The Secret Horses of Briar Hill(21)

“Foxfire is named after glowing bugs?”

“Fox fire is a type of glowing plant,” she clarifies with a laugh. “As logs decompose, a bioluminescent fungus grows within and casts a blue light. In some cases, it’s bright enough to read by at night.”

I stare at the illustrations in her book.

“I was thinking that when you’re an explorer and travel the world, you could find fox fire on your own. The bioluminescence, I mean—not the horse. Darwin wrote about it once: ‘While sailing in these latitudes on one very dark night, the sea presented a wonderful and most beautiful spectacle. Every part of the surface glowed with a pale light.’?” She smiles. “Maybe you’ll discover a new species, and name it Mycena emmaline, or Mycena marjorie. Wouldn’t your sister be tickled to have a fungus named after her?”

I push off from the bed. The mirror over Anna’s dresser is quiet. The winged horses are gone now, and it seems so empty over there, with just the mirror-me and the mirror-her.

“Emmaline?”

I walk out the door silently and wander down the long hallway. All the rooms are quiet, except for the last one, where little Arthur is snoring on his bed. There is a curio cabinet in an alcove filled with simple things that the old princess didn’t bother to take with her: Bird nests. Snake skins. A carved rock. Things someone probably found on the grounds. I open the glass cabinet and pick up a stack of yellowing old calling cards in a chipped fruit dish. Professor H. K. Hopper, Egyptologist. Lord Barchester. Miss A. Rodan, Aviatrix.

These must be all the famous people who came to visit the old princess, whose treasures, gifts for Her Highness, are stored in the attic. I wonder if Thomas’s father ever came.

I glance back in the direction of Anna’s room.

She told me I could be an explorer—someone famous, just like the people on these cards. She told me I already am.

I wonder sometimes if Anna understands me better than anyone else in the world.

I smile. Just a little, just to myself.





WHISPERS COME FROM DOWN THE HALL.

I stuff the cards back into the fruit dish and hurry to close the curio case. Following the voices, I come upon the library. Rodger, the boy with the port-wine birthmark, and Susan are working on sums for Sister Constance’s maths class at the study table. Their backs are to me. Jack is asleep on the sofa not far from them. On the rug beside him, three inches from his hand, is his Lionel steam engine.

I dare a glance down the hall; it’s empty. I could take the train. A famous explorer wouldn’t shy away from an important mission, and neither will I.

Now.

I drop to hands and knees, keeping low so the other children don’t see me. Elbow over elbow, knee over knee, I crawl through the no-man’s-land of the library floor. Jack mumbles in his sleep and tosses his hand down. His fingers graze the train and I go rigid. The other children stop whispering for a moment. My heart goes rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, and I dare a glance up at enemy territory. Still facing away from me.

The train is close, but his crumb-covered fingers are on it.

Drawing in a sharp breath, I crawl forward with all the silence of the best of Britain’s spies. I delicately take hold of the end of the train—being careful not to touch the real working whistle—and pull it away. Inch by inch. The wheels roll silently across the rug, until Jack’s fingers slip off of it.

I go still, heart pounding.

But he doesn’t wake.

And then I’m fleeing the battlefield, train tucked under one arm, into the safety of the hall. Footsteps are coming—trapped! I spy the curio cabinet across from me and hide the train far back on the bottom shelf, behind a soft fox’s pelt, just as Sister Constance turns the corner.

I freeze.

Her lips press together firmly—it was only yesterday that I promised Sister Constance not to sneak around. “Emmaline!” She darts forward and grabs my ear. “You are supposed to be in quiet study in the library, young lady.”

“Ow, ow, ow,” I plead, but she pulls me a few feet down the hall, then lets me go.

“Go to your room for the remainder of the day, and ask God for forgiveness for your disobedience. If I see the slightest glimpse of you before breakfast tomorrow, I’ll put a bell around your neck like a cat.”

I head for the stairs, head hung low, but heart still secretly thrilled as I think of the hidden train. The chapel door is near the stairs, and I pause, because candles are glowing from within, even though it isn’t Sunday. The altar is draped in heavy liturgical cloth, presiding over three rows of wooden benches. Someone is sitting on the first bench, mouth moving in quiet prayer.

Thomas.

He reaches out and touches the altar cloth. It is a rich, royal purple reserved for Advent and Lent. The same shade as Anna’s colored pencil. 876-HELIOTROPE PURPLE.

Thomas lets his hand fall away from the cloth. He’s still whispering, though the words are too quiet to make out.

From somewhere deep in my chest, the stillwaters stir. They swell, prickling at the inside of my lungs, until I feel heavy and drowned, like I’ve fallen off Darwin’s ship into the sea of sparkling little creatures.

“Emmaline,” Sister Constance calls sternly. She points toward the attic stairs. “Now.”

I climb, thoughts jumping between Thomas and his father, the toy train and the purple altar cloth and Sister Constance, but at the top of the stairs, my eyes settle on my door, and I go still.