The baby had come into the world screaming in the arms of his father. It had been a tense debacle as Priest Vandal anointed the child in the offerings of the cloth. Grant liked Priest Vandal, but he disliked the overstep that happened before him. The old churl had put his hands all over the newborn, slathering him in an oil Grant didn’t know. A deeper, darker part of his mind accused the Priest of lathering his son up to consume him as a meal. He shook the evil thought from his head, remembering his control and training.

  Grant lifted his eyes from the bright lapis jewels of his son’s. A single wisp of brown hair curled on his small beet-red face. Grant adjusted to the weight his son imparted to his arms. They were toned and ready for this responsibility. He had drilled his body to peak condition for his age to protect the newborn, after all. However, the weight he felt was one beyond mortal strength. His eyes met Priest Vandal’s. His lips moved to speak.

  “Grant…” Lyn said weakly, her voice carrying over in a dry, cracked tone that mimicked burning wood.

  Grant simply walked past the Priest. His priorities were to his wife first. “Lyn, darling, don’t worry. He’s fine.” Grant lowered himself to gently place his son into Lyn’s arms. He could see that she was wrecked. Her hair was an absolute mess, sticking to her face and the pillow behind her. The mattress around her was soaked with blood. The room reeked with a raw, animal stink he couldn’t explain. Over it all, however, the raw, burnt smell of Ossn pricked the back of his throat.

  Grant knelt there, his knees protesting with the weight of ages pressing down on him. He didn’t care. In that moment there was pure bliss, as his whole world sat swathed in blood, smoke, and linen. The ordeal was over, finally. “Welcome to the world, Mercer.” he said softly, looking down into the eyes of his son.

  Time came for Grant to begin sending messages out to family, informing them of the addition to the Goodmin name. He stood in his bedroom and, in quick succession, picked out his clothes for the day from bottom to top. First his high, blackened oil riding boots, laying thick wool socks over them. Then a tightly packed pair of dark blue wool pants with brass grommets that allowed suspenders. After that, a neatly folded but worn dark blue button-up wool shirt. Over top of it all he would wear the heavy oilcloth duster with military cut. His hands found the two tall brass cylinders that sat in the coat pocket, and he smiled.

  It was a breeze to dress in the early morning. He didn’t have to compete with Lyn for space right now. The pants were tucked into his boots, and his shirt was buttoned up to his Adam’s apple. Across the bed lay his leather holster and scarf beside the heavy jacket. Those last three things would be the final items he put on before leaving. Grant quickly, and quietly, strode over to steal a bite of food before finishing his dress and heading for town. He put on his neatly creased campaign hat, which hung by the door.

  A scrap of lore came to him as he caught his reflection in Lyn’s small vanity:

  “It is the duty of all officers to ensure that men under their command are instructed uniformly and adhere to the prescribed forms without variance.” It was then, in the dark room, that he saw a single hair out of place. His hand found it and fixed the variance.

  He held his brown letter bag across his chest, its strap pressed tight to him. His legs occasionally brushed the front and rear of his heavy duster. The quiet repetition thudded against his boots with a satisfying sound that brought him back to the familiar cadence of a march. He fell back into the step of memory, marching toward town. The road was the only thing he saw then—his focus and doctrine carried him forward to his destination. It wasn’t long before the rookery materialized in front of him, rote and focus shattered at the realization he was already here. Grant stepped inside and saw someone familiar.

  He found a lot of people likable. In truth it wasn’t hard for him to socialize or see the merits of most men. In Adam he liked the studiousness his presence brought to an area. He thought books would sooner materialize at Adam’s presence than a priest or his wife. He liked the way he felt smarter in Adam’s vicinity. At times snickering at the use of complex words he heard Adam saying.

  “Hey Grant. How’s your morning going?” Adam’s voice perked up when Grant placed a dozen letters and money on the table. The rookery around them ruffled as pigeons sat in marked cubbies. Grant saw the task he had laid out for Adam. The bookworm got to work, preparing the messages to be strapped to the pigeons for flight. It was a tedious process of selecting the home coop a pigeon was to fly to, tying the letter to its ankle with red ribbon, and watching him release a bird.

  “Hey Adam. I’m doing well.” Grant lied easily. Grant was walking on eggshells and had been raw from several arguments that Lyn sprang on him. The man was tired and had bags under his eyes. “Just handling some mail. How have you been?”

  Adam nodded as he handled a bird gently. Almost ignorant to Grant’s plight. Scooping the animal up into his hands and walking to the window. “Another day, another Doltair. Y’know how it goes.” He lifted the window with a practiced hand and let the pigeon fly.

  Grant snickered, “You get a whole Doltair?” He could see the line stick Adam, almost hearing the man roll his eyes.

  It was a moment as Adam watched the animal circle above them and started to beeline towards its home coop. “How’s Lyn?” Adam spoke as he shut the window. “I mean, how’re things at the house?” Grant always liked the honest nature of Adam. Maybe a life of communication had made him that way. Grant thought that Adam appreciated clear words and truthful intentions more than fancy talk and idle chat. The change must’ve taken place during Grant’s service, this wasn’t a side of Adam he remembered.

  Grant sighed, he found a kindred soul in Adam in this moment. The man had already gone through Grant’s current monumental task not two years ago. Adam’s sleepless eyes seemed more restive lately, and Grant felt like he could open to Adam more. “A nightmare. Truth be told.” Grant leaned against Adam’s booth. “After Mercer was born, everything relaxed. But I feel like I’m the only man there at times. Often it is the case I am. Anthony is only there at noon. Hell, I find him to be my only saving grace from time to time. Anthony almost feels like a brother to me. This is all I can do to get out of the house long enough to gather myself before I’m pulled back in.” It all slid out like an avalanche, exhausting him as he spoke. “How did you handle this when your wife was pregnant Adam?”

