Golden by Cameron Dokey Page B

sweat. White foam flecked its mouth. I stood for a moment, while my own sweat dampened the back of my dress, trying to decide what should be done. Unless cared for, a horse ridden as hard as this one could sicken.
    I suppose there’s nothing for it,
I thought, as I took a single step forward. If its master had evil intentions, the horse would suffer quite enough without my adding to its misery.
    â€œDon’t you touch him. Stay away,” a shrill voice called.
    Instantly I took the same step back, cursing myself. I’d let my love for animals get in the way of my good sense. Again.
    â€œI only want to wipe him down,” I said. “He shouldn’t be left to stand. He’s been ridden too hard.”
    â€œI said stay away,” the voice said again, and now I could see to whom it belonged. In the lane right outside our gate sat a serving boy on a horse of his own. The lad was big and strapping, for all that his voice had been shrill. He had ears like pitchers. Great, doughy hands clutched hard at the reins so that the horse’s feet were never still. It tossed its head and showed the whites of its eyes.
    He is infected by his rider’s fear,
I thought.
    â€œI only want to wipe him down,” I said again.“And I can bring you a drink of water, if you like.”
    â€œYou’ll do no such thing,” the boy replied. “How do I know what you might put in it? You serve the evil sorceress.”
    â€œI do not,” I answered smartly, probably more smartly than I should have done. But that word, evil, was pounding in my head, driving out caution. “I’m nobody’s servant, and if you think that Melisande would harm anyone, you’re just plain wrong. Maybe you should consider keeping your mouth shut. Your ignorance is showing, and it’s not a pretty sight.”
    â€œWhat would you know about pretty?” the boy shot back. “I’ve heard about you. They say that you are cursed and have no hair at all.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” I said, though I was responding to the first part of his words, of course. My voice was loud and brave, but by now my heart had begun to knock against my ribs. What was I doing, standing here arguing in the yard?
    â€œShow me your head and prove it, then,” the boy challenged, for of course I had a kerchief on, as always, and my favorite one besides.
    â€œI don’t have to prove anything to you,” I said. At which he laughed, and it was not a joyful sound.
    â€œYou’re afraid of me,” he said. “You ought to be.”
    All of a sudden, I understood the urge to strike the first blow, to harm those you think mean to injure you before they get the chance. For his words made me angry, and my fingers itched to find a rock and throw it. But before I could do anything so rash—before, in fact, I could do anything else at all—the front door of the house slammed back and a man stalked out into the yard. I spun toward him. He stopped short. We stared at one another.
    He was a few years older than I was, or so I judged, dressed in the fine clothes of a wealthy man from the town. A merchant, perhaps. They always dressed well.
    â€œSo,” he said at last. “You have grown up tall. I wondered if you might, your legs were so strong.”
    I did my best to hide my confusion, but I must not have been very successful.
    â€œYou don’t remember me, do you?” he inquired.
    I opened my mouth to say that of course I didn’t, when I looked into his eyes. They were a color I had seen just once before, a blue more blue than any sky. In that moment, a memory I had forgotten I possessed returned to me, and I discovered that I knew him after all.
    â€œYou are the boy,” I said. “The tall boy who kicked the ball so well.”
    He smiled then, and it was like the sun appearing on a cloudy day, just when you have given up any hope that such a moment might come.
    â€œAnd