The Secret Horses of Briar Hill(9)

“Emmaline.”

I straighten toward the voice. It’s Thomas, his one arm holding a shovel, ropes slung around the shoulder with the pinned-up sleeve. I overheard the Sisters talking about Thomas in the larder one time, while I was taking a nap on the flour sacks. It can’t be easy for him, Sister Constance said. His father’s made such a name for himself, in the last war and now in this one, too. And here Thomas is, shoveling turnips all day, no girls to be sweet on except poor dying Anna and a couple of nuns.

“Emmaline,” Thomas says again.

“What?”

“I see the winged horses too.”

My heart goes thump, thump, thump. I’m not the only one! But I look away, because Thomas is like the shadows on the wall. Dark and ever-present, and just a little bit scary. I know Benny’s stories about him aren’t any more true than the story in the pages of his comic book. I know this. And yet, if anyone else is going to be a part of my secret world, I do not think I want it to be Thomas.





IT RAINS FOR DAYS and days. It is a sleeting kind of rain that wants to be snow but can’t figure out how to turn white and fluffy, and so it just slaps against the windows. There is no escaping to see the white winged horse. I can only hope she is all right.

I lie on my bed at night, drawing with chalk by the light of a fat candle because Anna only lets me use her colored pencils when I am in her room. It’s cozy here, beneath the attic eaves. I was the last to arrive at Briar Hill. All the beds were taken, and Thomas had to clear out one of the attic rooms and make this bed out of wood and rope. Little bits of straw poke through the mattress and itch my skin. I like the smell, though. It reminds me of home. Of Nutmeg and Ginger, and of Spice, throwing their heads to shake out their dark manes as soon as Papa takes off their harnesses, in just the same way Papa tosses his own hair when he takes off his baker’s cap.

I’ve drawn the horse’s ears right at last, I think, but her wing is giving me trouble—it hangs limply in my drawing just as it does in the real world. Outside, lightning crashes, and my hand jerks and draws a snaking white line. The thunder takes its time rolling in. You can tell how far away a storm is by how many seconds pass between lightning and thunder. Three, four, I count, and then it comes. Four. Four miles off.

I shove the chalk in my pocket and push open the curtain.

All I can see of the garden is charcoal-colored shadows slick with moisture, and the blowing skeletons of trees. I cannot see the winged horse, but I can feel her. Does the storm frighten her?

Lightning strikes again.

One. Two.

Then thunder.

Two miles off now. I shove back the curtain and sprawl on the bed. The candle flame flickers, then straightens as the wind howls.

I reach for my chalk, and suddenly thunder crashes even louder.

I shriek and huddle under my quilt. There was no counting. No miles. The storm is right on top of us! The wind howls louder still as it rips open the window. A freezing gust comes barreling in, rain and ice and everything in between. The candle flickers wildly and goes out. I tumble toward the window, knocking the candle to the floor. The storm isn’t allowed in my bedroom; neither is the night.

Icy rain streaks my hair and face. Lightning flashes again, and for a moment, the night world is mine to see. Quaking branches throwing themselves on the wind’s mercy. Bare fields stretch into night.

Acorns drop onto the roof like a volley of bullets. Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat. And then it’s dark again. Really dark. Black.

I shove the window closed and twist the lock. When I blink, crystals clink together. The attic is nothing but shadows and the smell of extinguished fire. I feel for the quilt.

RAT-A-TAT.

More sounds, louder. It’s too late in the year to be acorns. Something is stomping, clomping, thumping, on the sloping roof.

I know that sound.

Horses.

Outside, the wind howls louder. Only a horse with wings could get up three stories to stomp on the roof. Is it the one from the garden, prancing? But no, this is gnashing. This is pawing. This is the rat-a-tat of guns, only it is a horse tearing at the roof.

I take a step backward.

This can’t be my winged horse.

My winged horse is chicken feathers and a soft gray muzzle. My winged horse is a blaze the shape of a spark.

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

Thunder comes again, and something cracks in the roof, as though whatever is on the other side is trying to tear its way in. I back up against the bed and trip over the fallen candle.

Forget it!

I grab my coat, throw open the door, and gallop down the stairs and straight into Anna’s room. She jerks upright at the sound, sweaty hair plastered to the side of her face, eyes squinting. I jump on the bed next to her and burrow under the covers.

“Emmaline! What’s the matter? Why are you wet?” She pushes the hair out of her face. “Have you been outside, you mad child?”

Her bed is warm. Her bed is safe. The attic is far away, and the roof with the shaking rafters and the stomping horse is even farther. I take a long, deep breath. Icy rain and wind push at her bedroom window, but muffled by the wool blanket, it seems like only a storm. “The wind blew my window open.”

“I’ve a towel on the—”

“There was something out there, Anna. On the roof. I think another one of the winged horses has crossed over from the mirror-world. A bad one.”