  Adam smiled as Grant spoke, showing him the full attentive nature, the clerk could offer. “Truth be told I wasn’t there for most of it. Thank the lord.” Grant nodded, appreciating the sentiment.

  “But I took the time to protect and provide for my Marry. She never allowed me to be so close to her as your Lyn does. Marry says you’ve been arguing over finances and space lately. Is that right?” Adam saw to grabbing some pigeon feed while he spoke with Grant.

  Those simple lines didn’t sit well with Grant. He didn’t like all the talk that had been going around from the visitors Lyn drew in. The public affair new life brought also towed along with it gossip. Hell, Grant didn’t think Lyn enjoyed it either. The fact that Marry and Adam were so candid like that sat wrong under Grant’s skin. Not only did he just have what little privacy he had upended with all the visitors, but they were just so catty about it all. It rankled under Grant’s collar to think about it. He wouldn’t be surprised if he heard rumors of his property being dirty or ill kept from some jealous hag soon.

  “You are so lucky to have a quiet son after birth. The crones tell my Marry that he doesn’t cry or suffer from cholic.” He leaned affectionately to the birds under his care. “The way I see it, Grant. Every egg you counted hatched this year.”

  Grant’s discontent rose in him the way he just… knew everything that was going on. It irritated Grant deeply that Adam was so frank about his relationship with Lyn. It felt like an invasion of privacy. Grant came here to send mail out to family. Not to hash out life lessons. At this point he sat the feed scoop down and moved to scrape the bottom of the coop for cleanliness. “Think of it this way, if you’re still unconvinced. You could be like Bertram, or Frank, or Hue. You remember them, right?” Of course, Grant knew those men. Practically all of town knew the three devil men that harried the poorhouses. The three devils that haunted bars. The three who savagely beat their wives and scorned their children.

  Grant hated the way he brought up those men in that sentence. He hated it more now as Adam was comparing the four.

  “Those rat-shit corpse fucking losers are your standard. Your golden rule to measure yourself against.” Adam smiled at the thought, even though he was wrist deep in pigeon shit.

  Grant nodded at the thought but felt the need to speak. “Were it so easy to compare yourself to the easy sins those three commit. Least you forget your own sins, Adam.” Grant’s eyes darkened for a moment. Grant of course was speaking of Adam’s own vice.

  Adam stood up at the mere hint of the comment. “I’ll have you know that laudanum is not a vice. It’s an herbal remedy “

  Grant raised his voice again to interject. “I’ve tasted that crap before Adam. It’s a crutch and dulls the brightest of us with the same deluded thought you’re spewing now. Don’t preach to me about my troubles while you walk the poppy.”

  Adam sneered, his face contorted at the rebuke that this footslogger laid out before him. “Easy talk, you take a sabbatical from the crimes of your youth and think the rest of us should live off cold water and sermons! Really, do you think I am addicted to that crap? It’s a cure for shakes and headaches!” Adam then tested his weight on the table. Grant could see the tension in Adam’s bones. “Don’t pretend you’re so pristine you self-serving disingenuous asshole. I remember who you were before those bastards frog-marched you blue into their fucking ranks like the criminal you were.”

  Adam’s remarks were cold and calculated. Grant felt a rising rage that was consuming him like fire in a stationary shop. It was true of course, but so was Grant’s jab too. Something clicked in Grant’s mind. Grant didn’t know what Adam was going through, or how he came to be addicted to laudanum. It was the same moment of understanding that disarmed Grant’s expression in lockstep with Adam’s. Grant felt his shoulders release; he had slid into his usual commanding pose. He then remembered the unit under his command when he was in the army. Adam’s clean civilian clothes and rosy face stuck out vividly in those bleak memories.

  Grant could see into Adam’s expression, how it mimicked his in that moment. He could almost see the next question as if it were the massing of an assault. He saw the memory drag at Adam’s face. Grant lifted his eyebrows in response.

  “She never came back you know?” Adam admitted softly. “Not fully.”

  Grant quietly accepted the truth in those words, memories unlocked and flashed through his mind. Grant put a clamp down on them before he could rehearse his guilt. Grant’s eyes found the baseboard of the table Adam slaved behind.

  “Let’s move on. Life is simpler now.” Grant muttered. “I’ve turned a new leaf.”

  Adam closed his eyes and softly inhaled. “Right.” He shifted behind the desk.

  “I need another tincture.” Grant said, cutting through the heavy topic with some difficulty. “Lyn’s almost out and the pharmacist isn’t due in town for another week. Could I persuade you to part with a bottle or two?”

  Adam shrugged, it was one thing to insult a man in his shop. Another thing altogether to ask that man you’ve just insulted to part with his supply. “Sure, Grant.” Adam said.

  Later that day Grant strode into the living room of his small home. He was sore from his brief argument with his friend. The soreness of the situation picked at him dearly. Grant hated fighting his friends, especially over vice and sin. He guessed on the thought and figured most people would not like picking fights with their friends either. However, he came to remember the intense hazing he had experienced with his brothers in the Army. The air was cold as he inhaled a breath for relief.

