Anthea’s mouth was open again, this time in astonishment, a spoonful of soup forgotten halfway to her lips. She looked over and saw Jillian had much the same expression. Both girls took hasty sips of the soup and looked away from each other.
“It was your father’s wish that you always remain here, in the place he loved and with the horses he loved,” Uncle Andrew went on.
Anthea’s heart knocked against her ribs; she felt alternately hot and cold. Her father had loved horses? Wrong as it sounded to her ears, it felt right in her heart.
“He suspected, as I did, that you had the Way. He had it, and so do Finn and Caillin MacRennie.”
Jillian dropped her spoon, splashing soup onto her jacket. She snarled and blotted the stain with her napkin. Anthea felt her eyebrows creeping toward her hairline. If her father had had this “Way,” why didn’t Andrew have it? They were brothers. And what about Jillian, who had lived with horses all her life?
“And so we come to the heart of things,” Uncle Andrew said gravely. “The Way is rare, and without it we would have little to no control over the horses. We need everyone with the Way to help!”
Anthea dropped her own spoon, but for once in her life managed to avoid staining her gown. “What do you mean, you don’t have control over the horses?” Her voice came out far too shrill. “Could they … attack?”
Did horses attack people? Like wild animals? They didn’t look like wild animals, with their harnesses on and the men petting them like dogs. But she remembered the scream of the herd stallion and shivered.
“Attack?” Jillian hooted with derision. “Are we a widdle afwaid?”
“Jilly,” her father said, the warning in his voice even more dire.
“I just meant—I just—” Anthea stammered. Then she put her hand to the rose at her throat and squared her shoulders. “I didn’t think that the Crown had allowed you people to keep some of the horses alive.”
“You people?” Jillian growled.
“Allowed us to keep some horses alive?” Finn said, cutting across Jillian’s outrage. He clenched his jaw, and Anthea could see the muscles working there. “I can’t—I just don’t even know where to begin.”
“Well, I mean,” Anthea said hastily, “not allowed you to keep the horses alive, but is helping you keep them alive. What with all the diseases, and—”
“What diseases?” Jillian asked, raising one eyebrow. “Finn, are you diseased?” She turned to Anthea. “Do I look diseased to you?”
“Jilly,” her father said again. “You know very well what she’s been taught.” He sighed and kneaded his forehead for a moment. “First of all, Anthea, you should know that you need have no fear of getting sick because of the horses. The rumors that horses are full of disease are not true.”
“Then what killed the rest of them?” Anthea asked.
“Stop,” Andrew said, when both Jilly and Finn opened their mouths. “Not now.” He sighed again. “Anthea, there is so much more to the story. More than can be discussed over one dinner.
“But what you should know is that, first of all, you need have no fear that the horses will make you sick. I would not live here, with my daughter, and now my niece, if that were possible. The second thing you need to know is that the Crown does not have any idea that the Last Farm exists.
“For all the king and his people know, every horse died centuries past, along with anyone who had the Way. And it’s because they teach that horses cause diseases and plague that we must keep ourselves secret, to protect our charges.”
“How do you keep a place secret that is so big and so filled with enormous animals?” Anthea blurted out.
“Who’s going to tattle on us to the southerners?” Jillian said. “You?”
“Jilly,” Uncle Andrew said.
“Well, is she?” Finn demanded.
“How dare you?”
Anthea’s outrage came out as a question, because she didn’t know what she was really saying. How dare he imply that she was a tattletale? Or how dare he think that … what … she would tell the Crown they had horses? Was it illegal to have horses? They were still under the sovereignty of the Crown, but did that mean that …? She couldn’t think what it meant.
“The land here, north of the Wall, is ignored by the Crown,” Uncle Andrew said. “I don’t even think they realized that there was such a large, prominent estate here when they built the Wall. The main part of this very house is older than the Royal Palace at Travertine.”
Anthea was about to protest, but looking up at the age-blackened beams of the tall ceiling, she believed it.
“This has been our family’s great work, since the Wall was built,” her uncle went on. “It was your father’s entire life: keeping the horses safe, training them, finding those who had the Way and bringing them here. This was what he did.”
“What? No!” Anthea stood up. Then, not knowing where to go or what to do, she sat down.
“It’s another long story,” Uncle Andrew said. “One I would be much happier to tell you, but I can see you already have a lot to sort out first.
“As for being able to control them, well, the horses are like no other animal you’ve encountered. They are far more intelligent, for one thing. They cannot be ordered about, they must be worked with carefully. The Way will allow you to work with them more effectively. They will respect you, and listen to you, more than a rider who does not have the Way.
“We need you, Anthea. It’s what your father would have wanted.”
Anthea ignored the prickle of guilt that came with the mention of her father.
“I’m glad you are trying to honor my father’s wishes,” she said, very politely, and as a way of covering up the turmoil in her brain. “But a girl belongs to her mother, and it’s clear from my mother’s will that she wanted me to be raised far from here.” She took a sip of water, and looked up to find everyone staring at her.
“Her will?” Uncle Andrew blinked. “What will? What have they told you about her?”
