He walked directly toward a grey stallion carrying an expression of profound disinterest in the human race except where apples were concerned.
“This is Bolingbroke,” Geoffrey said, feeding him casually from his palm. “He’s vain, occasionally vindictive, and entirely aware he’s the finest horse in three counties.”
“He certainly behaves like it,” I said cautiously from several safe yards away.
Geoffrey looked at me. “You’ve never actually been near a horse before.”
“I have absolutely been near horses,” I objected. “Boston has horses.”
“Astonishing.”
“There are carriage rides. In parks.”
His expression became painfully careful. “Decorative horses,” he clarified.
“They were perfectly functional horses.”
“For walking in circles.” He grinned.
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. “The point,” I informed him, “is that I’m not afraid of horses.”
This was technically true.
I was, however, somewhat afraid of this specific horse, who had turned one dark intelligent eye toward me with what felt suspiciously like judgment.
“Come here,” Geoffrey said. He was trying very hard not to laugh.
That made me immediately defensive as I walked toward the stall. Bolingbroke’s head was roughly the size of my torso.
“Hold your hand flat,” Geoffrey instructed.
He reached for my wrist before I could respond, adjusting the angle of my hand with calm practicality. His fingers were warm against my skin, and I became abruptly and unhelpfully aware of that fact. Which was probably why I failed to anticipate Bolingbroke abruptly exhaling directly into my face. I made a deeply undignified noise.
Geoffrey laughed. A genuine startled laugh that transformed his entire face before he caught himself and pressed his mouth closed again.
Too late, I’d seen it.
“He does that to everyone,” Geoffrey said, still clearly fighting amusement. “The first time.”
“How reassuring.”
Bolingbroke looked smug. I was fairly certain horses could not technically look smug. This one managed it anyway.
“Try again,” Geoffrey said. “Flat hand. He won’t bite.”
“You sound very confident.”
“He’s only bitten Aldwin twice.”
“Only?”
“Aldwin deserved it both times.”
I held out my hand again as Bolingbroke considered me with grave deliberation before lowering his nose into my palm. The softness surprised me the most.
Not just warmth or texture, but the startling reality of him. This animal. This impossible moment in history breathing quietly against my skin. Emotion tightened unexpectedly in my chest. I swallowed it immediately.
“He’s soft,” I said instead.