  As Grant walked onto his property, he saw Anthony and Katie sitting side by side. He was curious about this diversion as he crossed the yard. They didn’t seem to have noticed Grant too. Maybe they’re so deeply in conversation that he could walk into the home unnoticed. Grant shook his head slightly seeing that. Civilians were always so sloppy, it made him disappointed in the two not to notice him. Grant thought about it and cleared his mind of his judgements, however. If they were going to socialize on the property, he might as well get an attentive hound to assist in security. A good dog would also be a great companion for Mercer too. Grant sighed further, his mind roaming fast and free now that he was home. He needed to do the initial layout of a new home on the property.

  The season has come and gone now. Grant saw the writing on the wall and had started packing his gear. It was still likely three weeks to a month in the future. However, he still felt as if he needed to dress for success. He started waltzing around the house looking for his tools. Plenty of rope, measuring sticks, log calipers, chalk, his marking hatchet, the old black tally book, and his battered brass map case. These tools formed the basis of his field pack, the very things needed to complete his work measuring, laying out, and denoting property legal and illegal to work on.

  Then came Grant’s personal kit. He needed a whistle, pocket watch, pocketknife, an extending brass spyglass, and his brown leather letter satchel. All of these were needed at any given moment while he was out at work. Then Grant moved onto selecting his clothing. These items would need to be treated, patched, and replaced if they were too worn for reuse. Typically, Grant would find a way to recycle or donate anything that was too worn for him to use. He packed a heavy canvass jacket treated with wax and mink oil, mink treated D’nall heavy leather work boots, an oil skin slicker, and his wide brim hat.

  Usually, the smell of tallow seeps from his clothing after applying said oils. Grant personally liked using the oils, it smelt like new clothes to him. The smell of that water treatment always radiated from his work gear. Every time he went to grab some from the tin he had, Lyn would complain. Grant wasn’t sure why or what she disliked about the Mink oil. But it had been enough for her to personally hunt him down each time he used it. He mused that it reminded her of the Butcher shop. Grant wasn’t sure why Lyn didn’t like that place. Although he had thought of the hanging animal corpses suspended near the window caked in frost.

  His hands paused and switched tasks to find a few odd ends to pack into his satchel. On second thought, Grant could guess why she didn’t like the butcher shop now. He didn’t like it either, perhaps his time in the Army surveying the dead just blinded him to the morbidity of it. Perhaps it was the sight of those animals that disturbed her. Lyn said she disliked handling meat on more than one occasion. However, he couldn’t be sure. He made a mental note to ask later.

  His hands started to move on their own again, following the rote he had established for work. He tightly rolled all his clothes into the waterproof pack he had. Its beautiful brown leather glistened in the soft light of the midday. He felt the sharp breeze tickle his back then. The reminder he had to be outside to do this process chuffed him. His hands flew over his tools, triple checking them before packing them tightly into their own cases. Everything he had to take with him had to fit on the back of a single horse. Even then he had to pack lightly for that horse. This season is going to be very demanding because of his new son. He had realized it shortly after Lyn announced her pregnancy. Additionally, Grant still had to make his way through the rivers and work teams he was to oversee. He had to plan the logistics of his in-laws coming to town. The man groaned at his tools at the mere thought of it.

  Grant had to make a trip into town to purchase a new horse. He could do this one of two ways Grant mused. The first way was through the company. Grant knew Bramwell Log Co. was not going to offer an expensive or young horse to a singular timber agent. The other was to go rent or purchase a horse from the livery stable. Grant wanted a younger horse, one that could keep up with the needs of long journeys. But he didn’t want to get a horse that would exhaust quickly. A light and fast horse could get him through the work quickly, but if it tired and needed to rest… Well, those stories didn’t end well outside the logging camp walls. Grant thought of the breeds he was going to purchase, something sturdy, something reliable, something that would get him to and from at a reasonable speed reliably.

  You could almost hear the man think as he made his way to town. The chilly air rolled over him as the small puddles acquiesced to his feet along the gravely path. Grant could smell the deep earthly aroma of the forest after fresh rain had rolled through two nights prior. It was nice to walk this time of year after the snow melted. He could see the greenery sprouting up through the death winter left in its wake. It was reassuring to feel the butt of his revolver on his hip. Its sturdy steel frame caught the occasional sunbeam and its echo flashing the trunk of a tree. The gravel road, at points, began to give way to large flat cobbles. Before Grant knew it, town came into view.

  Small colonies of green moss invaded the posts and low rock walls that lined the town’s approach. Their brown, green, and grey growths speckled the stacked stones with purpose. His eyes trailed up the small log tower that framed the crown of a hill nearby. He saw the dutiful man who occupied that tower. The navy blue of the Sentry caught his eye. He remembered the civic duty of the men who took up arms in the defense of cities overnight. Hell, Grant spent time in a post like that when he first passed basic training. He remembered the dog soldiering that life hammered into a man. It was very likely that man was soaked through to his britches. He could imagine the freezing and suffering from where he stood. Grant shook his head, in sympathy of the man’s plight. His guilt grew more when he realized the tower had no roof. He made a mental note to return to the tower with some hot tea and food to donate to the men there.

  The smell of animals and moldering hay took his nose as he drew closer to the livery stable. He saw all the pretty horses the stable owner had grazing out in the field. The bright contrast of dark animals against blue grass was what stood out the most to him. It was beautiful to Grant as he imagined what life could be like working that kind of job. He came to stop and look at the majestical beasts that dotted that field. Resting on the wood fence that lined the road to the barn there. He could see himself working in a place like this if he was younger. If he had the opportunity to. Grant’s eyes hardened on the animals, lost in thought. ‘I will be the man my father wasn’t.’ He promised himself. His eyes trailed up the rolling fields that were perforated with livestock.

