By winter, the estate had steadied. The canal shares were protected. Wexham awaited trial. Silas had written one letter from custody claiming repentance, innocence, and indigestion; Rowan answered with the name of a solicitor and no sympathy. Evelyn's name was cleared in the inquiry, and her portrait was returned to the Great Hall, where sunlight touched it every afternoon.
One snowy morning, Rowan asked me to ride with him. Not far, not fast—just around the lower meadow with Peter and two grooms watching from a distance and pretending not to cry. Bramble wore Rowan's repaired saddle, the one that had carried Evelyn's proof. I rode Duchess, who complained that snow was decorative nonsense and should be banned by people with hooves.
Rowan mounted with pain, effort, and no small amount of swearing under his breath. When he settled into the saddle, Bramble stood very still.
Bramble's thought came unusually quiet: There you are.
I looked at Rowan. He touched Bramble's neck. "There you are, old friend."
I swallowed hard. We rode at a walk. Snow dusted the hedges. The air smelled clean enough to forgive the world. Rowan's seat was careful, his legs weaker than before, but he was home in a saddle in a way he was never home in a chair.
Halfway around the meadow, Bramble sent me a thought full of pride: Tell him he sits crooked.
I burst out laughing.
Rowan turned. "What?"
"Bramble says you sit crooked."
"Bramble is emotional and hiding it behind criticism."
The horse flicked an ear: Correct.
We finished the circuit. No crowd watched. No villain lurked. No newspaper named it a miracle. It was better for that: it was only a man, a horse, and a girl who could hear the things love said when pride was too large to say them aloud.
Rowan proposed in the stable, which was either very romantic or proof that he had accepted his fate.
I was checking Duchess's bridle when Bramble began acting strange. He pawed the straw, tossed his head, and stared at Rowan's coat pocket.
Bramble urged him on: Now. Do it now before she finds the ring and thinks it is a sugar lump.
I froze. Rowan closed his eyes.
"Bramble... Your horse," I said carefully, "is being informative."
"He was asked to remain silent."
Bramble snorted: I am never asked correctly.
Rowan turned to me, color high along his cheekbones. "This was meant to happen in the garden."
"In December?"
"There is a bench covered in snow. A heroic bench."
Bramble stamped: Ask.
I looked at Rowan. He looked at me. Then he laughed, took the ring from his pocket, and lowered himself carefully to one knee.
I moved at once to help, but he held up a hand. "Let me be dramatic," he said.
"Your horse says you are slow."