The days of late summer in the Riddermark were the most pleasant of all. The fields were verdant with lush grass, watered by generous rains and coaxed skyward by the pulsing heat of the sun. Wildflowers dotted the rolling plains, willow boughs swayed lazily over rippling, crystalline streams.
Evenings were her favorite hours of the day. The way the sun sat low in the western sky, but didn't set, throwing long, golden rays over the farm, setting everything alight as with a celestial paint brush. The oppressive heat of the afternoon began to cool, bathing the land in a soft, balmy twilight that seemed to last forever. She would climb atop the bare back of her piebald horse and wander out beneath the blue-and-pink sky. Cupping her small hands around her lips, she would fill the air with high, sweet calls that sounded like a sort of song. One by one, the horses would appear around the tall tussocks and over the lips of the grassy dells, following the call home.
Tonight, she slipped from the horse's back and danced her way home ahead of the herd. The world was too beautiful and sweet and mellow not to do it. Her long, pale-gold braid whipped through the air as she spun and twirled down the path leading behind the farm house. Her soft boots crunched and crackled against the dirt and gravel as she skipped and pranced along as if she herself were a pony.
"She can be a help to me," said a voice nearby. The girl stopped her dancing and stood still. It was her father's voice speaking. He was not in sight, but standing on the front porch of the farm house, not thirty feet away.
"Better to hire a boy from the city," replied another voice. Deep, yet pleasant to hear. Her mother's voice.
The girl crept carefully to the side of the house, pressing against the outer wall.
On the porch, a shoe scuffed over the floorboards.
"Hiring a boy would only cost more," replied her father. "She can learn as well a boy could."
"She cannot," said her mother, and there was an edge to her tone. "What are you going to do with her when she's grown? Who would marry her?" A pregnant pause followed, and the girl could picture the woman on the porch, pinning her inescapable glare on her husband. "Her duty is to learn to be a wife and mother. Just as any other woman. You take her and turn her into a dirty farmhand with callouses on her palms and she never learns to run a house and you think anyone will want her as a wife? Really, Éohard..."
The girl realized that her heart was pounding far too hard. It felt awful. Her ears throbbed with the force of it.
"She has the mind for it, my dear." Her father's quiet words followed. "She's gifted with the horses. You've seen it. And she can learn the rest. Why, she was sitting with me at my desk the other morning, looking over my shoulder, and pointing out the letters and numbers without me having to - "
"You want a boy," her mother interrupted sharply. "Go hire a boy. Don't take our daughter and try to turn her into one. Or do you want the farm going into the hands of Béma knows who when we die? Hmm? You want it to stay in our family, I assume?" The girl could envision her mother's hands going to her slim hips as she went on. "Then hire a boy from the city. Let her be taught how to be a proper young lady, one that men will want to court and marry. She'll stay here, she'll have sons, the farm will stay in our family."
Another long pause ensued. The girl held onto the side of the house with her hands, trembling, feeling that she might wilt to the ground otherwise.
"You worry too much," came the murmured answer at last. "She's got a good mind. She's a pretty thing. Someone will marry her, calloused hands or not." Shoes moved, shuffling away from his wife. "I'm not wasting good coin on a hired boy when I have a daughter who can learn and work for free." The door of the house opened with a gentle croak of time-worn hinges. "She may not be a boy, but she can still be put to good use."
Two pairs of shoes stepped away from the porch. The door shut with a soft thump.
The girl leaned her forehead against the dark, wooden grain of the siding. She watched her pale, slim fingers slide slowly down its surface. They weren't the right fingers. They weren't a boy's fingers. They were too pale, too slender, too delicate.
She felt something large and heavy bump against her shoulder, and turned to see the piebald stallion standing there, having crept up unnoticed. Round, brown eyes regarded her gently. She smiled weakly through the tears that hovered in her own eyes, and stroked his velvet-soft nose.
"You don't care if I'm not a boy, do you?" she whispered.
The horse chuffed softly in reply, lifting his great head to lay it behind her shoulder, pulling her roughly against his broad chest.
