Patricia Briggs by The Hob's Bargain

out.
    Soul’s Creek was icy cold, and I removed only my boots before stepping in. I scrubbed my face and hands first, while I still had the nerve, then set about washing clothes as quickly as I could. My hair took longer, but at last the dark strands were shiny and free of dirt and oil.
    When I was clean and dry, I began tidying the cottage, setting right what I could and sorting through the rest. Some things were so damaged I broke them up for firewood. Others I set aside for repairs. When I finished, I got a bucket from the cellar and headed for the creek again to get water to wash the dirt off the floors.
    Whether it was some fading of the long bottled-up magic, or merely the effect of working instead of sitting in the dark trying not to think of anything, I hadn’t had a vision all day. It was enough to make me almost cheerful.
    The afternoon sun was warm and the air was heavy with the scent of growing things. In the few days I’d spent in self-imposed exile, the world had bloomed. Yellowbells nodded in the gentle breeze where Ma and I had planted them around the house. Wildflowers were scattered shyly along the path to the barn and in the grass of the field where—Daryn’s big sorrel gelding grazed.
    He must have gotten free and come home.
    I set down my bucket and walked past the barn to the field beyond. Daryn had left the gate open the morning he left. I closed it behind me as I stepped into the pasture, more out of habit than anything else. The sound of the hinges caught the horse’s attention and he faced me, pricking his ears for a moment before trotting briskly to me, whickering.
    He stopped a few feet away and snorted, tossing his head once before shoving it into my midsection and rubbing it against me. Since he was still wearing the remains of his working headstall, the rubbing hurt. I slapped him lightly on the neck.
    â€œSee here, sir,” I said catching the shanks of the bit. “Stop that, Ducky.” Daryn had originally called the horse Fire Hawk, or some such romantic name, but Caulem called him Duck instead, and that was the name which stuck.
    I stripped the bridle off—from the looks of it, it hadn’t been off since the raiders had stolen him. Sweat darkened his coat under the leather and there were several places where the hair had rubbed away, leaving small bare patches of pink skin. The reins, once long enough to drive him with, were a little shorter than my arms.
    â€œSomeone tied you by the reins, eh? Not too smart.”
    I continued to mutter soft nonsense to him as I opened his mouth to see if he’d hurt himself when he broke free. He put up with it for a moment, then stretched his nose in the air and forced me to release him. He forgave me for the indignity as soon as my hands were off his nose, and pushed his head forward to be scratched some more. Someone had pulled his shoes, perhaps to make it harder to track him.
    â€œWell,” I said, “I was wondering how I was going to get that cow out of the barn—now I just need something to use as a harness. Maybe Kith will loan me something.”
    The practical words didn’t hide the tears, but I wiped them away briskly. Stupid to cry over a horse’s return, but for some reason I didn’t feel nearly as alone as I had this morning.
    I left him in the pasture, set the bridle aside for mending, and continued with my chores. The cow could wait until tomorrow. I whistled a little tune as I scrubbed the cottage, but it echoed and made the house more empty, so I stopped. I’d done my weeping in the darkness of the cellar, and in Duck’s mane; time to be done with it.
    When the house was clean, I caught the five remaining chickens and put them in the coop, where they would be protected from predators. While I was measuring grain for the fowl, I heard the sound of hooves on hard-packed earth.
    My heart leaped to my throat, but it was only one horse. It wasn’t likely that a