The Secret Horses of Briar Hill(12)

I tiptoe through the snow at the speed of growing ivy, until I can pull out the paper.

It is soggy with snow. It’s been here all morning, I think. The paper is thick, like the kind Dr. Turner uses for his prescriptions, but there is a silken red ribbon tied around it. I glance at the horse. She is watching me, breathing steam, as I untie it with numb fingers.

To whoever receives this message,

I am in desperate need of assistance. I have brought this horse to your world because her wing is broken, and I need a safe place to hide her. You see, she is being pursued by a dark and sinister force from our world—a Black Horse who hunts by smell and moonlight—and she cannot fly away to escape him. My own crossings between worlds are limited, and I would be forever in your debt if you would watch over her until I can return.

Ride true,

The Horse Lord



Postscript: Her name is Foxfire. She likes apples.



A letter from the world behind the mirrors! The Horse Lord himself—I didn’t even know there was a Horse Lord! Wind pushes at the letter. It is so cold that my eyes water and make the script swim, but I blink away the cold and read it again. No wonder she hasn’t touched my turnips—she likes apples. The handwriting is careful and lovely, with little flourishes at the ends of the t’s just like Anna makes. In my excitement, I crumple the letter accidentally, and then smooth it out the best I can.

“Foxfire?” I say to the winged horse. “That’s your name?”

She doesn’t answer; but then again, she is a horse. She turns toward the fountain. I step back. She comes forward cautiously, dipping her head to drink. Her muscles ripple beneath snow-white horseflesh. There are no markings on her girth or back from where a saddle would rub. She is wild, and too proud to have a master, so I think the Horse Lord must be more like a guardian. I imagine him to be a young and handsome prince, who takes care of the wild winged horses of his world.

She is closer now, as she drinks. I can see the muscles of her neck moving. If I took a few steps forward and reached out a hand, I could touch her. But I don’t. She wouldn’t let me, not yet. I have to earn her trust.

A dark shadow passes overhead. The same silent shadow as before, with outstretched wings, that I mistook for a German plane. Foxfire looks up through the snow. Her ears turn back. Somehow, we are linked—I feel her fear within me.

Overhead the shadow is circling, circling.

Only now I recognize the outline. The horses I’ve seen in the mirrors have been all different colors: white and dappled and chocolate brown, but never black. Until now. Flying through the storm like thunder embodied, circling like a crow, searching for Foxfire.

This is the dark presence the Horse Lord warned against. The gnashing beast on the roof.

The Black Horse.

I flip over the Horse Lord’s letter and take out my chalk, still in my pocket from last night. It makes fat lines, but I don’t need to say much.

I accept.—Emmaline May





I STAND OUTSIDE of the barn with my arms hugged tightly around my chest. Inside, someone is pounding a hammer. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. I take a deep breath and push open the door.

Thomas sees me and stops repairing the broken kitchen bench, which he has already repaired three times before. He’s sweating with the effort and his dark hair is smeared across his face and I suddenly don’t want to be here, but I promised the Horse Lord.

“Did you need something, Emmaline?”

His voice isn’t as angry as the tight set of his face. I point to the bucket of old apples Thomas gives the sheep. “May I have one of those?”

His eyebrows knit together, but then he sets down the hammer and digs around in the bucket until he finds a good one. He starts to hand it to me, but at the last minute gives me a suspicious look. “This wouldn’t be for the winged horse in the sundial garden, would it?”

I eye him warily. He said that he’d seen the winged horses too, but Thomas is practically an adult. If Benny and the three little mice won’t even believe me, why would he? But Thomas’s face is very serious. It’s a plain kind of face. His chin is rather weak, and his forehead stretches for miles when he brushes his sweaty hair back like that. But he has nice eyes. They are green, like mine.

I take the apple. “Have you really seen the winged horses?”

He picks his hammer up again. “Yes.”

“In the mirrors?”

“In the frozen lake on the Mason farm, just beyond the back fields. When the sun shines, the ice is like a mirror, and you can see them plain as day.”

I run my finger along the dusty edge of his workbench. “I know what caused the hoofprints on the roof after the snowstorm,” I tell him. “There’s another horse that’s crossed through the mirror. A black one. I got a special letter about it. Have you seen him?”

Thomas wipes the sweat from his forehead again. “Not yet, no.”

“Well, be careful. He is a dark and sinister force.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow. Then he nods toward Bog, who is asleep, dreaming dog dreams, by a stack of pine boxes. “I wouldn’t worry too much about the Black Horse. If he gets close, Bog will bark like mad. He scares away the foxes. He can scare away anything.”

I like Bog. He’s a smart dog, and he’ll chase after a stick if you throw it, but I don’t think all the barking in the world could scare away the Black Horse.