Free Cold Stone and Ivy by H. Leighton Dickson

found her mind spinning in many different directions. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and rose to stand by the window that only last night had been covered in frost.
    Funny, she thought, how for six months of the year, it was the moon that was brightest, cast the most light. She had heard that in France, the sun was king. Cherries and winefields and steamcars and writers and dancers and bohemians, all in love with the regal French sun. But here in England, over the rolling, sweeping grey-green hills, painting everything in strokes of silver, the moon was queen.
    The squeal of a horse broke the stillness and then, an answering squeal. She peered out to see if it was the walking horse and his walking man. She could see nothing, but there was another squeal, louder this time, and she grinned to herself. Penny Dreadful and the Ghost of Lancashire was a real-life mystery . She exchanged the blanket for a woollen cardigan, slipped on a pair of old Wellies, and headed out her door and down the stair.
    The house was silent at night and very dark, and she was grateful for that. The cardigan and Wellies could not disguise the fact that she was sneaking around in her nightdress, and she smirked to think of Rupert St. John and his “no skirts” rule. Before she knew it, she was opening the great wooden door to slip out into the night.
    The air was cold, so she tugged at the cardigan and hurried across the cobbles to the fields beyond. At the fence, several horses gathered, necks outstretched to a grey standing on the other side. As she neared, she realized two things. One, that it was the horse called Gus, the one that belonged to Sebastien de Lacey, and two, that it was fully tacked, with bridle, saddle, and reins looped up on its withers.
    She smiled to herself. Her father could not possibly have known the sort of story he had written her into.
    Gus was blowing softly into the nostrils of a bay mare who was blowing back. She moved closer.
    “Hello, Gus,” she said softly, and he swung his head in her direction. When she was close enough, she caught his bridle, making a point to run her free hand along his neck the way Sebastien had earlier. He was soft and warm.
    “Where’s your lord, then?” she asked. “Did he fall off somewhere? You would be a naughty boy if you left him somewhere far, far away, now wouldn’t you? That’s right. Naughty, naughty boy.”
    The great horse turned back to face the mare, and the blowing ritual began all over again. With a hand still fixed to the bridle, she looked up and down the road for a sign.
    She heard it first, the faint crunching of boots on gravel, but before too long, she could make out his shape, coming out of the shadows of the trees and into the moonlight. He was wearing a greatcoat that billowed like a cloak and was coming from the west, from the direction of Lancaster and Wharcombe Bay. She clutched the cardigan tightly at her throat, wishing now that she had taken the time to lace up her country boots. Wellies suddenly seemed far too clumsy for her feet.
    He said nothing until he was right upon them, and still he did not pause, merely walked up to the fence and began to pull the saddle of the horse’s back. She didn’t know what to think, knew even less what he expected her to do, so she stood, holding the bridle as he slid the saddle from the grey back and laid it across the rail fence. He then slipped the reins over the neck and began to work at the buckles of the headstall. She glanced at his face, lit on one side by the moon. There was mud on his cheek and hands. Or perhaps it was blood. She couldn’t be certain, and her heart thudded once in her chest.
    Soon, the horse was completely undone, and still, without a word, he moved to the gate, opened it, and Gus trotted happily through.
    He slid the gate closed behind him, swung the saddle off the rail and into her arms. She staggered under the weight but took it, too surprised to do anything else.
    And throwing