Bramble sneezed directly onto the Duke's sleeve.
That was how I began my service at Alderwick Hall: with a lying Duke, a furious stallion, and a strong suspicion that I would be dismissed before supper.
I was twenty-three years old, 5 feet 3 inches if I stood like a soldier and lied like a tax collector, and a horse trainer by trade. I did not train by whipping fear into animals. I watched ears, breath, balance, spite marks on rails, sweat under saddles, and the small dishonest things people missed.
Hearing horses gave me an unfair advantage and a lifelong headache. The baker's old mare believed the baker stole buns from himself. The vicar's pony thought sermons were too long, which was hard to dispute. Mrs. Hepple's mule had once revealed where she hid her gin; I had been blamed for witchcraft by a woman who named gin after Bible virtues. My late mother had called my gift mercy. My uncle called it inconvenient. I called it unpaid labor.
I had earned my reputation the hard way. I took horses no one wanted—horses called vicious, spoiled, broken, or cursed. Most of them were frightened, sore, bored, or smarter than their owners. My rules were simple: no shouting unless a wagon was on fire; no striking because a man lacked patience; no blaming the horse before checking the saddle. These rules made me unpopular with fools and beloved by horses, which I considered a fair exchange.
Alderwick Hall was the sort of great house that made a person aware of muddy hems. It stood on a ridge above the river with pale stone walls, tall windows, and gardens cut into shapes that suggested someone had bullied the hedges. Inside, servants moved with polished quiet. Outside, the stable smelled of hay, leather, warm horse, and opinions.
Bramble had many opinions. On my first afternoon, I brushed him while he lectured me inside my head.
The tall groom smells like onions and fear.
"His name is Peter," I murmured.
Then Peter should apologize to onions.
"Do not be cruel."
I'm a horse. Cruelty is beyond me. I am merely large and observant.
"You threw him into a rain barrel."
He called me a brute.
"You are a brute."
A magnificent brute. Important difference.
I had learned long ago to answer animals under my breath, shaping the words as if humming. People noticed when a girl spoke to horses; they noticed more when horses seemed to obey.
Bramble arched his neck as I worked the curry comb along his shoulder. He was beautiful—coal black except for a white star on his forehead—and vain enough to know it.
"Why did you call the Duke a liar?" I whispered.
Bramble's ears flicked. Because he is one.
"About walking?"
He walks when no one looks. He smells of liniment and guilt.
"Why pretend otherwise?"
The thought went still. Because someone tried to kill him when he rode me. Because men watch his legs. Because the house has snakes wearing waistcoats.
I stopped brushing.
Before I could ask more, a voice behind me said, "Does Bramble answer when you question him?"
I spun around so quickly I dropped the curry comb on my foot.
The Duke sat in his wheelchair near the stable doors. No wheels had creaked. No gravel had warned me. He had moved like a ghost with upholstery.