"So are horses," I said. "Yet here we are."
He looked at me for a long moment, then turned his chair. "Good evening, Miss Finch."
Bramble watched him go. The horse's judgment came with great authority: Foolish man, noble heart, terrible like carrots.
That night, I slept in a narrow attic room above the laundry—or I tried. The house groaned in old stone whispers. Rain tapped at the window. Somewhere below, a clock struck every hour as if accusing me of being awake.
At midnight, I heard hooves. Not on the yard stones—inside my head.
Nell. Nell. Wake up, hay-brain girl.
I sat upright. "Bramble?"
The thought came again, urgent and sharp: Yard. Now. Liar's walking.
I pulled on boots over bare feet, grabbed my shawl, and ran down the servants' stairs. I knew better than to run in a great house at night, but I had also learned that when a horse sounded frightened, furniture could defend itself.
The stable yard lay silver under moonlight. Rain had stopped. The air smelled of wet stone. Bramble stood at his stall window, ears forward, eyes fixed on the old training ring beyond the stable.
There, between the shadows, the paralyzed Duke of Alderwick was walking.
Not well. Bramble had been accurate and rude: the Duke moved like a man fighting his own bones. He leaned on a cane in one hand and the ring fence with the other. His face was white with pain. His nightshirt clung beneath an open coat. Step by step, he dragged his left leg forward, breathed, then forced the right to follow.
My first thought was not scandal; it was fury. Not because he had lied, but because he had been doing this alone.
He reached the far post. His knee buckled. I ran before sense could catch me.
"Your Grace!"
He turned, lost balance, and would have fallen if I had not ducked beneath his arm. He was heavy, warm, and shaking. His hand clamped my shoulder.
"Miss Finch," he hissed. "What are you doing here?"
"Catching a Duke. A rare and inconvenient sport."
"You should not have come."
"You should not be collapsing in your nightshirt where gardeners can gossip over your corpse."
A startled sound escaped him. It was almost a laugh, but pain swallowed it. I helped him to the fence. He gripped it, eyes squeezed shut.
Bramble's thought thundered from the stable: Stubborn mooncalf, sit down.
"Your horse is worried," I whispered.
The Duke's eyes opened. "What did you say?"
My mouth had moved faster than my caution. "I said I'm worried."
"No, you said my horse."
"Did I?"
"Yes."