Anthea put down her glass, feeling the water and soup churn in her stomach. “What should they have told me about her?” Her voice trembled.
Jillian opened her mouth, but her father shot her a look and she subsided, her eyes wide.
“My dear Anthea,” Andrew said gently, “your mother is very much alive!”
FLORIAN
Florian had waited as patiently as he was able for Beloved Anthea to come to him, and still she had not appeared. The Thornley had been keeping her from him; Florian knew it to be true. The Thornley assigned horses to riders; he should have brought Beloved Anthea to Florian at once. Yet she did not leave the Big House with the other human foals each day. They came in their herd: She Who Was Jilly, the Soon King, That Leggy Boy … but not Beloved Anthea.
What task had The Thornley given to Beloved Anthea that she spent her days in the Big House? Why were they being kept apart in this way?
He stood in his paddock and cried out to her, but she would not look at him. He cried out to her until one of the men came, thinking that Florian was ill. Florian moved away from the man, irritated. The wind brought him Beloved Anthea’s scent, and it was not well. It was filled with fear and anger, and he longed to go to her.
The man tried to move Florian to a far paddock, one where he could not see her window. Florian screamed with rage, and now two men came and tried to draw him away. He kicked and bit, knowing that it was bad of him, but not caring.
Florian was so filled with emotion that he hardly knew what he was doing. He ramped and reared, kicking and trumpeting his displeasure. Three men, now, were trying to calm him, to tie a rope to his halter and lead him away. He didn’t want to go away, he wanted to go to his Beloved.
The High One’s voice cut across the voices of the men. The High One, called Constantine by the men, had seen Florian’s shameful rage and demanded that Florian calm himself.
With the greatest of efforts, Florian brought all four hooves to the ground. He lowered his he
ad, bowing in shame in the direction of the High One, who glared from his private paddock. Florian trembled, and almost wished that there were not two fences separating them. He wished that the High One were there to bite him, to kick … to make him feel anything but this loss over seeing Beloved Anthea so close and yet still cut off from him.
One of the grooms threw a scarf over Florian’s head to darken his eyes and muffle his ears—almost as great a shame as being reprimanded by the High One, yet the men thought it was soothing—and Florian meekly allowed them to lead him away.
Beloved Anthea would come to him, and Florian’s anger would be gone. But she did not, and he began to lose hope. And then he began to grow angry again.
7
THE LETTER
Dear Aunt Deirdre,
I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the beautiful silver rose you sent me. It was certainly a bright spot on a dark day. I will wear it always, as a reminder both of your regard and of what I strive to be.
Nothing here beyond the Wall is as I was led to believe. I do not wish to cause you any trauma in your delicate condition, but I am eager for your advice. A young lady, such as myself, alone in such a place, has no example upon which to rely but those she has left behind.
It seems that horses still exist.
According to my uncle Andrew Thornley, horses were not the cause of the plague all those years ago, and so he has devoted his life (and claims that my father also devoted his) to preserving the species. They call this estate the Last Farm, and say that it lies in Leana, which is apparently a real place and not a myth. Last Farm is home to dozens of horses, as well as people who claim to have something called the Way, which allows them to communicate with the beasts.
Andrew Thornley is insisting that I be educated about the creatures here, and associate not just with the handlers but with the beasts as well. I am not sure what to do.
I have also been told a vicious rumor, one that my hand shakes to report. (Please excuse my handwriting.) Andrew Thornley claims that my mother lives. I do not know what purpose it serves him to tell me this, but I cannot believe it to be true. Do you know of any reason why he would think to tell me such a lie?
Your devoted niece,
Anthea
Anthea set down her pen and carefully read through her letter. And again. She stared out the window at the bustling farm. A week had gone by since that first wretched dinner. Her uncle claimed her mother hadn’t died, nor had she abandoned Anthea. Her uncle claimed that her mother was simply busy with her work. Anthea had nodded politely and then retreated to her room.
Her uncle Andrew was lying.
How could any Rose Matron of Coronam be too busy to see her own daughter? Not only that, but genteel matrons, even those who were not former Rose Maidens, did not work! Anthea was supposed to be her mother’s work. She could not understand why her uncle would say something so cruel to her.
Anthea had paced her room for days, trying to figure out what was real and what was lies. Trying to decide whom to turn to for help. In the end she had decided on Aunt Deirdre. Even though she knew that her aunt was the reason why she had been sent here, Anthea could not help but think that a Rose Maiden, like her mother, would be the best person to give advice to a young lady. Also, the gift of the silver rose Anthea wore constantly seemed to indicate either some hidden fondness—or at worst a sense of guilt.
Either way, Anthea had decided to appeal to her aunt rather than her uncle. It still took her two days to compose the letter, and another day to get up the courage to send it. She finally sealed the letter and put it on her breakfast tray with a note begging the maid to post it for her.
As soon as she had sent it, Anthea was even more upset than she had been before. What if all the secrecy about Last Farm wasn’t just hysteria? What if Aunt Deirdre told … someone … and they told the king and he became angry about the horses? Anthea asked the maid later if she had posted the letter, hoping she could take it back, but it was already gone.