  “Man…” Grant muttered. He had seen some amazing animals before in his time in the Army. More particularly when he visited some of the scout companies that formed his regiment’s eyes in the field. Those things were large, true, but they were of blended descent. Generally bred to convey men quickly across muddy terrain and into battle. Typically, the Fleetcoat was the choice for that use. He remembered the uniform grey fur coats the beasts had. They all had this thin, wiry, look about them. Make no mistake however, they were excellent horses for war. Grant smiled. Today, he would purchase a Fleetcoat of his own. He would put one to work like the men of the scout company.

  Crossing the threshold of the barn, Grant saw stablemen working quietly in the animal stalls down the length of the building. He could smell the strong odor of manure that punctuated every breath. There were the more unpleasant aspects of horses he suddenly remembered. There under the smell, almost tickling the back of his throat, he could detect hints of sweat from the men who handled these beasts. To finish the beautiful bouquet, he could smell regional hints of leather oil and hay as he passed the stalls. In a small way, he relived his past more fondly here.

  A weathered man had caught sight of Grant and stepped out into the hallway. His appearance struck Grant quickly as the Stable Master. He wore a dark ochre apron with a large pocket at the bottom. Various tools needed in his trade were slung limply across his chest and belly. The most current one he was using rigidly followed his leg as it sat in his pocket. Grant offered a tight professional nod and extended his hand confidently towards the Stable Master. He perked up and took a speedy half step as he came to grip Grant’s paw.

  “Good mornin’ mister. Lookin’ fer a ride, hire, or t’ buy?” The man spoke quickly with this upward inflected twang that eased Grant’s mind. He could be convinced to trust a man like this easily.

  Grant squeezed the man’s hand as they met, giving it a firm shake. “Good morning.” He smiled at the quick nature of the man. He was eager to sell his stock from the looks of it. Grant started to shed his coat as he spoke. “I am looking to purchase a horse and wanted to see what breeds you had here for sale.” He folded the jacket in half vertically, then horizontally over his arm as they spoke.

  “Well- We got a few breeds, got some oddballs. What’cha lookin’ fer?” He raised an uncovered hand to scratch his chin. Grant could see the stable master better now too, as he shifted to the left and into the light the entrance of the barn offered. His arm stretched out to offer a view of the barn, as if he thought the diminutive stablemaster was blocking it. He looked stocky and came up to Grant’s chest as they spoke.

  “Well, I was very fond of the Fleetcoats you got. They were popular with the men I served with. I had gotten a good impression on them too.” Grant answered honestly. His eyes settled on the familiar grey blotches that hung in the back of the stable. He smiled as he saw them.

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  “Ere’yone wants those damn thangs these days.” The stablemaster muttered. “Cant keep em’ in stock long enough t’ get strong mares out.” He started walking towards the few he had for sale. “The Army keeps stripping m’ herds, and their war keeps sucking oats out the fields.” He stood resolutely in front of the Fleetcoat he had for sale. “Hav’a gander.” As the two strode down the rows of the stable, the horses around them had one of three general expressions about them. Dull eyed ignorance was the most common of the three expressions and was the bulk of the expressions he saw there. The unintelligent glares he got were vaguely reminiscent of the rows of men he remembered dressing down at times. Then there were the fleetingly curious ones. Looking up and trying to gaze at Grant, almost as if to measure him and losing interest after seeing him. At the time the third eluded him.

  Grant was wrongfooted by the man’s gestures. Until now he only met folk that never really naysaid the military. He looked at it and began his inspection of the animal. On first impressions Grant didn’t like what he saw in the Fleetcoat. He saw it favoring a leg in the rear on the left side. It got worse as he saw it was recovering from a recent injury. Grant stood up from feeling the injured leg, and looked around at the drifting moats of dust in the rays of light that poked through the slats in the ceiling.

  He immediately went to the second Fleetcoat there and similarly was unimpressed. While healthy, the horse had a narrow chest. The same that would tire up hill and fall short after a long run. He knew deep in his guts that this horse did not have the stamina that an archetypal Fleetcoat had. He could hear the other horses pawing at the hay-strewn ground. He looked further, trying to see if there were any merits to this second horse but failed to find them.

  Grant found the third to be in decent shape, and with decent genetics. However, it failed to really catch his eye. Peeling back the lips of this horse also revealed it to be older than its coat would let on. He shook his head and turned back to the Stable Master. “You got any other Fleetcoats to look at?”

  The Stable Master rose his eyebrows, almost sure that he was going to sell his stock. “Naw. These’r the best Fleetcoats I got that ain’t fer breedin’.” He raised his shoulders, as if he felt bad at the selection on offer. The Stable Master had seen some ignorant buyers in his time and had marked Grant for one. His quick and rough appraisal of Grant backfired on him in that moment and both men came to realize the quandary.

  Grant chuckled, realizing the overestimate the man made of him. “I’ve seen my share of impulse buys too.” He patted the old Fleetcoat, stroking its mane. “Quite a few soldiers thought they could just buy any grey Wireback and claim it to be the mythical Fleetcoat.” He looked back at the Stable Master and smiled. “I know these are your chaff, are you sure you don’t have any others in stock you want to sell?” Grant asked honestly.

  The man before him sighed deeply. “Naw, ain’t got nuthin’ much like that.” He rubbed his chin, furrowing his brow. “I got plenty Wireback here- “

  Grant raised his voice to interject the Stable Master. “Can’t be a Wireback.” Grant shook his head at the mention, while he wasn’t the wealthiest man out there. He didn’t want to settle on some common mud blood horse breed. The men in the office aren’t too kindly to the Agents who settle on those horses. Usually, they get laughed out or set harder assignments by the District Managers. It would be a season or two before they could save money to get a better horse, or they’re run out of the position for not investing in practical tools. Grand reminded himself that these animals were, in fact, tools he was going to be putting his life into the hands, or hooves, of.

