A snort of amusement left her dark nostrils in a breath. For a moment a grin worked its way at the edges of her mouth, barely turning them upward before she tempered herself. If she were more trusting of a creature, she might have voiced the thoughts that crossed her mind or what soil their roots were deeply buried in. She was not, so she let it pass without another word.
“Agnes.”
The name had been said so many times from her mouth, from her father’s mouth, from the stallions her father commanded, from the other island inhabitants and even her father’s enemies. It felt strange to speak it then and she wondered, just briefly, if she’d made a mistake. If she should have given a new name for a new place. If she should have been a different horse altogether and let her truths die.
You will always be my daughter.
The pain in her chest was sudden, but familiar. It yawned across the expanse of her heart and threatened to take her breath. But Agnes knew what it was to live with sorrows and never let them show, so she only drew a breath, mentally shoved them where they needed to stay, and refocused her attention on the tall mare before her.
“I will go with you to your thicket.”
And she tried to ignore the way her instincts, the way she’d been raised, tried to tell her she was walking into a trap, no matter how kind the cage-bearer seemed.
Never trust anyone who calls themselves a monarch, Agnes.
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