Page 12 of My Dark Horse Prince

I stop cold, a few feet away from a dark, gunmetal grey dagger, the shiny silver hilt gleaming at me, even through a layer of grime. There’s a symbol on the handle—it looks like a double headed hatchet—not that it means a thing to me.

“I don’t understand,” I say aloud, as if giving voice to my confusion will somehow help me make sense of things. “I was stabbed with this knife last night, but now it’s here, lying on the ground, and my shoulder is fine.” I bounce it up and down without pain or even stiffness.

The dark horse bumps my side gently, his nose staying put this time. I reach for him slowly, my fingers curving around his solid face. He doesn’t nip or even lip at me. He holds utterly still, his dark blue eye studying mine.

“You’re a strange fellow,” I say. “Most horses would run. I can’t think of any that would lie down next to me. Did you see me get tossed out of that train window last night?”

He whinnies at that, and I wonder whether he has any idea what I’m saying. Surely not, but perhaps he understands the tone I’m using.

“I thought I was dead for sure.” I sigh. “That’s what I get for trying to help someone. Every time I’ve ever done that, it’s gone badly for me. I knew better, but that little girl. If you’d seen her, you’d understand. She was so helpless and so cute, and she reminded me of. . .well. Of me.”

He bumps my hand again.

“Are you even a boy?” I ask aloud. “I guess I should check, right?” I struggle to my feet, whimpering a little as my leg tries to buckle under me a second time. I stumble a few steps forward and take a closer look at him. “You are a boy, and if I’m not mistaken, you’re a stallion, not a gelding. I can’t decide whether that makes it more or less likely that you’re a wild horse.”

I reach one hand out, and he leans his face into my palm.

“A horse this nice needs a name. I can’t just call you, ‘hey you.’” I think for a moment. We’re in Russia. He’s big and bold and beautiful. “How about Khan? For Ghengis—”

He snorts loudly, flinging snot on me.

“Okay. Not that,” I say. “I get it.” I think for a moment before I have another idea. “What about Napoleon?”

He tosses his head and then coughs.

“Yeah, he’s always drawn with a white horse. Plus, it’s probably overused.” I scratch under his massive head absently. “Alright, how about Charlemagne?”

The big stallion paws at the ground.

“He was a warrior-king who wasn’t super well educated, but he was bright and learned from things around him. He defeated all his foes, and expanded his kingdom a lot.”

He snorts.

“It sounds regal—just like you look. Some people around here might have trouble saying it, but it’s not like it’s really your name. I’m the only one who has to use it, and it sounds posh. You seem posh.”

He bumps my hand gently, so I take it that he’s alright with the new name.

“I’m guessing that there’s someone, somewhere, who’s frantic that you’re missing. I wonder if they’ll come looking for you. Maybe they can help me get back to the civilized world. Maybe I could even bum a phone call off them.”

The horse nods again, as if he’s agreeing with my logic.

“But what direction to go.” I look around. “The sun rises in the east, and sets in the west. Since it’s rising now, that must be east.” I point. “And we were headed mostly south to get to Novgorod. I’m hoping someone there will take pity on me. One of the few numbers I have memorized is my friend Kris’s.” I can’t help muttering. “If she’d just turn her phone on.”

I take a slow, ponderous step in the direction I think the city must lie—which is also in line with the direction of the train track, so that’s promising—and the dark horse takes off at a trot, breezing past me in the same direction I was headed.

It’s illogical and ridiculous, but for a split second, I feel abandoned.

He doesn’t know me. I don’t own him or have any idea what he will do one moment to the next, and I should just be grateful he kept me warm enough last night that I didn’t die. Even so, for some reason, I thought he’d stay with me.

I named him, for heaven’s sake, and he gave me feedback.

When he stops, turns, and paws at the ground, I marvel again. What’s he doing? He’s going the same way I am and turning back to watch my very slow, very painful progress?

He calls out then, neighing loud and long, and tosses his head.

“I know I’m slow,” I say, “but this is my maximum speed.” I look down and point. “My leg. See? It’s no good. You’re lucky I’m moving at all without my crutches.”

The enormous horse trots back toward me, quickly, almost aggressively, and he bows his head lower, his nose inhaling and exhaling robustly. He blows an entire mouthful of air out across my leg, as if expressing his dissatisfaction with my disability.

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