“No,” I say. “It’s unusual.”
She strokes his face once, careful and slow. “He’s not terrible.”
“He is.”
“He likes me.”
“That doesn’t improve his character.”
“It improves his taste.”
This time, I do laugh.
Not much. Enough that the stableman looks at me like he has seen the dead rise.
A few days later, she asks to ride him.
“No.”
She doesn’t even blink. “You said that too quickly.”
“Because the answer is obvious.”
“You ride him.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Then teach me.”
“On another horse.”
“No.”
Now it’s my turn to stare at her.
She stands outside Buran’s stall in a dark riding habit that arrived that morning, fitted close to her waist, her hair braided back, her chin lifted in that stubborn way that makes me want to kiss her and lock her in a room at the same time.
“Anya.”
“I want to ride him.”
“He’s not a pet.”
“I know.”
“He throws experienced riders.”
“Then don’t let him throw me.”
The stableman suddenly becomes fascinated by a saddle strap.
I look at Buran. The horse looks back at me with the bored malice of an animal who enjoys inconvenience.
“No galloping,” I say finally.
Anya’s face changes. Victory. “You’ll teach me?”
“I will regret it.”
