The Secret Horses of Briar Hill(33)

So orange.

As orange as his hair. As orange as fire.

They are all in your head.

Some of the children snicker. I hear giggling about flying horses and make-believe princes. The mirrors are all empty now. But the horses were there. The one with the gray snip on his nose, who led me to Benny’s comic book. He was real. And the letter…No. It can’t be.

I fall to my knees and try to smooth the letter out the best I can, but the writing is smudged from Benny’s shoe. I feel the urge to cry. The red ribbon is torn. I eye it sidelong, wiping away the start of tears. Is it like the spools in Sister Mary Grace’s sewing kit? And the paper…is it like Dr. Turner’s prescription forms? But no, his forms are perforated. These have crisp edges.

Benny is wrong. Benny doesn’t know the first thing about winged horses.

I glance toward his open door. He flips another page and snickers at Popeye.

I almost want the Black Horse to come. I almost want to summon him myself so he will take Benny and all the children who are laughing. I want the Black Horse to tear through the hospital roof with midnight hooves and thorn-tangled tail and thunder down the hallways loud enough to break every mirror and catch Benny under his hooves until all that is left of Benny is as crumpled and broken as this letter.

But the Black Horse doesn’t want Benny.

I pick up the letter. I am going to get that comic book.





I BIDE MY TIME. Benny has been trailing me, following my every move. He never has his comic book with him, so he must have hidden it, just as I have hidden the broken colored pencils in the secret drawer of Anna’s desk. But at last he gets lazy. He gets bored. He gets careless. And while the children are gathered in Sister Constance’s office listening to a broadcast by Winston Churchill on the radio, I make my move.

There is a winged horse in the residence hall mirror behind me, one I’ve never seen, with pretty blue eyes, swatting her tail at flies in the mirror-hallway. She watches me curiously as I tiptoe closer to the very last door on the right of the residence hall.

Benny’s door.

I ease it open and close it behind me. Only once I’m in the room do I breathe out.

There are three beds, but I know which one is his. Even if I didn’t, the smell of onions would give it away. I tiptoe over and lift his pillow: no comic book. I slide open his bedside table: nothing but a bag of old nuts and letters from home. I drop down to look under the bed: nothing.

I sit on the bed, thinking. I have to find it.

If I were a nasty, hound-faced boy, where would I hide my comic book?

My eyes fall to the big Bible on his desk, and I remember him reading Popeye last Sunday instead of the Bible. I flip it open, and a few pages in, Popeye looks back at me. My eyes go wide. What would God think of that?

I grab the comic book and stuff it down my shirt just as footsteps sound in the hallway. Through the cracked door, I watch the winged horse in the mirror pace back and forth, blue eyes wide, as though to warn me. I drop down and crawl under Benny’s bed just as the footsteps stop at the bedroom door. Black boots. Narrow width. Sister Mary Grace’s. The urge to cough rises, and I clamp a hand over my mouth. She stands still for a moment, and then closes the door.

I wait.

The floor under his bed is sticky, and there’s a fallen nut or two. I cannot stay here long. The radio broadcast will end soon, and he will return. I cough into my hand as quietly as I can.

I crawl out slowly, blood pounding in my ears, and twist the doorknob. Outside, the hall is quiet. The winged horse with the blue eyes has her back to me, as though she is asleep. I take a deep breath, and then tiptoe down the hall on sock feet and dart into Anna’s bedroom. They haven’t taken out her big bed and heavy furniture yet. I press the hidden lever on the underside of the desk that releases the secret drawer. It pops open, and suddenly the room is filled with Anna again. Dried lavender. Her naturalist books. A single fine black-ink pen and the broken pencils I placed there for safekeeping. I shove the comic book in and close the drawer, and then dash out. I veer at the hall corner and go flying by, ducking beneath the door of Sister Constance’s office and onto the attic stairs just as the broadcast ends and the children emerge into the hall.

I stop to catch my breath at the top of the stairs, in the shadows where no one looks.

In the dark, I smile.





“WHERE IS IT?”

Benny’s shouts carry all the way to the top of the attic stairs. I draw in a sharp breath, but that triggers the coughing again. I can barely muffle it against my sleeve.

Outside the attic window, the late afternoon sun sinks farther. Soon the moon will rise. Nearly a full moon. I only have one day to spare, as tomorrow the moon will be completely round and bright. I need to sneak out to the sundial garden. I need to set the comic book in its place on the wall of ivy. I need to complete the spectral shield to protect Foxfire. All eight rainbow colors just like in the manufacturer’s description. A complete set.

And yet.

As soon as I stand up from the stairs, my vision goes black, and I immediately sit down again. My lungs. The beast that waits there, deep beneath the stillwaters, is clawing at my throat.

I throw a hand over my mouth. Not now. Please. Not tonight.

I try to think soothing thoughts: Water flowing down my throat. Warm melted chocolate. Fresh milk straight from the pail. But the tickle won’t be ignored. It grows into a briary rose that someone is scratching up and down the insides of my throat.