“I didn’t wake up,” she said. “I would have woken up if there was a thunderstorm. And my clothes are dry.”
She held her arms up to demonstrate, then realized something.
“Oh my,” she said, covering her mouth. “Where is he?”
“Who?” Finn asked.
“Myhorse,” Marigold said. “He never leaves me. He’s practically my best friend, and I’ll warn you,” her eyes met his, “I don’t have many friends. I’m liable to go mad without him. And that’s saying something, because I’m also liable to go madwithhim,” she said.
Before he could respond, Marigold marched past him and started calling the horse’s name, Charger.
“Wait!” Finn said. “Where are you going?”
“To look for my horse!” she shouted, without looking back at him.
“You’re still on my property!” Finn said.
Marigold turned around and looked angry.
“Do I have permission to look formyhorse onyourproperty?”
Finn rolled his eyes.
“Come with me, and I’ll take you aroundmyproperty onmyhorse and we can look for yours while we do it.”
Marigold considered this for a moment, then nodded. He took her toward the stables, a quarter mile away. They walked in silence, with only the sound of the wind in the trees to comfort them.
As worried as she seemed about her horse, Marigold inhaled the spring air contentedly.
“Do you like the spring?” Finn ventured.
Marigold smiled.
“I hate it, historically. I never want winter to end. But I feel that I’m changing a bit.”
“I’ve never met anyone who hates spring,” Finn said.
“Then perhaps you’ve never met anyone who hates their life.”
Finn snapped his head towards her with shock, but Marigold didn’t look at him. Nor did she apologize for making such a snappy confession. Finn realized he was waiting for a mitigation of the statement. He was used to feelings cloaked in guilt and apology and amendment. Gift-wrapped, so that they would be more digestible, perhaps with a positive statement shaped like a question mark at the end.
To her admission, Finn said nothing.
When they arrived at the stables, Finn whistled for his best steed—a white mare named Snow.
“Do you think you will still like winter, now that you also love spring?” Finn asked at length.
“Perhaps I will love all of the seasons,” Marigold responded, brushing the horse’s snout, and seeming to gain the beast’s trust immediately.
“You’re a horsewoman,” Finn said.
“I was, once,” Marigold replied.
She straddled the horse without a saddle and placed her hands on Snow’s neck before knitting her fingers in her hair.
“Who were you once?” Finn asked.
Marigold stared at him meaningfully.
