Chapter Twenty-Six: Half an Hour Too Late
Guardians of the Twilight Lands -- The Sixth Book of Unexpected Enlightenment
Leaving Siggy in the kitchen, Rachel spent the next hour with the book on drawing she had borrowed from Mrs. Heelis. The book fascinated her, and she loved the doodles of mushrooms and moths that someone, presumably, Mrs. Heelis herself, had done in the margins. She understood much of what she was reading, in theory, but she could not seem to translate the theory to her pencil. Frustrated, she put the book aside, carefully donned everything she normally carried—her neck pouch, her amethyst necklace, her wand—and went outside to visit her pony.
By the stables, she shared a happy reunion with her little silver bay Shetland. Widdershins was overjoyed to see her. He cantered across the paddock to her, neighing and cavorting. Rachel hugged him tightly and stroked his soft nose. As always, he was covered with mud, so Rachel washed him and curried him until his rich brown coat shone. Then, she saddled him and rode northward, over the moors.
Mist blanketed the rolling hills, limiting visibility. The fields and bogs looked mysterious, dressed in fog, that, despite knowing these moors her whole life, Rachel was not entirely sure that she had not accidentally ridden Beyond the Fields We Know. She kept a sharp eye out for phooka but saw only a stray sheep and a hawk.
It was wonderful to be home again, back where she belonged, where she fit into the landscape like the gorse bushes and the moor ponies. She felt welcomed, as if the dryads and flower fairies knew her step. It was not until she came back here, surrounded by the manor and estate she so loved, that she had realized how out of place she had felt at school—much as she loved Roanoke Academy.
Returning to the stable, she dismissed Oliver, the stable boy, and curried her pony herself, talking to him happily as she brushed out his straw-like mane, telling him about the last six months of her life, and breathing in the pleasant, clean wood shavings smell and fresh hay of the barn. Widdershins’s ears twitched at appropriate moments, giving the impression he was listening. Charmed, she fed him a peppermint stick from her pocket.
On her way back to the manor, she came upon her father making his Saturday rounds, checking on the stable and the kennels. The duke leaned on the fence, speaking to his horse, Passelande, a magnificent black Friesian charger. As Rachel approached, she heard her father apologizing to the stallion for not getting out to ride often enough and promising to remedy this. It pleased her that both she and her father talked to their steeds. Shyly, she came up beside him and fed Passelande a sugar cube. The black charger, with his tremendously long and wavy black mane and tail, struck Rachel as one of the most beautiful creatures ever to walk the earth.
“What would you like for your birthday?” Ambrose Griffin smiled down at his daughter.
Rachel answered without hesitation. “I want an hour of your time.”
“My time?” Her father arched an eyebrow.
“Yes.” Rachel nodded her head firmly. “I have been wanting to talk to you since the end of September, and every time I have tried, something has prevented it.”
“I had no idea. Did I know this?” he asked. “Before I lost my memory, I mean?”
“I have no idea,” echoed Rachel.
Her father looked faintly amused. “Well, you shall have it. On your birthday, I shall put aside an entire afternoon to spend only with you.”
Rachel beamed. Finally, she would be able to tell him what had happened at Beaumont.
She stepped onto the bottom rail of the split rail fence and waved to Polly Simes, the daughter of the Gryphon Park master-of-the-horse. Polly worked in the house as a parlor maid in the mornings and evenings, in return for the opportunity to work with the horses during the middle of the day. Polly waved back from where she stood atop the bare back of Dappleheart, one of the Gypsy Vanners. The young woman leapt into the air, performed a perfect flip, and landed lightly on the mare’s back, her arms outstretched. Rachel clapped, and the duke nodded approvingly.
Rachel’s gaze moved from Polly to the Friesians and Gypsy Vanners. The two breeds had much in common; both were smaller draft horses, light enough for riding, with feathering over the lower legs and hoofs and absurdly long flowing manes and tails. The Friesians were black and lighter of frame, the Vanners black and white and solid enough to pull a gypsy’s van or wagon. Rachel's grandmother had trained both breeds for dressage and show. The lithe Friesians were also favored for hunting.
Father rode a Friesian. Laurel’s Wild Child and Peter’s Feste were swift-footed Arabians. Laurel’s was black with a white star on its forehead, and Feste was a bay with white socks and a white blaze down his nose. Starbeam and Snow Princess—Mother and Sandra’s steeds, respectively—were Vanners. Grandfather’s Warlock and Thunderfrost—the ghost horse who kept watch over the family—were also Vanners, gorgeous steeds with long wild manes, feathered legs, and tails so long they dragged on the ground. Grandmother had ridden several horses; her favorite had been a little gray Arabian mare named Dido.
Rachel stared at the beautiful horses and sighed. As a child, she had dreamed of riding one of these great beasts. The Gypsy Vanners were the most beautiful, but Rachel had yearned for her own Friesian, so charmed was she by the wavy, Rapunzel-like locks of the sleek black horses. Now, she realized she might never be tall enough. Her parents would probably just give her a larger pony, maybe of the highland variety. Still, it was a joy to watch them.
“Aren’t they magnificent!” Her father leaned against the paddock fence, watching the horses run through the mist. “Like liquid motion.”
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