“That’s my horse. Slug.”
Micha did not look very impressed by Slug, but Thomas could not blame him for that. Slug was not an impressive animal. “Did you just say ‘Slug’?”
“His real name is Sammy, but George has been calling him Slug for so long that he answers to it. I’m rather an indifferent rider, and Slug suits my needs. He’s ... slow and docile. Like me. You’re welcome to make use of him. I just thought you might prefer Brimstone.”
Micha took up a pose of studied apathy. “I’ll think about it.”
“As you will.” Thomas was conscious of an unworthy flicker of irritation, which he partially blamed on the unsettling exchange that had justpassed. As much as he believed he’d accepted his own iniquities, having to confront them directly had shaken him. Even the fact that Micha could not know the depth of them offered scant comfort. All the same, and personal corruption aside, he found himself ungraciously wishing that Micha would just ... like something. Anything. For once. Then again, maybe it was better that he didn’t. Thomas’s wish to please Micha was too entangled with his own pleasure for it to be an uncomplicated impulse.
“You think too much,” Micha said, suddenly.
Thomas, who had indeed been lost in his reveries, started.
“It’s all air and philosophy and reason with you.”
“I was taught that way. I don’t know how else I might bring the Lord to His people.”
“Eating their cake might be a start.”
Thomas laughed before realising Micha was serious. “What has that to do with anything?”
“Well, how are you supposed to bring the Lord to His people if His people think you’re a prig?” But before Thomas could even begin to frame an answer, Micha turned and walked away. His boots echoed on the cobbles as he strolled over to the final, occupied stall. “And who—” he began. “My God. What a beauty.”
“What? Oh.” It took a moment for Thomas’s head to stop spinning. “That’s Edward’s old horse, Bucephalus.” Even the words hurt a little, though it had been over a year. “I’m afraid he’s not quite the prize he once was. And please be careful, he’s rather wary. He can bite, if you catch him in the wrong mood.”
Micha held out a hand, murmuring softly under his breath, words Thomas was standing too far away to catch. There came a stirring from within, and Bucephalus’s head appeared over the top of the door. Micha stroked his nose with calm assurance. Bucephalus tossed his mane nervously but otherwise stood still and endured it.
“He’s Arabian stock, isn’t he?” asked Micha.
Thomas kept his distance, not wanting to startle either of them, and nodded. “But he damaged his knees. He’ll never race again.”
“How?”
A blank, cold syllable that hung in the air like gun smoke. Thomas felt a little sick.
“We don’t know. He limped home after Edward’s ... accident, like this. Perhaps he stumbled when the gun was discharged. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.”
Micha half-turned, his hand still stroking almost hypnotically and Bucephalus quiescent beneath it as though bespelled. “Is that how your brother died?”
Not for the first time, Thomas felt the truth surge hotly inside him, as though it wanted to force its way out of his throat. But he had given the marquess his oath. It was not his secret. It was Edward’s. It was the family’s. “Yes,” he managed. “As I said. A hunting accident.”
Micha’s eyes were very dark in the half-light. They looked like pits into which Thomas could fall and never be found again. “A hunting accident,” repeated Micha, in a strange, harsh voice. “Right.”
Thomas nodded. “They brought him back to the house, but it was too late to ... do anything. And they found Bucephalus wandering afterwards.”
It had been a question that had long troubled Thomas, one he clung to, perhaps, so he would not have to think about the others. Suicide was, after all, a sin. What did that mean for Edward’s soul? But if Edward had, indeed, shot himself as the marquess had said, what would have caused Bucephalus to break his knees? Did that mean someone had maimed him, simply to support the lie of Edward’s death? How much pain could one life cause? “George wanted to shoot him,” Thomas heard himself say. “But I would not allow it.”
“Let me guess,” Micha sneered, “you threw yourself between beast and bullet.”
Thomas said nothing.
“Did you really? For a horse? What if George had shot you?”
“He would not have shot me. He’s impetuous but not fratricidal. And we can hardly blame Bucephalus for what happened.”
Micha shrugged. “What’s the use of a horse with damaged knees?”
“Edward loved him dearly. For that I am grateful.”
