Aurora follows me, curiosity thick in her features. The horse lying on the pile of hay glances up at us and watches with her ears up and alert. “Is that . . .?” Rory gasps. “Her name is Frost. She’s probably the best-behaved mare in here. Poor Joker has been made to look like a rowdy adolescent.” “Why is she here?” The awe in her voice hits me square in the chest, threatening to empty the air from my lungs. “She’s yours.” “Mine? I don’t know a damn thing about horses!”
