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“You hit the ground like a Victorian woman fainting at the sight of an exposed ankle.”

Emily groans. “This is why I don’t apologize to you.”

I bump my knee against hers again. “I’m serious. Don’t worry about it.”

Emily looks at me then, searching. She looks like she wants to press—wants to ask if I really mean it—but instead, she just nods.

The horses are already saddled by the time we reach the stables. Emily’s usual mare—a sleek, chestnut beauty named Lady Marmalade—flicks her tail at us in greeting, completely unbothered by Emily’s near-death state.

I, on the other hand, am staring down my assigned horse—Al Capony—so as to threaten manners into him via telepathy.

He’s large. Too large. His nostrils flare, sizing me up, probably sensing my complete lack of faith in his ability to not send me plummeting to my death.

“You’re going to be fine,” Emily insists.

“If by ‘fine,’ you mean ‘potentially thrown from a moving animal and trampled to death in the dirt,’ then sure.”

Emily snorts, the closest thing to life she’s shown all morning, then immediately groans and presses her fingers to her temples. “Don’t make me laugh. My brain is trying to detach from my skull.”

“We absolutely do not have to do this,” I assure her. “You look like maybe you shouldn’t, actually.”

“Nice try,” she says, and swings herself up and onto Lady Marmalade like she wasn’t just knocking on death’s door less than three seconds ago.

I eye Al Capony.

He eyes me back.

We have an understanding, I think; I don’t trust him, he doesn’t trust me. And yet, somehow I’m supposed to climb onto his back and place my life in his questionable hooved hands.

Emily watches me from atop Lady Marmalade with the patience you reserve for small children still struggling with basic motor functions. “Just put your foot in the stirrup and swing your leg over,” she says.

“Oh, just like that?” I deadpan. “I had no idea. Thank god you’re here to explain.”

I grab the saddle, plant my foot in the stirrup, and pull myself up.

Almost immediately, I regret everything. Because my leg? Does not clear the horse’s back.

Instead, it collides awkwardly, and for one terrifying moment, I’m suspended mid-air, neither on the horse nor off it.

“Uh—”

And then I start sliding backwards.

“Oh my god⁠—”

I scramble, trying to hoist myself up, but my balance is gone. Evaporated. Nonexistent. My boot slips from the stirrup, my arms flail, and gravity makes its final ruling.

I land hard on my ass in the cold dirt.

Emily wheezes. Lady Marmalade looks mildly entertained. Al Capony looks down at me unblinking. Judging.

She hops down like it’s nothing, still trying to contain her laughter. She offers me her hand. “Come on, let's try that again before someone sees and starts charging for tickets.”

I sigh, accept my fate, and prepare for round two.

There’s the sound of boots scuffing on the stable floor, followed by a low whistle and a muttered, “Well, that didn’t sound graceful.”

Gerry steps out from one of the stalls, brushing hay off his sleeves, a curry comb still in his hand. His expression lands somewhere between amused and concerned.