"Small fire," Peter said. "Tack room broken."
Silas looked at the ruined saddle. "How unfortunate. Perhaps a thief."
Bramble's thought came low and savage: Lemon.
I smelled it, too: beneath smoke and oil, lemon soap clung to the torn leather. Rowan's gaze met mine. Silas saw the look.
"Miss Finch," he said, "you seem remarkably present for every crisis."
"It is a flaw. I rise when things burn."
"Or when you light them?" Silas asked.
Peter stepped forward. "She put it out."
"After starting it?" Silas asked.
Rowan's voice cut across the stable: "Enough."
Silas spread his hands. "Cousin, you must consider possibilities. A village-born horse trainer appears; suddenly, she has private access to you. She hides behind curtains during business meetings. Now your tack room burns."
"My tack room was searched," Rowan said.
"By whom?"
"That is what I intend to discover."
Silas smiled sadly. "You intend many things. Your condition makes execution difficult."
Bramble bared his teeth. Bramble's suggestion was immediate: Let me bite him. Small bite. Educational.
"No," I muttered.
Everyone looked at me. I coughed. "No one should remain near the smoke."
Silas's suspicion deepened.
After the others left, Rowan had Peter wheel him near Bramble's stall. Peter was loyal enough not to ask questions and sleepy enough to be improved by silence. When he went to fetch more lanterns, Rowan spoke softly.
"Evelyn was my older sister. She died two years before my accident."
"Bramble said she hid papers in her old saddle."
He closed his eyes. "She suspected Silas had forged signatures on canal loans. She wrote to me from London saying she had proof, then her carriage overturned before she reached Alderwick. The proof was never found, and you kept using the saddle. I could not bear to cut into it; it was foolish sentiment. It may have saved the papers if whoever searched tonight failed."
Rowan looked at the torn leather. "Or destroyed them."
Bramble shoved his nose against the stall door: Not destroyed. Hidden deeper. I know my saddle. Humans make pockets badly.
I relayed this. For the first time, Rowan looked at Bramble with naked respect. "Where?"
Bramble tossed his head: Under the left panel. Stitch smells like sister. Lavender ink. Salt tears.