“Best to forget it then,” Anthea told herself. “Besides which, if Aunt Deirdre believes me, and if she tells someone, whom would she tell? And would they believe her?”
Her aunt was a Rose Matron, but in her condition she was hardly hosting a ball every night. And Anthea had always suspected that her aunt had not been as highly favored a Maiden as her mother was … is?
It was just too much.
Anthea would have stayed in her room forever if Jillian hadn’t knocked on her door, loudly and long, that very morning. Anthea had just been writing the greeting to her aunt, and she hurried to hide the letter under the blotter before unlocking her door. When she at last answered, her cousin curtly informed her that she needed to be upstairs in the schoolroom for lessons in half an hour.
“What kind of lessons?” Anthea had asked with trepidation.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jilly said with exaggerated concern. “Do Rose Maidens not know arithmetic? Are they forbidden from reading literature?”
“You mean lesson lessons?” Anthea said, incredulous that these people valued anything beyond their disgraceful horses.
Jillian rolled her eyes and closed the door.
Anthea stumbled into one of her school uniforms and splashed water on her face. As much as she hurried, there was no sign of Jillian when she emerged from her room, and so Anthea set off to find the schoolroom alone. After wandering the halls of the sprawling house for several minutes, she ran into a gangly boy carrying a stack of books.
“Oh, it’s you,” he’d said, a suspicious look on his dark face.
“Please take me to the schoolroom,” Anthea said.
He led her there without comment and without introducing himself, though he obviously knew who she was. Once in the schoolroom, a bright, airy space with rows of windows that occupied the top of the east wing, Anthea found herself greeted warmly by a beautiful woman in an elegant shirtwaist. Miss Ravel was the farm’s schoolteacher, and Anthea soon found that not only was she from Travertine, but had also attended Miss Miniver’s Rose Academy.
“You poor thing,” Miss Ravel said as she shook Anthea’s hand. “You have had a very trying few days, I am sure.”
She pointed Anthea to a desk, unfortunately between Finn and Jillian, who both ignored her—though Jillian did mutter something about hoisting a mainsail when she saw Anthea’s clothes. Miss Ravel gave Anthea some books and started the handful of younger children, all boys, on their lessons, before starting the older ones, which included Anthea, Jillian, Finn, and the other boy, whose name was Keth, on arithmetic.
It was all so familiar and soothing that Anthea felt tears prickling her eyes. She looked up at Miss Ravel’s smiling face and thought, too, that here was an ally. When lessons were over at lunchtime, Anthea waited behind to speak to Miss Ravel privately.
But as Finn went out, Miss Ravel called gaily to him.
“Oh, Finn! When you go to the stables, tell my dear Daffodil I will be out to ride her as soon as I mark these papers!”
Finn nodded and smiled, and then shot Anthea a pointed look, as though making sure that she heard what Miss Ravel had said.
Anthea had most definitely heard. Every word fell into her like a rock. Miss Ravel was one of them. These horse worshippers. She wasn’t going to give Anthea permission to stay away from the stables, as her next words confirmed.
“What is it, dear? You best hurry so that you can eat a good lunch. I understand that today is to be your first riding lesson!” Miss Ravel had beamed as though Anthea were about to enjoy a special treat.
“Nothing, miss,” Anthea said in a hoarse whisper. “I forgot.”
Anthea fled from the schoolroom for the safety of her bedroom. She could not and would not ride a horse! She locked the door behind her for good measure.
It wasn’t long before she heard another loud knock. “Go away, Jillian! I want to be alone!”
“Anthea, I need to speak with you,” Uncle Andrew’s voice boomed through the door. Anthea?
??s hands started shaking.
“No thank you, Uncle,” she said as calmly as she could manage.
She heard a jingling and then a clicking, and Uncle Andrew walked into the room. He held up a key, his expression sheepish.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, but I knew you would never let me in.”
“You have a key to my room?” she said in horror.
“I wouldn’t have used it unless it was important,” Uncle Andrew said.
“Is it important?” Anthea’s voice sounded shrill, and she winced.
“It is,” he said gently. “Anthea, we need to talk.”
“I think you’ve said enough,” Anthea said.
She winced again, saying it. It was something she had once heard Miss Miniver say to a man who had gotten fresh with her at an outing to the Travertine Rose Gardens. Anthea had always longed to use it, but saying it now made her feel deeply stupid. Also, it didn’t really fit. Her uncle hadn’t said enough: she still had far too many questions.
“I am sorry that we dropped the load of bricks on your head that first night,” Uncle Andrew told her. “It had honestly never occurred to me that you would be told your mother was dead. I wasn’t sure if you had ever had contact with her, but … dead? I’m so sorry. It just sort of burst out of me, I was so surprised.”
“I, um, thank you for the apology,” Anthea said.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why they told you she was dead,” Uncle Andrew said.
Something had occurred to Anthea. She looked at her uncle and said, to his evident surprise, “I don’t think anyone ever did.”
Over the past few days she had been thinking back on anything that she had ever heard about her parents, her mother especially, trying to piece together any hints that her mother might have been alive. It now came to her that no one had ever told her that her mother had died.