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Boots in a Flowerbed

 

 

 

 

5. The Mist Horse

It's so beautiful, he just can't get his eyes off. Luminous eyes glance at him over a gently curving nose as he passes by, graphite-black mane falls like a waterfall over the crest of its carefully groomed neck, its sides and flanks shine in the sunlight. It's beautifully rounded all over, strong without looking heavy, and its color takes his breath away. He's never seen quite that dusky shade of bluish gray in a horse, it makes the handsome gelding look like something from a story, the spirits of mist, or perhaps rain.

And yet the horse is standing here, on a street in Uman city, waiting placidly in front of a stylish little cabriolet, in impeccably fitted and polished black harness. It looks thoroughly pleased with itself and its lot. He can't help cooing to it in a low voice, in Chademieni of course, and almost stops to admire it. He's going somewhere all right but right now he's forgetting all about it. There are hundreds and hundreds of horses around him all the time, their hooves clatter on cobblestone streets day in, day out, but this horse catches his eye. It's so special that he keeps talking to it, finally walking nearly backwards, looking at its long face, smiling as he sees it prick its ears -

He lets out a yelp at the sudden impact, out of surprise, not hurt. He's really just startled and instantly ashamed as he realizes he's bumped into someone on the busy street. Someone who's much taller than him and smells of cologne and costly cigarettes and has long arms that instantly close around him for a moment, then grabs him by the upper arms and steadies him as he reels a little.

"I'm so sorry, sir," he breathes.

"I'm not."

He looks up into smiling eyes. They're deep rich brown over a slightly curving nose and a big sensuous mouth. He gasps.

"I hope you didn't hurt yourself?"

He can only shake his head as the man lets go of his shoulders and looks at him questioningly.

"Do you often walk backwards?" The voice is rich, too, and it vibrates with laughter. The boy shakes his head furiously, feeling out of breath and yet thrilled by this all.

"I was looking at the beautiful horse," he tries to explain.

"You like my horse?"

"He's yours?" He's nearly panting. "Such a color... I've never seen anything quite like that!"

"I have three more," the man says matter-of-factly. "Damn hard to find, the color. I collect them."

Collect - horses? He tries to process that, then peers curiously at the small box that the man has dug from his pocket. Long fingers pry it open, the man nods a little. The boy can't see inside.

"What's that?"

The man turns the box. Inside is a small something in the shape of a bunch of flowers. Their petals are made of small stones, in many colors. So delicate and pretty.

"I hope it's not broken?" he says, contrite.

"Oh, it's all right." The man closes the box. "Not that it would matter anyway. It's a present to a person I don't like at all. And besides, she won't like it either."

"Not like?" The boy stares at him uncomprehending. "How can someone not like that? And why do you give presents to people you don't like?"

The man looks at him for a moment, one eyebrow arching, then grins. "Out of habit, I guess. And - well, this is not something she'd value. No diamonds in it." Then he laughs, a deep rolling purr. "You're right, though. So incredibly right."

"What do you mean?" he asks when the man takes his hand and puts the little box on his palm.

"Why should I give a present to someone I don't like? I won't. So this is for you."

"But..." he shakes his head, tries to give the box back, but the grip tightens and closes his fingers around it. The hand is large and elegant and surprisingly strong. "I can't take it, it's too expensive! And it's for a lady."

"It's not too expensive, it's a gift," the man insists. "I want to give it to you. And surely you've got someone you can give it to - a sweetheart? A sister?"

He hesitates, trying to find a good enough argument, but he takes a second too long. The man presses the box into his hand and whirls around, with a couple of strides he's beside the horse and then already in the cabriolet, his short cape swirling. A wave of a hand, a touch on those broad, shining quarters with the tip of a driving whip, and the horse trots away.

He stands there for several moments, in front of the little boutiques, finely-dressed people passing by right and left, the box in his hand and the smell of cologne and cigarettes in his nostrils. He realizes that he forgot to ask the name of the horse.

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