  “I need something better than a Wireback. The rest here are either too large or too rich for me. Don’t you have anything that could work?” Grant almost felt like he was begging at this point, nearing his limit. If this Stable Master didn’t have anything, he would need to go a town over.

  The man perked up, he felt like he could make space and some Doltairs. “’Reken I do.” He turned and walked to a less visible part of the barn. “Keep offbreeds here. A mixed fowl finds way back every now an’ then. Most folk don’ want em’ and they take space up ‘cause n’body see’s their value. N’body but me.” He smiles. “Got three weirdos back ‘ere. This’n I call the Lowstepper.” He chortled with mirth.

  Grant stepped into the pen to see the frankly ridiculous horse. It was far more broad than a normal horse. It looks like a Draft mixed with a Wireback here. Its lazy eyes stared blankly at Grant. Its dumb animal look immediately disqualifying him. “Looks good for the field.” He remarked honestly. “Looks strong like an Ox, you sure you didn’t just bring one back from the field?” He joked.

  “Ha.” The Stable Master grunted. “Yeh, Looks like one dunnit?” He shakes his head. “Got two more.” He walked back and opened the second door and allowed grant to see it. “This’n’s an Ashback Cross.” He remarked at the frankly awkward horse.

  Grant stepped inside and saw the beast. It was tall, that was sure, much taller than the joke he just saw a pen over. “They do come in all sorts of shapes and sizes these days.” Grant said, speaking his mind. He walked to its side and noticed that this one was watching him very carefully. Grant took a step back and made eye contact. It seemed more skittish than he was welcome to. Not that he was selecting a tame horse. But everyone knew that the thing taking you place to place was bound to upend and leave you. it made the prospect of putting your life into its hands much less appealing. He coo’d and called the horse, trying to calm it down as he ran his familiar inspection. Touching down the legs and inspecting its chest. “You’re jumpy, aren’t you?” He patted the side of it and nodded.

  “He’s got an awful long neck…” Grant muttered, taking this prospect more seriously. “Almost looks like those battle vultures.” He circled around it gently touching the horse’s shoulder. As he looked at the pale ash grey animal, his eyes caught with another’s. There, one pen over, he saw the third expression. He saw intense interest from the horse in the pen over. Its ears were alert. Unlike this horse who fluttered from alert to pinned back. Grant didn’t like that from this one. Its proportions were out of square. Its demeanor wavered. It was a damned tall horse too. Grant was no short man, and he had good flexibility in his hips. He could see mounting this mare would be a bastard each and every time he tried. No, this horse just didn’t work for Grant. He shook his head, almost defeated.

  “Not feelin’ it?” The Stable Master asked.

  Grant shook his head. “This one is just… too odd in the wrong spots. I am sure he’s a good horse. Looks fast as hell.” His gaze traveled down the legs of the creature. “Just… not there you know?”

  The man nodded and spoke. “Mother’s hard to winter. Tryin’ to breed somethin’ useable ‘ere… Don’t think it crosses well with Wirebacks.” The man sighed as he looked the horse in the eyes.

  Grant nodded in sympathy. “Might want to try and cross his mother with a…” He saw the horse in the other pen again and lost track of thought. It was still glaring at him. The fact that he was going to recommend crossing it with a Fleetcoat too would have been a poor choice of words. Grant turned as if whisked away by the intense animal that had been attempting to telepathically summon the man. Skillfully playing off the aborted poor recommendation as he locked eyes with the horse. “Look at you…” He said softly, interest inflecting his voice with care and interest.

  The Stable Master grinned at the sight, retrieving his coin purse. He knew that look anywhere. From the good thirty minutes of perusing his stock, he knew Grant would like that one. It was a simple task of addition… whatever that was. The man gave his appraiser time to inspect the unique barn find he had tucked away.

  Grant lifted a hand to touch the Horse’s shoulder. It stood at an honest 15 hands tall. Grant stood taller that it by about three quarters of a foot. The horse watched him with a strong interest in that time. Its head laid over and rested on Grant’s shoulder as he leaned back to touch its ribs. “Look at you…” He said again, almost muttering a mantra. His eyes trailed back to its hind. He saw there strong and well sprung legs. He liked the Fleetcoat grey it had, the coat reflecting a beautiful pearlescent flash in the light. But it had… patches… scraps of other hide colors in it. “Have you recently groomed this one?” Grant spoke to the animal but directed his question back at the Stable Master.

  “Naw, nuthin’ like that.” The Stable Master lied easily. His hands finding the hidden side pockets of his apron easily. Although it had been a couple days since he groomed this one in particular.

  Grant had been too taken by the docile and intelligent nature of this one as he ran his hand down its shoulder. The muscle of the fair creature twitching in response to his touch. It looked up at him with this bright intelligent look that could almost speak to him. ‘Take me with you.’ it whispered in its own druidic speech. His eyes roamed across the coat again, his hand running down the glossy sliver mane unique to this horse. His eyes trailed down to see the scraps of white in its Fleetcoat grey. The chest on this one was sturdy, like the horse of his dreams.

