She stands like a splash of starlight against the green and brown of the forest, her flank quivering, nostrils flared and her pale eyes searching the scattered bodies of the herd. They pay no heed to her, the new mothers are more concerned with their newborn foals, and the other horses simply graze. Not one glance is turned Therese’s way and she is, now more than ever, simply a ghost standing on the edge looking in with a strange heavy feeling in her heart. But she is not longing for them, and her eyes glide from one face to another until it finally lands on the reddish tones of her stallion.

He has already seen her, and after what seems to be a moment of hesitation he winds his way between his herd and his children and does not stop his approach until he has cleared the throng of horses. But Torix doesn’t come to greet her, she had not expected him too, instead he stands legs stiff and ears flicking about his head, first forward then back – as if he were fighting between rage and curiosity.

She keeps his gaze, her own glassy eyes staring straight ahead, even as she shifts to the side in an attempt to feel the brush of Sverre’s skin against her’s, to reassure herself that he is still there.

They would have stayed like that, eyes locked, neither moving to break the space between them – an unwanted stalemate – but the newborn by her side has no concept of the danger Vercingetorix could pose to him. Sverre’s eyes are drawn to the striking red stallion, and before he could stop himself he is leaning forward, ears pricked and his lips tracing his mother’s leg gently.

Therese moves again, her head lowering this time. She had spared a lot of thought to Torix’s reaction to Garrick’s son and a part of her regrets hiding away in the forests. Perhaps it would have been wiser to warn Vercingetorix of her child, to prepare him. Except Therese had never had any intention of bringing Sverre back with her – if she had stuck to her original plan he’d be nothing more than a rotten body washed up on a beach, not the curious creature desperately attempting to escape his mother’s watchful protection. Vercingetorix does not react with rage, he does not charge towards them and makes no immediate attempt to rush her from her foals side. Perhaps, she thinks, she should turn now – escape whilst they have a chance. Sverre could not outrun a fullgrown stallion and she could not fight Vercingetorix off, not if it came down to a clash.

Sverre is the catalyst, the breaking of this awful drawn out silence.

He bursts from his mother’s side on unsteady legs, bounding forward only a few steps before he comes to a stumbling halt, his legs straight and head raised, eager to get as close as he could to this new experience.

Therese bursts forward before her son has even stopped, ears flat against her head, neck arched and although she does not run towards Vercingetorix she is quick to get her body between them again, pawing at the ground with her front leg. She does not want to start a fight, and so she pushes Sverre backwards again then turns to stretch her nose towards Vercingtorix, her sides heaving with each inhale and exhale of her breath.