I SLEEP. I do not want to sleep, but it comes upon me as stealthy as a fox. I dream of my father and Thomas’s father together on the Capuzzo front in armored cars. All around them, long black feathers rain down instead of bombs. Each feather slices at the car’s armor, piece by piece by piece, letting in the snow.

Cold. It is so cold.

When I wake, the attic window is open a crack, which I do not remember doing. The thought of moving across the room to close it is too exhausting, so I just pull the quilt higher. My stomach rumbles, and I reach for the tea, and—

A letter rests beside the cup.

A letter on beautiful paper, rolled up in red ribbon.

My heart flit-flit-flits, just like the wounded bird that Marjorie found, as I pick it up with shaking fingers.

Dear Emmaline May,

As you know, my horses have been watching your world through the mirrors. They told me of your present condition as a prisoner, and I offer my condolences. In one of your letters, you expressed what—if I may presume—felt like deep anger toward the Black Horse. I fear this anger is misplaced. You see, the Black Horse does not bring strife because he enjoys it. He has a right to his life. He has a place in this world. He even has a name: Volkrig. My winged horses soar because that is what they do. Volkrig hunts because that is what he does. Try to understand. We can resist him. We can fight him. But we cannot blame him for doing what he was made to do.

Foxfire’s fate is her own, now. You have been a good friend to her—and to me.

Ride true,

The Horse Lord

I fold the letter. Volkrig. The name has a sinister ring for a sinister horse, and yet, it changes something.

A chill slips from the cracked window.

The Horse Lord must have climbed through it. All this time, he could have just come to me. He didn’t need the gardens, or the golden sundial. Why never show me his face?

Knock, knock.

The brass bolt draws back. “Emmaline? Are you awake?”

It is Thomas.

“Yes.” I throw the covers back, but the stillwaters rise, and I cough and cough. Thomas looks in hesitantly, then quickly looks away.

“Sister Mary Grace said—”

“You must do me a favor.” I force myself to sit up. “In Anna’s bedroom. There’s a desk with a secret drawer that’s released by a latch in the bottom. There’s a—” The stillwaters beast fights to claw up, and I swallow him back down. “There’s a book. Take it to the sundial garden. Attach it to the ivy. You have to. Foxfire needs us.”

He stares at me, as if not hearing. “Emmaline…”

“Please! I can’t go myself.”

He hesitates, and then nods. “Yes. Yes, of course I will.”

I breathe out slowly, sinking into the pillows. They are soft. They are clouds, like Foxfire’s hair.

But Thomas remains in the doorway. “There’s something I have to tell you, Emmaline. My aunt’s written from Wales. I have to leave later tonight, and I’ll be gone for a few days. It’s my father’s funeral in London. It’s poor timing,” he stammers, glancing at the red ticket. “But there’s nothing to be done for it.”

He takes a deep breath, and then I understand. He thinks he will not see me again. He thinks the stillwaters will come for me while he is away. I snap my eyes to him.

“You think I’m going to die.”

“No. No. I just…”

Yes. This is what he thinks.

His fingers toy with the brass bolt. “Goodbye, Emmaline.” Then his hand drops to his pocket, and he takes out a small hand mirror. He sets it on my table next to the cold tea. It has brass edges and a wooden handle and I’ve no idea how he came by anything so fine.

There is a tag attached.

I hold it to the light.

For Emmaline May, from your friend Thomas.

“So the horses can look after you,” he says. “While I’m gone.”