The stable boy woke well before dawn.
He lay, still but alert, watching stars fade above the distant line of cypresses. The chill breeze from the garden washed over him. He always kept the window open, except in snowy winter, because he found the deeper sense of reality to be worth the discomfort.
He found himself thinking again about the sea.
The boy had grown up in a maritime city, and spent much of his childhood messing about with boats. He could climb a ratline and reef a sail, or take his turn at the tiller. He could buck the capstan to raise the anchor, keeping time with his mates and the shantyman’s song. Or load a hold tight and true, so she wouldn’t shift in storm-swell. He might, indeed, have made a trade of it and gone to sea like his kin before him. Had he not discovered a talent that changed everything. Which had sent him here to this strange estate, tending a stable of petrified horses.
The boy… (Jon, he reminded himself. My name is Jon.) Yes, Jon turned away from thoughts of stowage and rigging and faced the coming day. He flung off the blanket, pulled on his trousers, and sniffed the armpits of yesterday’s shirt. Good for another day or two, likely. He pulled on the shirt as he walked through the vaulted stone stable, flanked by equine portraits in marble.
They stood as the petrifaction spells had caught them – some tranquil, some in mid-stamp or head-toss. The skittish little Arabian balanced on two hooves, nostrils flared, forelegs pawing the air.
The stall of the black stallion was still empty. The Wizard would likely have words with him about that one. Another item on the list of future problems. Jon shrugged. Sufficient unto the day…
The carriage mare was in the last stall on the right with her foal, which was awake and nursing. The last two horses alive, among all this damn’ statuary.
“Morning, Daisy,” said Jon. “Morning, Pepper. I’ll be back soon to muck you out.”
He stepped outside to use the privy. His timing was good: Lisse had already finished, and was washing up in the scullery sink. A few minutes later, Jon was back in the barn. He put a halter on Daisy and led her out into the barnyard. Pepper trailed behind without coaxing. At this age, you could count on him following his dam. But he was a colt, and would soon become a handful.
Jon mucked out the stall and added the soiled straw to the manure pile. He spread fresh bedding, then filled Daisy’s manger with hay, and poured oats into a feed pail. He carried her water bucket out to the barnyard pump.
The mare whickered at him. “All done, girl.” She followed him back into the barn, foal trailing behind.
The boy washed up at the pump, then headed in for breakfast. The black cat bumped against his legs as he opened the kitchen door.
“Out hunting all night again, puss?” he asked.
The cat ignored him.
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