  His eyes trailed down further to see the horse had black socks below the knee. He stood up and looked at it closer in the face and saw its square jaw. He could almost cut himself on the wide set, but sharply intelligent expression the animal had. It muttered again, insisting. ‘Take. Me. With. You.’ Grant imagined the horse speaking to him again. His ears were upright and active, rarely lazy. He saw the one flaw of the creature in its arched neck. A minor flaw if ever he did see one. He smiled at the thought of haggling. It would be pointless to haggle this old codger. They both knew a crooked neck was cosmetic at best. Even though Grant knew he was likely older than him. He liked the sturdy feel this horse had. It was like a well-built table. A table that he could see feeding his family for the years to come.

  “How much?” Grant almost whispered.

  The Stable Master looked stunned. “Yeh’ don’t wanna know how old it is? Or to take ‘im to ride?” He looked shook at the prospect, maybe he mistook Grant for a fool after all.

  Grant shook his head. “This horse looks young, but just old enough to start working. I’ve seen this look before.” The horse actually nodded at him, as if he could understand the words being said. Grant, stunned, held his silence. He turned again and spoke to the Stable Master. “How. Much?” He was already reaching for his wallet and looked back at the horse he knew he had to have.

  The Stable Master spoke, his mind landed on a number. “One twenty.” He said in a firm tone. “Forty five for a saddle, Saddle bags and tidbits bein’ twenty-five.” The man offered.

  Grant worked the tally quickly in his mind, the movement of business acumen working quickly to counter. “One seventy all.” He said not breaking eye contact with the horse.

  The man shook his head. “One eighty, best offer.” He knew he was going to make good money off this deal and wanted to hook Grant.

  Grant pursed his lips and turned sharply back at the man. He leaned into his military training with such ease in times like this. “One seventy five.” He said confidently his words carrying a little further than he intended to. The Stable Master, smirking, saw the horse bob its head again. It seemed even the horse agreed on the price he was to be sold at. Deeply inhaling, the man let out his held breath. “Deal. Meet me round back to get ya’ fitted and saddled. We got good leather’ers round these parts.” He smiled and wrapped his hand around Grants as they finalized the price. “Oh, uh, Recken- I didn’t catch ur’ name mister.” He said earnestly.

  Grant smiled widely. “Im Grant, and you?” Their hands made contact again, soft creaks of leather whispered as they firmly shook.

  The man smiled with Grant, having just made the sale. “Cornelius Darling.” He said, creasing the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes with his wide grin.

  Grant’s eyes grew at the name, and he laughed. The first genuine laughter he had all morning. “Well, it’s good to meet you, Cornelius.” He clapped the man on the shoulder.

  The two began their exhausting trip thereafter to get Grant saddled. By midday, Grant waltzed out on the new horse he Dubbed: Finch. From walk in, to walk out, Grant spent the better part of three and a half hours getting all the fine work for his saddle and accoutrements ready. That time was wisely spent too, not in idle or wait. Most of the time was adjusting the saddle. Then came shining and polishing the leather. Then adjusting the saddlebags. He rode Finch to the entrance of the Barn. “Finally.” He said, patting the beast on its mane. “Let’s Ride!” Grant squeezed his thighs around the creature. Signaling to move forward. There was a moments hesitation as Finch moved from a walk to a trot, to canter, and finally to a Sprint.

  Finch was not the wieldiest horse Grant ever rode. That title went to a Horse Named Slick-back, famed for throwing a weak or green rider at the first chance he got. Finch, on the other hand, was like a locomotive. Grant saw the easy stride Finch made as he ran through the gravel road approach to the Livery Stable. He could feel the easy glide the horse made across the road, much less than a typical horse would in a sprint.

  It was there, flying down the road, he saw the guard tower. Grant gave Finch a half-halt to slow the animal and Finch came to a smooth walk with the gentle pull. All this power in Grants hands exhilarated him. He then remembered his silent promise to the tower and the men who sat in it. Setting about the task to the Sentry now more out of a feeling to bribe the man with food and a hot drink than a promise to lift their spirit. As he started the ride home Grant’s mind shifted to his thoughts of Lyn.

  Lyn quietly sat in the house with her newborn son. The boy was already a month old, and Lyn felt the demands of motherhood ravage her life. Grant had just left to buy a new horse. Lyn disliked the idea of him spending his limited money on a risky investment. She sighed deeply as she remembered the arguments with Grant over the subject.

  “Just use one from the company.” She said, pleading with her love. “It’s two seasons in and they have given you one each time.” Lyn looked into Grant’s eyes while holding their son.

  Grant shook his head and stood firm. “No. It’s time I got a horse of my own Lyn.” He crossed the room, picking up his revolver and holster. “I can’t rely on their used stock. It almost got me killed last summer.” He said sternly. She saw his practiced hands quickly and smoothly slip his holster on in a single motion. She felt a flush rise in her at the sight of it too.

  “Darling, we don’t have that kind of money to just buy a horse.” She reminded. “Please… please don’t buy the horse.” She took a couple steps closer, trying to convince him with the sight of her and their son.

  “It’s final, Lyn. I’m not going to rely on company horses.” He turned with that fierce look he gave whenever his mind was made up. “I’ll get the right tool for the right job Lyn. I have experience in this matter. Please, trust my input.” He softened his expression as his eyes trailed down to his son. Knowing that he couldn’t remain so stern for so long. “I must go and purchase hay and contact a carpenter after the horse. I have to plan a new structure to be built.” Grant said with a certain stress Lyn disliked. “More than likely it will happen later today or later this week.”

