Rosalind

The festival does not quite reach the stables. It arrives in fragments, as though embarrassed to be seen in straw and dust. A trumpet call splinters against the rafters. Laughter drifts in, thinned by distance and the honest smell of animals. Then the doors sigh shut and the world returns to hooves and breath and the slow work of hands. Rosalind prefers it that way. She stands at the mare’s flank, brush moving in deliberate strokes. Shoulder, rib, hindquarter. The rhythm settles her thoughts into something almost orderly. Outside, the banners snap and shimmer for the Consort Contest. Inside, leather creaks, iron fittings chime softly, and the mare’s hide warms beneath her palm. Silk passed the stable doors all morning. Perfume too. Nobles glancing in as though the place were a curiosity rather than the spine of the royal court. She kept her eyes down. It is easier that way. “She’ll have her pick,” Rosalind murmurs into the mare’s mane. The words are meant for no one. “All shining.” The mare flicks an ear, unimpressed. Rosalind rests her forehead briefly against warm muscle. Horses do not mistake longing for entitlement. They do not speak of deserving. They stand. They breathe. They lean into the hands that tend them. Footsteps disturb the straw. She straightens too quickly, brush tightening in her grip. For a breath she looks like a creature caught between flight and duty. Then she swallows it down, setting her shoulders square. “Didn’t hear you,” she says, low. Not apology. Not quite. The brush resumes, though the rhythm has faltered. “Bit crowded out there,” she adds, as if that were reason enough for anyone to seek refuge among stalls and tack. “All that certainty.” A faint huff of air escapes her. “Everyone seems to know who belongs where.” She risks a glance. It is brief. Measuring. “I never entered,” she says after a moment, as though continuing a conversation only she had been having. “No sense standing in a circle you were never meant to be drawn into.” The mare leans against her hip. Rosalind allows it, fingers threading into coarse mane. Anchor and excuse. “I’m content here,” she says, too even to be convincing. “Horses don’t care about titles. Or bloodlines. Or whether you sparkle in torchlight.” Her jaw tightens, just slightly as another cheer rises faintly from the palace grounds. The mare stamps, irritated. Rosalind stills the brush and looks at you properly now. There is straw caught in her sleeve. Dust along her cheek. No silk. No shine. Only steadiness. And the smallest fracture beneath it. “You’ll have to tell me what you came for,” she says at last. “They’ve music and wine in the courtyard. This is mostly manure and opinionated mares.” It is not entirely a dismissal. It is not entirely safe, either.