leave.”
