The Gilded Cage by Lucinda Gray

the dying light, it looks cold. The unlit windows of the upper floors peer at me like empty eyes.
    Suddenly, one of the horses whinnies and the carriage lists sharply to the left. I brace myself against the door as we clatter sideways across the road, finally bumping to a heavy halt against a copse of bare trees.
    â€œAre you all right back there, my lady?”
    â€œYes, I’m fine!” I call. I fumble with the door at my back until it swings open, then climb carefully out. Were it summer, I imagine I could look straight up into an acre of green-golden leaves; as it is, the carriage rests among black brambles clustered around the sturdy trunks of ancient, snow-silvered oaks.
    John’s already moved toward the horses, pushing his face into theirs, crooning quiet things to keep them calm. “We’ve lost a wheel, my lady,” he says. “Get back inside and keep as warm as you can. I’ll go to the house and get help.”
    â€œI’ll come with you,” I say.
    â€œNo,” he says firmly. Am I mistaken, or does he cast a nervous glance toward the forest? “What I mean is, His Lordship would have my guts for garters should anything happen to you. It’s a cold slog up to the house from here.”
    I’ve walked miles in worse, but that’s when I was just Katherine. “Very well,” I say heavily, stepping back onto the mounting board.
    I settle back into my crooked seat as John strides up the track. Sitting among my fur blankets, I’m overcome with self-pity. What a wretched end to a wretched day.
    As my ears get used to the quiet, I notice the noises of the forest—faint crackles and snaps in the frigid air. The horses stamp their feet to stay warm, and I try to judge the time by the darkening sky.
    Despite the furs, cold seeps into my toes and fingertips. Ten minutes pass—perhaps fifteen—before I notice that I can see my breath. How long could it take John to get to the house and back? Surely he should have returned by now.
    Unless something has happened to him on the way. I peer through the window at the dark forest. The Beast is a myth, I remind myself—but what if John has stumbled and hurt himself? Or what if he came across a poacher?
    Time stretches, out here in the snow. Flakes fall and vanish on the horses’ backs, poor things. Their manes are tinged with white. I’ve learned over long Virginia winters to be wary about frostbite, and to watch for the moment when chilly wakefulness turns into dreamy fatigue. When I start to feel warm again, I know it’s a bad thing. I clap my hands against my arms, stamp my feet to wake my legs. This won’t do. I can’t just wait to freeze.
    So I climb out, lifting my heavy skirts clear of the snow’s crust. I unhitch both horses and throw the blankets over their broad backs. It’s been a little while since I rode bareback, and the larger of the mares stumbles a bit as I mount her, eyes rolling whitely in her head.
    â€œLet’s just take this slowly,” I mutter.
    I trot her up the track toward the house, leading the other horse close beside us. I daren’t risk going any faster for fear of the ice that might be hidden beneath the snow.
    Finally, frustrated by our slow progress, I lead the horses off the uneven road and down toward the lake. It’s a quicker route, and the ground is softer. According to Henry, the lake was dug by our great-great-grandfather, to make the most of the tributary of the River Avon, which runs through the estate. My own grandfather constructed the elegant Palladian bridge that spans its center in a gentle arch. When I first saw it, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on.
    There’s a cruel beauty to the landscape. I think, not for the first time, how much I wish to see my new home in summer. “Maybe I could love it then,” I whisper, not knowing I’m speaking aloud until the words are already