  Lyn saw his eyes trail down to the baby, her arms instinctively readjusting her hold. “I trust you Grant...” Lyn’s eyes refocused on the door a moment later. She became aware that she had been glaring at the door now for what felt like minutes. Out of fear, she began her day in a familiar routine. It had been a couple of years since she had dipped into the rote of measurement and herb choice. She had the baby cocooned into a neat swath in the crib. Katie had been on standby then, keeping the hearth warm and watching the boy.

  They both could hear the babe coo and hiccup as he sat in his cradle. It was a small miracle that Mercer was so calm shortly after birth. Lyn smiled as she began carefully measuring fuel into a compressed puck. She rolled the name in her mouth. “Mercer Goodmin…” She liked that name. It was strong, it was honest, it was her boy’s name. Lyn shook her head a little, remembering the agreement that she had with Grant. His voice eked into her ears as the memory came to her.

  “I will name the Boys.” Grant said with mirth. “You will name the Girls.” His voice echoed in her mind. He was so handsome there in that ethereal place.

  Lyn looked like a grinning fool as she took the fat wood of a pine tree. Her hands expertly shaved the fuel. Piling fine shavings into a mortar. She took some rice husk and added it too. Her slender arms flexed as she worked the two into a fine powder. It was easier said than done as she worked it however. Needing to stop multiple times to rest her arms. She smirked as she realized that Grant could do this in a pinch. Another thing to talk him into doing if he was home. Another chore she could convince him to take. Lyn knew with a certain finality that he would absolutely do it too.

  Her hands raced over thin recycled scrap paper she had gotten ahold of. She wasn’t strong enough to repurpose bark or cloth. Cloth she wouldn’t use anyway because it was more important than paper. Paper was certainly easier to get ahold of, using some of the money she stashed away to pay the ragmen for a few bricks of tightly bundled recycled paper. Carefully, Lyn started to inscribe delicate patterns onto the paper. Katie saw her working behind the small vanity she had. The sight reminded her of an herbal healer, or a performing actor. She strode up to Lyn after setting Mercer to a nap.

  “What’re you doing Lyn?” Katie asked innocently, her cold tone abating in the presence of someone she had respect for.

  “Making some fuel pucks Katie.” Lyn said, a smile creased her face as she worked the puck into a sheet of paper she had inked with delicate linework. “Why do you ask?” Lyn said in a small but bright voice.

  “Well… I’ve never seen that kind of fuel prep before…” Katie said, twisting in her shoes delicately.

  Lyn stopped what she was doing for a moment to face Katie. “What do you mean? I thought you were of the folk.” Lyn said surprised.

  Katie cocked her head and replied. “I am! I am. It’s just… I’m also a member of the faith…” She said quietly. “My spark finds little fuel that will accept it...” She said sheepishly.

  Lyn looked sad, almost. “What do you mean, child?” Lyn asked innocently.

  “Lyn I’m not a child anymore…” Katie said while puffing her cheeks childishly. Letting out a sigh she held in that pout, she spoke. “Its hard to cast in town… Its hard to cast at home… But here… I can cast…” Katie revealed a small twist of old red ribbon as if to demonstrate her point. “I know the weave of the folk and the faith… but they both reject me now for it…” She looked sad at the prospect of admitting to that. “It’s why… its why you almost never see me casting…” Katie admitted.

  Lyn looked heartbroken at the thought. “Oh dear…” She said, softly bringing her hands up to Katie’s face. Her fingers cupping Katie’s jaw, Lyn’s thumbs planting on her cheeks. “Sweetie, I didn’t know that about you. I just thought you were being reserved.” Lyn said sweetly. “Come on, lets work together. What symbols do you hold dear?” Lyn scooted to make room on the bench behind her vanity for Katie to sit and weave with Lyn. “Lets make a spell together. Just you and I.” Lyn said sweetly.

  Katie looked down at Lyn as she sat there. Her eyes teared up a little as she offered her personal ritual space for the gesture. Katie wiped her eyes of the mist and sat down. “Well…” She said as she sniffled. “Sawl-craydl…” She said warmly. “You draw it like this…” Katie took a scrap and used some of the ink that Lyn had prepared. However, Katie didn’t use a pen unlike Lyn. Katie had used a horsehair brush to mark in fine calligraphy a circle with rocking waves underneath. “It’s warmth, safety and care…” Katie said delicately.

  “I know that one.” Lyn said with warmth. “My mother taught me that one.” Lyn mimicked a different symbol. It was a harder edge. “We can use yours as the shape.” Lyn said as she drew out some new symbols on new papers. “I know a few too, lets combine my Wynd-Veile with your Sawl-Cradyl. I’m thinking of needing a spell to dry my hair, so let’s combine the concepts of warmth and wind.” Lyn hung the two symbols up and started to improvise. The new symbol looked like a twisting ribbon, placing heavy emphasis on shadow and smoke. “Do you know how the strength of a symbol affects the spell you’re crafting Katie?” Lyn asked sweetly.

  “I do… but it’s going to be different from how you view it…” Katie said softly.

  “Right… that’s right, let’s focus on this concept.” Lyn took a second horsehair brush and dipped it into the wax and lamp black mixture she had. “If we want this to work, we need to weave subsistence lines into the edges of the paper. Unless subsistence lines are different for you?” Lyn said as she started to draw a mixture of symbols.

