"What happened?"
"Nothing."
Bramble's thought came again, louder: Cousin Silas smelled of river mud after the rope snapped. Wet hands. Lemon soap. Fear.
"Do you have a cousin named Silas?" I asked.
The Duke went very still. "Yes."
"Does he use lemon soap?"
His eyes changed. "How do you know that?"
I stepped back, but his arm was still over my shoulders. We were caught in a ridiculous embrace beneath the moon, with scandal on one side and horse testimony on the other.
"Your horse knows things," I said.
He did not laugh. "Explain."
So I told him the truth, because some lies were smaller than the danger around us. I told him that animals had spoken into my mind since I was a child. I told him horses were the clearest, cows the most philosophical, goats impossible, and chickens mostly interested in murder and crumbs. I told him I'd learned to hide it because people feared what sounded like witchcraft, even when witchcraft mostly revealed who stole oats.
When I finished, the Duke looked toward Bramble.
"He called me a liar?" Rowan Alderwick said.
"Several times."
"Anything else?"
"He criticized your walking."
"Naturally."
"Your peppermints."
The Duke closed his eyes. "Traitor."
Bramble considered the matter: Share them and we negotiate.
I relayed that.
The Duke looked at the stallion. "You attempted to eat my sleeve yesterday."
Bramble blew air through his nose.
"He says that was commentary," I translated.
The Duke's laugh broke out of him before he could stop it. It was rough and surprised and gone too quickly, but it was real. Under moonlight, with pain in his face and danger in his house, he laughed because a horse had opinions about sleeves.
Then his right leg failed. I caught him again.
"This is becoming a habit," I said.
"A humiliating one."