Page 130 of My Dark Horse Prince

So of course I’m dead last.

Twenty-one jumpers, and I’m the twenty-first. What horrible luck.

At least I can study what patterns work and which ones crash and burn. “Alright, let’s not get too distracted,” I say to Charlemagne absently. “I want to see whether people are able to cut that corner after the triple combination, or whether it sets them up to hit that vertical at an angle and they drop a pole while trying to cut time.”

But when Charlemagne remains completely silent, I realize he’s not even listening. Which means. . . I follow his line of sight and realize he’s staring at two more men. “One of them’s sporting a creeper-stache and wearing a fedora, for heaven’s sake,” I say. “And the other one’s holding a paper dish with nachos in it. Do your fiendish enemies eat a lot of processed cheese?”

In the process of mocking his obsession, I notice something that is a bit strange. Next to the two men who are definitely not magical criminal masterminds is someone I know.

Or at least, someone I’ve spoken to before.

An old woman who smells like pumpkins. The memory washes over me like a wave trying to drown a small child—fresh, dangerous, and vaguely threatening.

It wasn’t the old woman who wouldn’t stop prattling about her cat that was terrifying that night, but it’s a memory that’s tied to the misery in my head. I wish I hadn’t noticed she was here. She never mentioned horses, and so it feels strange to see her.

And now she’s looking right at me.

I blink and look away.

Charlemagne bumps me with his wet nose.

“Hey,” I say. “Don’t get stains on the jacket.”

He snorts.

“What now?”

He tosses his head, and I realize the woman has been climbing down ever since we made eye contact, and she’s only a few rows away and headed right for me.

“You were in Russia,” she says.

My stomach flips. It’s all I can do to nod mutely.

“But now you’re here, in Riga, of all places. What brings you out here?”

Is she insane? I’m holding a horse and wearing show clothing, complete with a number on my back. “I’m about to ride in the Grand Prix,” I say slowly. “What brings you here?”

She cackles, and that sound definitely reminds me of that horrible night. “I’m here for the same thing.”

“You’re riding?” I ask, stupidly.

This time, her cackle’s even louder. “You’re a funny girl. It must be one of the things he loves about you. He’s humorous, too.”

“He?” I ask.

She looks pointedly at Charlemagne. “You know who I mean.”

My heart stops dead in my chest and then rushes back to life in a staccato burst. “You mean. . .have you met my boyfriend?”

She cackles again. “Nice try, girl. I mean him.” She points at Charlemagne and moves closer. “I warned you that night, remember?”

That night.

My pulse beats loudly in my ears, and Charlemagne pushes me to the side, angling himself in front of me, his nostrils flaring, his head up and tossing aggressively.

The woman doesn’t look the least bit afraid. “He’s a fine one.” She sighs. “Not many made like him.” She tilts her head and smiles. “Yes, I can see why you were won over.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, half afraid and half hopeful.

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