  Katie shook her head. “No they’re the same.” Katie said as she started mimicking Lyn’s drawing in her own way. The variances between the two showing in how they held the brushes in their hands. Katie’s calligraphy always emphasized hard lines, like how faith symbols looked. Lyn’s linework was always more flowing and circular. “Lyn…” Kati said as she put hard subsistence lines onto the edges of the page. “What… what kind of weave do you follow…?” Katie muttered quietly. “Those don’t look folk to me…”

  Lyn smiled and kept drawing. “They’re not folk no. They’re derived from folk however. It has a few names you might have heard of.” Lyn took the work she had and set it to dry on the small line of wire above the desk. “Glam’rie… Shadewavin’… Smoke-lore… I play with how people perceive light is all.” Lyn smiled. “Can make people hear things too.” Lyn turned to look at Katie. “What about your weave Katie?” Lyn asked.

  Katie looked uncertain. “I… I don’t know… It’s so cobbled that it doesn’t make sense to name it…” Katie said softly, feeling disconnected from the presence the weave gave to people.

  Lyn sighed. “You must give it a name Katie. Otherwise, you can’t bring it into the world. We can’t have that Katie. You have to be able to give your weave a name.” She said as her eyes ran back to the paper she hung. “Think about it, for me, okay?” Lyn said with a smile.

  Katie nodded, and smiled too. Warmth and love spreading into her chest as Lyn spoke. “I will, Lyn. Thank you…” Katie leaned her head on Lyn’s shoulder affectionately. “I wish my mom was like you Lyn…” Katie said, closing her eyes as she inhaled the soft smell of Bramberrie, Saidge, Henbaine. Katie’s mind searched for a word to name her weave, her hands working aimlessly at the piece of red ribbon in her hands. “Kindlework…” She said softly. “I think I’ll call it Kindlework…” Katie said softly.

  Lyn nodded. “It’s easier to work where the hearth remembers you.” She sat mixing the fuel needed for her future endeavors. “I think it’s just about ready. How do you want to test the spell?” Lyn said softly.

  Katie smiled and lifted off Lyn’s shoulder. “I drew mine to place on top of a warm hearth. I know it might burn, but its meant to lift air off the hearth and into your hair.” Katie said, gently lifting her page.

  Lyn nodded. “Mine is meant to be used with fuel. Help me grind some fatwood and we can test them outside. Don’t tell grant this, but I carved an altar on one of the large stones out back. It should work with your weave too.” Lyn stood and grabbed a pinch of Ossn and started mixing it with sweetbark and blue-spear.

  Katie smiled and took up her sheet gently, rolling it with the same sweetbark, adding spirit seed, tangle seed, and dream bane. Her hands carefully rolling the three and circling the waist of the scroll with the red ribbon she was handling earlier. Carefully she laid out her ritual offering onto the table to show Lyn.

  “Let’s go test them. Ill bring the fatwood if you want to handle the scrolls.” Lyn then offered hers to Katie affectionately.

  Katie smiled and held both. “You’re not worried I might corrupt your scroll?” She asked softly.

  Lyn shook her head. “I’ve noticed that with Folk-weave, its better to share it with kin.” She said bluntly. “It helps even out the belief and dampens their hostility if you didn’t do something right.” Lyn strode to the other side of the room and handled some fuel for use In the scroll. “Because yours doesn’t need to have a measured fuel amount, it should work as long as the fatwood burns.” She said more out of priming Katie than to teach. “Remember that we don’t want a gout of fire, but a warm breeze.” Lyn forcefully shut out memories of the sun symbol she drew, replacing them with the concept of warmth instead of flame. “You cant think of fire. Think of the warmth of the bond we have.” Lyn said as she held the door open.

  They reached the boulder some time later, sitting on a felled log in the middle of the beautiful forest. The spot was just out of sight of the house by a thin layer of trees. However, the sight was strong enough to completely shut out the Winds of Faith. Lyn remembered her exhaustion trying to renaturalize this spot after she learned one of her visitors sprinkled the damn forest with cleansing oils and salts. Lyn softly vowed she would find who did this and disrupt her damn hair.

  The thought crinkled at her mind as she sat her scroll on the altar and began to work. Moments later she stood back as the ritual bowl was full of usable fuel and a small candle was lit. Rising smoke from the preprepared fuel puck she had filled her nose. Lyn loved the smell of her fuel puck over rode her thoughts then. Remembering she had used one of her Glam’rie fuel pucks. She kept her mind focused on the goal however, waiting for the scroll to do its work. She stepped to the side, as if not to collect a new beauty mark from a failed scroll. It was then a wisp of Faithful reached her ear. A faint line of song disrupted it all, flooding her memory with wrath. Then, there, Lyn new she had fucked up.

  The scroll erupted in an intense jet that burned out of the bowl with an intense heat. It sounded like a sky-harrowing. Its loud pitch sundered the quiet civility of the forest around them as the fuel was sucked up suddenly from the bowl. Thankfully Lyn was accustomed to modifying her spells and learned, through trial and error, to not stand next to new spells you were testing. Shaking her head, she looked over at Katie. “Whelp, looks like mine failed. Lets try yours.” She said with a tint of sorrow in her voice.

  Katie meekly waltzed her scroll to the altar. She felt fear rising in her breast as she sat the scroll in the scorched stone bowl. She walked back and waited, looking at the delicately rolled paper and spices. They waited as Katie sat and focused on her concentration. A few minutes later, they started to notice the paper twist and move, as if air was disturbing the sheet as it sat in the bowl. Katie smiled warmly in response. “I think it’s working…” She said.

  Lyn smiled and walked over to lean closer. “I smell the herbs you put into it. I like it Katie.” Lyn leaned down and gently picked the scroll up, feeling a gentle breeze of air disturb her hair. “But, I don’t think its heat or wind are strong enough. Good first attempt though. Let’s take this back and modify it further. I think we can get this ready by the end of the day too.” Lyn handed the scroll back to Katie, leading her back to the house.