The Secret Horses of Briar Hill(24)

Is he there, flying overhead?

But then, footsteps sound on the other side of the garden wall. Maybe it is Thomas, walking through the fallen leaves. But no, it is Thomas’s day off, and after church he goes to Wick.

“Bog?” I whisper desperately. “Is that you?”

There is no answer at first.

Then: Clomp. Clomp.

My heart thunders once, twice, three times. It’s the Black Horse! He’s on the ground! I did not think he would come for us in the day. I thought we still had time—last night’s moon wasn’t even half full. Foxfire presses her chin to my shoulder, nosing me under the shelter of her chest and neck. I can feel her heart beating as fast as mine beneath her warm hair.

“Shh,” I whisper again.

On the other side of the garden wall, a horse snorts. Low and calculating. Trying to take in certain smells. Does he smell her scent, apple and snow? Does he smell her wounded wing?

Clomp.

Clomp.

He’s just outside the gate.

The gate!

It’s open a crack—Bog must have nosed it open when he was going after that rabbit.

I duck out from the altar cloth and lunge for it, hoping to get to it before the Black Horse can. My feet kick up snow as I push myself against it, trying to be quiet, and slide the willow branch through the metalwork to keep it closed. I force myself as still as the door itself, and close my eyes.

Has he heard me? Does he know?

He could fly over the gate, but he doesn’t. Maybe he prefers to stalk us like foxes stalk their prey. The light through the cracks in the old gate mottles. There are footsteps. More of those investigating, low snorts. When I force my eyes open, I can just make out a shadow through the cracks. A tail. It is black and tangled into knots like the brambles that surround it.

There is a sudden kick at the gate. The wood buckles, and I shriek, and I push myself against it. Foxfire whinnies, peeking out from beneath the cloth. The gate buckles. He’s going to get in!

“Go away!” I yell. “She isn’t here! It’s me you smell. It’s the apple on my breath. It’s the snow on my dress. It’s my sickness you smell, not hers, so go away!”

And then a growl cuts through the air. Vicious barks come from the other side of the gate. Bog! But what is one old border collie against a winged monster?

And then a sudden whoosh, and a gust of air blows through the cracks in the gate strong enough to push me backward. A shadow rises high into the clouds, and the air shakes like thunder.

I throw the gate open.

“Bog!”

I’m afraid I’ll see a little broken body torn apart just like my neighbor’s cat did to that tiny little bird. But a white and black flash of movement comes from under a bench, and Bog trots through the gate, wagging his tail. I close the gate behind him, lock it with the willow stick, drop to my knees, and pull him close. His body is the same fur and bones and big wet nose that it always is.

“Thank you,” I whisper into his big black eyes, and he licks my nose. Foxfire is peeking out from the cloth, ears pointed toward Bog and me. I go to her, pull the cloth back over her head, and rest my hand on her cheek. She doesn’t shy away. She stretches out her left wing, flapping it until I come around to her side, and she can wrap her wing around me.

“And thank you, too,” I say. “I promised to protect you, but you were the one who protected me. You warned me he was coming.”

She shakes out her mane, almost like she is nodding.

I rest a hand on her withers. “You and me, we look out for each other. But I will take care of you a little extra, because I am your person, and you will always be my special horse.”

I look back up at the sky.

Today, she is safe.





WHEN I RETURN TO the house, Dr. Turner’s car is parked in the front.

It is strange—he usually parks neatly by the barn, but today the car is at an angle. When I climb in through the library window, I hear a commotion, which is also strange. Sunday afternoons are quiet. Sunday afternoons are plain bread and reading alone.

But a door slams, and someone starts coughing.

I am about to slip up the attic steps back to my room, but I get an odd feeling, like something isn’t quite right. Someone is banging around downstairs in the kitchen. Sister Constance? But she leaves on Sunday afternoons to help the priest in Wick administer last rites to the townspeople who are dying of illness or old age. Then there are quick footsteps, and it’s all I can do to jump into the linen closet and hide before both Sisters come striding down the hall.

“It started an hour ago,” Sister Mary Grace says. “She’s burning up.”

I peek through the closet keyhole. Sister Constance is lugging a steaming copper pot with the handle wrapped in a towel. They open the door to Anna’s room. The red ticket flutters in the gust and then falls down slowly, like a feather, and settles in the middle of the hallway.

I close my eyes.

I want to tell myself that I saw wrong. That it wasn’t Anna’s room, but Benny’s, or anyone else’s. But when I open my eyes, the door to Anna’s room is still ajar.

I push my way out of the closet and walk toward the door with heavy steps. Clomp, clomp, like the clodding of a horse, except my boots make little noise on the hard floors. Dr. Turner’s voice comes through the crack. He is giving Sister Constance orders. More coughing comes, but that can’t be from Anna. Anna’s coughs are quiet and ladylike, even when she is doubled over. This sounds like a soul being ripped apart.