The Secret Horses of Briar Hill(30)

The pencils. All of them. 849-TANGERINE ORANGE and 876-HELIOTROPE PURPLE and 867-SEA TURQUOISE. Broken. Shattered. They’ve been stomped on and splintered and stamped out. The candlelight flickers over them, illuminating the crime scene. And one of my drawings, crumpled. I pull it out with shaking fingers.

The horse’s wings have been crossed out with black pencil, hard enough to tear the paper.

TIME TO GROW UP, someone has written.



Someone.

Oh, I know who.

I want to race downstairs and throw myself on his bed and strangle his gangly neck while he sleeps. I want to rip his precious comic book to shreds. I want to stomp on him, splinter him, break him into pieces.

Thump, thump.

I gasp and pitch my head up. What’s that? The Black Horse—he’s back. His hooves stomp on the roof and suddenly it is him I want to break. He’s the cause of everything that is wrong, I know it.

The winged horses in the mirrors watch me as I sneak down the hall, slip on my coat and boots, and climb out the library window. Overhead, the moon is so very nearly full, and I hate it too. I drag my bare fingers through the snow, pressing it into balls, and hurl them at the roof as hard as I can.

“Get away!” I yell.

I throw another snowball. And another. But my arm is weak and they only hit the first-floor windows. It is too dark to see if the Black Horse is up there, or if it is just shadows. But it doesn’t matter. I know he is there.

He is always there.

A light comes on in one of the windows, and I drop my snowball. I drag myself toward the garden wall, forcing my weak limbs to climb up and over before anyone can look outside and see me. I hurry, winded, through the maze of gardens. Through the rose garden with the rotting trellises, around the broken fountains, past the overgrown azalea garden, until I reach the sundial garden. Foxfire swings her head at me, ears swiveling forward in anticipation of an apple.

I stomp straight up to her.

“The Horse Lord never should have sent you here!” I yell, fighting the tightness in my lungs. “This isn’t a protected place. Our world is no safer than yours. If the Black Horse can find you there, he can find you here. It’s just a matter of time! Bad things happen here, don’t you see? Anna is gone. My pencils are destroyed. And the Horse Lord won’t even write. He’s abandoned us both. There’s no point in fighting anymore, do you hear me? There’s no point!”

And it’s true. He hasn’t written. He’s forgotten about us. Anna died and left me. The Horse Lord left me too.

But I stop.

Wait.

There is a fresh note tucked into the sundial. The same creamy white paper. Tied in the same red ribbon.

With shaking hands, I pull it free.

Dear Emmaline May,

You must forgive me for the brief lapse in letters. I was struck with a minor illness that leaves a tremor in my hand; no doubt you will notice that my script is altered.

You asked how long the winged horses live. All I can say is that they live much longer than I. Perhaps a hundred years. Perhaps they never die at all. I quite believe that myself, and it is a comfort, don’t you think? That there is a place where no one ever grows old? You see, our worlds are more connected than you believe. Sometimes, when a special person in your world dies before his or her time, that person merely crosses over and becomes one of my horses, roaming the heavens on feathered wings.

Ride true,

The Horse Lord





I read the note again. The cold makes my nose run. I think of the broken colored pencils that Anna kept perfectly sharpened. I think of Anna’s empty bed. The Sisters haven’t changed anything about it but the sheets, though I heard Benny saying they were going to move out her big bed and replace it with three cots, for three new children who will come soon.

I think back to that time I hid behind the woodpile and watched Thomas bury the chicken that the foxes had killed. He touched its feathers before covering them with dirt. I wonder if he did the same when he helped bury Anna. If he presses his fingers against the pine boxes stacked in the barn that he built to bury those of us who die, and what he feels against his fingertips.

I wipe my nose.

“I have to go,” I say to Foxfire. “I’m sorry, but it’s important. Don’t worry, I’ll keep protecting you. I’ll find something orange before the full moon, I promise.”

Foxfire nuzzles my neck with her nose. I press my forehead to her spark blaze.

We understand each other, she and I.

And then I turn back to the wall, and climb.





I RUN THROUGH THE FROSTED FIELDS until I reach Thomas’s cottage next to the barn. Wisps of smoke come from the chimney.

Knock, knock.

Bog stirs first, growling low, but Thomas gives a ssss, and Bog is silent. There are footsteps. Then the door swings open.

Thomas’s head drops down, as though he was expecting someone taller. “Emmaline?” His empty sleeve is not carefully pinned now. It hangs loose and hollow as he rubs his sleepy eyes with his hand. “What’s wrong?” He looks around to see if I am alone. “You can’t keep sneaking out so late. It’s getting colder and you’re…” He pauses as I double over to cough. “You don’t want to get any worse,” he finishes.

“I need to show you something,” I cough out. “It’s important.”