She stood in a clearing just off the main path, so perfectly still that at first I thought she might be a statue. A mare the color of fresh snow, with a mane that caught the dancing lights like spun silver. Her tack was leather so supple it looked new, though something about the style suggested age—not wear, but design from an earlier, more elegant era.
And she was waiting for me.
Not grazing, not resting, not doing any of the things horses typically did when left to their own devices. She stood with her head turned toward the path, ears pricked forward, as if she'd been instructed to watch for a specific traveler.
This is Father's doing, I thought with a mixture of relief and trepidation. He arranged for transportation.
But even as the logical explanation formed, I knew it wasn't quit
