The first time I met the Duke of Alderwick, his horse called him a liar.
My name is Nell Finch. I'm a horse trainer. I can hear horses talk—only horses, not people, not dogs. It's not a gift; it is a headache with hooves.
The Duke sat in a wheelchair beside the paddock. His legs were covered by a dark blue rug. Everyone said he was paralyzed, a riding accident three months ago: his horse bolted on the North Lane. The Duke looked pale. He looked tragic. Every servant moved around him like he might break.
His black stallion turned one eye toward me. The horse's name was Bramble. Bramble's thought came clear and rude: That man walked before breakfast, badly, like a heron regretting its legs. But he walked.
I almost dropped the bucket.
Bramble stamped one hoof. His next thought was even worse: He hides peppermints in his left coat pocket, says they are for medicinal courage. But he is not sick. He is lying.
I looked at the Duke's left pocket. The Duke noticed.
"Miss Finch," Rowan said, his voice low and dry, "is my pocket offensive?"
"No, Your Grace," I answered, "only suspicious."
His eyebrow lifted. The Duke studied me for a moment. "You're the girl from Millcross, the one who calmed Lord Martin's runaway carriage horse."
"Yes, Your Grace," I answered.
Bramble tossed his head. Bramble's thought nudged me, amused and shameless: "Calmed?" She called him a dramatic sofa with hooves. It worked because it was true.
I pressed my lips together.
The Duke's gaze sharpened. "Are you laughing at me, Miss Finch?"
I kept my face straight. "Not at you, Your Grace, near you."
A groom choked behind a saddle rack. The Duke turned his head, and the groom became fascinated by a strap.
Bramble stepped toward the wheelchair and lowered his muzzle to the Duke's shoulder. To everyone else, it looked tender. To me, the horse's thought landed with the patience of a blacksmith's hammer: Get up, you velvet turnip.
The Duke's hand tightened on the chair.
I stopped breathing. He had heard something—not the words, perhaps, but Bramble's mood. Horses could throw their feelings like mud, and this horse threw accusation with great aim.
The Duke's mouth barely moved. "Bramble, behave."
Bramble's answer landed at once: Walk.
The Duke's jaw hardened.
Oh, I thought. Oh, this was not ordinary tragedy. This was tragedy with a secret wearing boots somewhere under a blanket.
"Miss Finch," the Duke said, "feed him and keep clear of his hind legs. He has a temper."
"So I hear," I muttered.
His eyes cut to mine. "What was that?"
I lifted the bucket. "I said he appears sincere."