“God.” Guil took several deep breaths, and imaged, < Horses lying down,> loud and mad. Which was fit to wake his own bedmate. So he sent, <Quiet horses. Beautiful mare. Lying down mare.>

The mare settled down fairly abruptly, imaging—he was sure it was the mare—<sore legs, sore back.>

Burn postured, Burn circled twice, lifted and flagged his tail, preened a foreleg, finally—

<Rump down,> Guil sent furiously.

Burn preened the other foreleg, and gracefully, gracefully, settled to a noble resting posture—not damned comfortable, but, hell, <handsome horse,> Guil agreed, asking himself if he’d ever in his human life possibly been such an ass.

<Aby laughing, and him chasing Burn across the hillside.

<Aby laughing and laughing.>

He grew warm, finally. He shut his eyes, drifted toward sleep, listening to another shifting-about with the horses. Horses didn’t mind resting their legs, but give it about an hour and a healthy horse would be up to sleep a while standing; and down again, when he tired of that—they weren’t quiet sleeping partners, unless the night was very cold indeed.

Which it wasn’t, with the fire going.

And now—

Now Burn wanted <outside, call of nature.>

God.

But Burn had to. It wasn’t Burn’s fault. Sex failed and the other urge of nature took over. You couldn’t ask Burn to wait. You could want to shoot him—but, hell, you woke up, took your gun to guard the door, you got up—

He let Burn out. He stood there against the wall, freezing in the brief blast of cold air, testing whether human beings could nap standing up—he could manage it.

But now that Burn was outside, the mare wanted <out.>

Fine. <Mare outside.> He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He opened the door and Burn wanted in where it was warm. Immediately. Burn came in, radiating cold, covered with snow. Shook himself.

Guil shut his eyes, folded his arms tightly to keep himself from folding over in the middle, braced his heels, and waited for the mare. While the wind shrieked over the loose shingle.

In not so long the mare wanted back in and he wearily opened the door, accepted another horse shaking herself and spattering snow about, as he shut the door and double-checked the latch, arguing with himself that the mare was perfectly sane, that possibly now that the horses were settled, he might settle.

Chang was staring at him over the top of the blankets.

“God,” she said, and collapsed. <Scared> for a moment. She’d wakened and been confused where she was.

“Sorry.” He came back, gathered his blankets around him and sat down—lay down, shivering, and put the gun beside him.

“We’re not the rogue,” the woman said.

“We aren’t either,” he said, laid his head on his makeshift pillow and wrestled the blankets up to his neck.

“I knew that.”

“How?”

“Because I know who is.” <Blonde girl. Red coat. Tracks in the snow, going out a gate.>

“God.” He wanted desperately to shut his eyes and sleep. And he didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. It complicated everything.

But it felt true. Everything about the woman felt true—and disturbing.

“A kid.”

“Village kid,” she said. “Name’s Brionne Goss.” <Gate recently opened, traces in the snow, kid’s footprints, a horse sick—>

“Kid’s dead, if she’s out in this.”

The woman didn’t answer. There was too much of <anger,> of <grief. Two men on horses, leaving a gate, into snowy woods.> “My partners went out after her. Didn’t come back.”

He remembered the rider shelter north of the village. Remembered <horse bones> and shied off from that image too late, sending <regret,> sending <sorrow,> all he understood to give.

For a long, long moment the air was thick with emotions. The mare came over and trod on the blankets, nosing her rider’s leg. Burn came, disturbed, and Guil sat up to lay a restraining hand on the offered nose. Pushed at it. <Quiet horse,> he wished, and with the mare near the woman, there was no coherent thought in the ambient, just roiling, dark, disturbance.

Burn made a quiet, disturbed sound—next to a <fight> warning. <Quiet,> Guil sent, and got to one knee, and slowly to his feet, wanting to get provocation out of the mare’s reach. It was hard even to breathe, let alone to think. He backed Burn up, wanting <quiet horses.>

Then <rogue-image> leapt into the ambient, <painted image, firelit> grotesque, horrid, in her sight, in her mind, and <anger> and <killing> flew around the room. Burn reared—Guil grabbed trailing mane and skidded and held on as Burn shied.

Held him. Burn stood trembling with anger. Chang had the mare, had hold of her, scared, and <wanting to kill.>

<Quiet,> Guil urged at her, at Burn, at everything in reach. <Quiet. Painted board. Room. Fireplace.> He reconstructed it out of the dark. He sent <horses standing. Horses quiet,> and felt, finally, Chang’s help quieting the mare. Chang wanted <hitting him.> But she got it under control, got the horse quiet.

“Small room,” he said. “Easy. Tight space here.”

“That your idea of a joke?” Meaning the image.

“I didn’t do it. Didn’t doit. Haven’t even made my mark up there. Swear to you. Didn’t make me damn happy either. Throw a blanket over it.”

She got a breath or two. Thought about <blanket > and didn’t do it. She was calmer. She calmed the mare, who was still throwing off <warning.> Chang was doing the same, shaky and still <mad.>

It was cold on this side of the room. He wanted <her giving him blankets.> He wasn’t going close to her horse. He had enough trouble keeping Burn still.

For a moment things stayed as they were, balanced on a knife’s edge of Chang’s temper and his nerves. Then he felt the anger unwind, slowly, slowly, into a quieter disturbance. A few more breaths.

She shook at the mare’s neck, wanting <easy, relax,> and thought <him at fireside, wrapping in blankets.> She was shaken and upset. She wanted—<quiet.>

He understood—he didn’t expect her to get that much steadiness back, not that fast. He wished he’d thought to cover that damned thing.

“It’s stupid,” she said, shaky-voiced. “Not that good a drawing. I ate your damn supper, I’ve no right to chase you off your own fireside.”

He wasn’t sure. Burn wasn’t sure. Burn snorted and got between them, with him holding onto Burn’s mane most of the way. But he ducked past Burn’s neck, <not sure> about the offer. Flicker had her ears laid back. He wasn’t confident the woman was all that steady.

“I knew,” she said, “God, I knew, I just—”

—hadn’t let it get loose, he thought, and stayed where he was as she made another effort and took a furtive wipe at her eyes. She turned deliberately and stared at the image on the wall. Stayed that way for a long moment, then patted the mare on the shoulder, jaw tight, eyes aswim with moisture, and went back to the fireside.

He stood there. He didn’t know what else to do. She straightened hers, she straightened his. The horses were confused at this flapping of blankets and shadows, uneasy, not knowing clearly what the disturbance was. <Rogue horse> had been in her mind and his. It wasn’t good.

She finished tidying up. Stood there in front of the fire and lost her battle. A man’s face was in the ambient, and she couldn’t breathe— hecouldn’t, and then the mare was coming at him, scored a nip on his sleeve as Burn snaked a neck past, defending him.

He cast about for a broom, a stick—and shedived in and grabbed the mare’s mane—he flung himself in Burn’s way, shoving at his chest, she was shoving at the mare—holding, pushing, <back, back, back, quiet> until they had a perilous quiet established. The bottle had gone spinning across the hearth, unbroken. The blankets were almost in the fire.