The Secret Horses of Briar Hill(37)

The stillwaters are rising. They are rising and rising, drowning everything they touch. I can hear the horses kicking at their stalls. Their frightened yells sound almost like a person screaming. The stable door is shaking and shaking, but I can’t get to it to let them out.

I can’t help them.

I can’t do anything at all.

—

When I open my eyes, I am alone, and the tea is long cold.

I release a fit of sobbing coughs. The stillwaters are rising fast now.

My head falls to the side. My reflection in Thomas’s small hand mirror shows fever-red cheeks and damp tufts of hair. I snatch it up. Where are the winged horses? Why aren’t they nosing through my tea on my bedside table? Why aren’t they clomping against the wall behind me?

For Emmaline May, from your friend Thomas.



The handwriting is blocky and careful and somehow familiar. But…no, it can’t be Thomas’s. Thomas can’t write. It’s tied to the mirror with…

I sit abruptly.

No, no, no.

…It is tied with a silky red ribbon.

Outside, in the dark, there is a rumble of tires. Headlights flash in the window. It must be Thomas’s aunt come to take him away to London.

“No!” I throw back the sheets. No, the stillwaters haven’t drowned me yet. No, Thomas hasn’t left yet. No, no, no.

Benny can’t be right.

The Horse Lord is real. He lives beyond the mirrors and he was friends with the old princess and he sent Foxfire to our world to protect her.

Thomas can’t have written those letters.





THE HALLWAY CLOCK CHIMES. I lose count of the tolls but they go on for a while—it’s getting late. I make my way slowly down the residence hallway, leaning against the wall for support. All the doors are closed. The soft sounds of sleeping children seep through the cracks in the doors. On the walls, the mirrors are empty. No winged horses watch my journey.

I pass a window and push back the wool blanket. Outside, in the lights of a car, a woman in a brown coat is talking to Sister Constance. It is snowing harder now, and the car’s windshield wipers are fighting a losing battle. I can no longer see the moon overhead, but it is there, shining full silver light over everything. Sister Mary Grace holds a piece of rope attached to Bog’s collar so that he won’t run off after his master when the car leaves.

Thomas emerges from his cottage with a small, plain suitcase.

I press a hand against the frosted glass. “Not yet!” I cry. But my voice doesn’t carry. I lurch down the hall, into the library with Mr. Mason’s Christmas tree still in the corner. I fumble with the latch on the window until it pushes open. Wind and snow howl at me, but I howl right back. Fingers clawing at the window frame, I manage to get one leg through.

“Thomas!”

He doesn’t hear over the wind.

“Thomas, don’t go!”

My other foot catches on the icy windowsill; I slip and tumble into the bush. Bog jumps up and starts barking, and I hear someone cry out, and then the car’s headlights are pointing toward me and I shield my eyes, the snow blowing harder, and squint into the light.

Bog runs up, the rope dangling from his collar, and licks my face. A second later a shadow looms over me. Thomas. He wraps his coat around my shoulders, then picks me up with his one arm, just like he did the lamb that day. His arm doesn’t shake at all.

“Emmaline, what are you doing out here?” He’s already carrying me toward the warmth of the house. He shouts to the woman in the car. “Five minutes!”

He hurries us up the steps as the snow stings our faces, shoulders open the door, sets me down on the princess’s sofa by the Christmas tree, and tugs down one of the wool blankets to tuck around me. “Hang on. Let me fetch Sister Mary—”

“No!” I claw into his arm. With my other hand I dig out the tag. It is damp with sweat and crumpled, and I hold it up like an accusation. “It’s you, isn’t it?” I yell. “It was you all along! I should have listened to Benny. You wrote the letters!”

A light flickers in the doorway. Sister Constance, coming in from outside, holding a lantern.

Thomas’s eyes go wide.

“You said you couldn’t read or write!” I accuse.

He shakes his head, holding out his hand like I am something that might shatter at any moment. “I didn’t say that. You misunderstood.”

“You wrote the letters!”

“No, please—”

“Tell the truth!”

“All right!” His voice is strained. “What do you want me to say? I lied to you! Is that what you want to hear? I did write the letters.”

I stare at him. No, no, it isn’t possible.

But maybe I have been keeping too many secrets, even from myself.

Maybe Marjorie and her yellow raincoat are gone.

Maybe Mama and Papa are gone.

Maybe the bakery and our home are gone too. And maybe the stillwaters—the tuberculosis—is just as bad as Dr. Turner says it is. I start to breathe very fast. Am I…am I going to die here? Like Anna? Like Mama, and Papa, and Marjorie? And I press a hand to my chest, but there’s no breath there. I am empty.

“There is no Horse Lord,” I sob. “You made it all up. You never saw the winged horses in the mirrors.”