The Secret Horses of Briar Hill(22)

A sudden burst of anger surges inside of me.

A yellow ticket! Someone has replaced the one I tore up! I leap up to rip it off, but then I remember Dr. Turner has a whole stack of them. If I take it down, he will only replace it with another.

I throw myself on top of my bed, not touching my books or my schoolwork.

There is no point. There will always be Sister Constance watching. There will always be a yellow ticket. I will never be a proper explorer. I will never see the pyramids of Egypt. I will never watch the wild horses running free on the plains of America. I will never discover anything at all, except dust.

But no.

I sit up.

Anna believes in me, and Anna is the smartest person I know.

I snatch up some chalk and write on the back of one of my old drawings:

Dear Horse Lord,

I do not know if this letter will reach you, but I need you to know that I won’t give up, not ever. I have already found five colorful objects to protect Foxfire: a red one, a yellow one, a turquoise one, a pink one, and now a green one. I am working as fast as I can before the full moon comes to find the rest, but I have an important question: Do you think God will be angry with me if I steal the purple liturgical cloth from the chapel?

Truly,

Emmaline May





I think of the calling card in the curio cabinet belonging to Miss A. Rodan, Aviatrix, and I fold the drawing in half, and in half again, and then fold down the corners.

An airplane.

I push open the window and lean into the wind.

I cast out the paper airplane, whispering prayers as it flies, flies, flies toward the gardens, hoping that it lands true.





THE NEXT DAY IS SUNDAY.

Sunday is the day we eat leftover bread for breakfast, both to remember Christ’s fasting and because it is Thomas’s day off and the Sisters have to tend to the sheep after they tend to us at Mass. Though there are three benches, Sister Constance says we must crowd into the front two to be closer to God and his healing powers.

Benny sits in the row behind me and kicks me in the backside.

I ignore him and look at the ceiling. It is covered with black cloths. Anna told me that when she first arrived, the ceiling was decorated with a beautiful Greek painting like the one in her bedroom. The old princess had brought over real Greek painters and everything, but the Sisters of Mercy forbade pagan idolatry in a chapel, even if it did used to be a ballroom.

As Sister Constance reads from the Bible, I imagine all the beautiful couples who once danced here. I bet the ladies wore dresses that were all the colors of the rainbow, and the men had top hats and dashing mustaches. They would twirl and twirl in the candlelight, beneath the ancient floating gods who drink wine and ride wild stallions. I wonder if the horses lived in the mirrors even back then. Maybe that is why the princess stayed here for so long, by herself. Maybe she liked waking up each morning and seeing a winged horse in her bedroom mirror. Maybe she found a way to talk to them. Maybe—just maybe—she met the Horse Lord.

Sister Constance ends the prayer, and we stand, and someone taps my shoulder.

I turn around to find Thomas.

He clears his throat and reaches into his pocket. “Bog chased a rabbit into the old gardens this morning,” he says. “There’s a hole in the rear gate. When he came back he had this tangled in his fur, along with a mess of briars. You’re the only one who ever goes in those gardens, so I thought it must be meant for you.”

He takes out a slightly crumpled, damp letter tied in red ribbon.

I silence a gasp as I cram the letter into my sleeve, looking left and right to make sure the other children haven’t seen.

“It is for me,” I whisper quickly.

I eye him closely, wondering if he sneaked a peek at the Horse Lord’s letter, but the knot is tied firmly, the red ribbon only slightly torn. The Horse Lord must have left this for me in the sundial, where last night’s wind blew it into the briars.

I give him a solemn nod. “Thank you.”

He nods solemnly back.

After the service, the other children go to their rooms to quietly read the Bible and pray, but I tiptoe back up the stairs and past the shut doors on the residence hall to a closet where I can read the Horse Lord’s letter. I can hardly believe that my airplane reached him. The paper is damp, and the handwriting is strangely shaky, as though he was very tired while writing.

Dear Emmaline May,

I found your note in a rosebush near the sundial, folded curiously. To answer your question, I would never condone stealing, not even in the name of a higher deed. I suggest that you only borrow the liturgical cloth. Perhaps after church services conclude, so it will not be missed for a full week. By then, with luck, Foxfire’s wing will have healed and you can return it safe and sound without anyone else’s knowledge. That God will see you, I have no doubt. But that God will know what is deeper within your heart, I am also certain.

Ride true,

The Horse Lord





I stash the letter back in my sleeve.

The Horse Lord is so wise—now is the time to borrow the cloth, long before it’ll be used again. But can I really steal it from God? I suppose I don’t have a choice. I’ve scoured the hospital, and this is the only purple object, except for the stained glass in the windows, and that isn’t coming out.

I exhale slowly. I can do this.