Chapter 12: The Other Horse

"Where did you get this?" Edith said.

Her voice was perfectly steady.

Only her hand shook.

The wind banged the gate against the post behind her.

"A man made it," I said. "Long ago."

"I know who made it." She came a step closer.

"My husband made two. One for the boy, and one for the babe, years later."

"The first had a mistake in it. He cut the second the same, on purpose."

"The cat jumped on his knee."

She went still.

"He was cutting the ear," I said. "The cat jumped on his knee."

"He said a word the priest wouldn't like. He laughed about it for a week."

"He did."

"He said the horse would run slower on that side, and I'd have to hold it to the left."

I heard my own voice break.

Edith's mouth opened.

She looked at my hair, at my eyes, at the scar through my eyebrow.

She looked for a long time.

"You have your father's chin," she said.

"I know."

"And my mother's way of standing when you're lying."

"I haven't lied."

"You haven't said anything."

Then she hit me.

It was an open hand across the face, with all her weight in it, and it cracked in the cold air.

I did not move.

"Eighteen years," she said.

"Mam."

"Eighteen years I've made your bed."

"Mam."

She hit me again, weaker, on the shoulder.

Then she was against my chest with her fists knotted in my shirt, shaking so hard I thought her legs would give.

I put my arms around her.

She was so small.

I had not known she was so small.

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