There was a pause, as if he had startled the filly, and then there was rustling as she responded to his call and revealed herself from her shelter of green. It was, in fact, not Ghostwood, and Orhan’s head pulled up in surprise at this realization. With ears flicked back in uncertainty, the stallion took a moment to look her over, noting her salt-and-pepper coat which distinguished her from the filly he’d taken her for, and moreover, he noted her age. She looked to be about a year old: old enough to be weaned, but nowhere near old enough, in his opinion, to be out wandering on her own. For a moment Orhan wondered if she had come from his neighbor’s territory, but nothing in her build or bone structure suggested she carried an ounce of Arabian blood.

Rain trickled down the grooves in his face as he lowered his head to appear more relaxed and, hopefully, less threatening to the stranger-child (not that this was necessary, given how confident she seemed). Then she spoke, confirming his suspicion that she was from another island altogether, and Orhan pressed his lips together firmly. “Moonchild,” he addressed her, not realizing that this was not her actual name, “What are you doing here, so far from home? Do the Vulcans know you are here?” He watched with a mixture of perplexion and amusement as she poked her nose at the surrounding terrain and shrubbery, evidently fascinated with the strange scenery.

“Magic?” he tilted his head and gave the girl a quizzical expression. “This is the desert, my home. You are on the island of Salem.”