The Haunting
Admiral Biscuit
I met with the old stallion to keep him updated on our progress. It didn’t seem like we’d made all that much, but when I considered that a few weeks ago she wouldn’t even go to my house at all, and now she felt comfortable sleeping at the foot of the bed, it was remarkable.
Obviously, Milfoil had played a big part in that. The flowers I’d bought had certainly helped entice her, but if it had just been me in the house, I think Windflower would still be shyly peeking from behind the plants at the very best, and likely quickly vacating whenever she saw me. But since Milfoil didn’t think I was a monster, Windflower didn’t, either.
I also told him that we were still not sure what outcome we were moving towards, that Milfoil was still working on getting her to communicate what she wanted.
“Sounds like you’re starting to get attached to her.”
The way he said that, it sounded like a bad thing, but I wasn’t sure what the right answer was. “She’s—I think that she’s sort of like a surrogate child to Milfoil.”
“Mares are like that. Always wanting to coddle and protect. It’s a natural instinct, but if the time comes, is she going to be able to make the right choice?”
“I hope so.” I wasn’t going to lie to him; he’d know if I did.
“Because if she wants to go, you’ll have to let her. You’ll have to help her.”
“Yes.” That would have been easier before I knew her, before I’d seen her playing with her toys or digging at the yard or resting in front of the fireplace. Even so, I knew she wasn’t a filly anymore, and I’d told myself that it was my duty to help her find peace in whatever way possible.
Whether I could do it or not would remain to be seen.
“What if she wants to see her parents again? Can you arrange that?”
“If I have to drag them all the way back myself, I will.” He sighed. “It would be hard on them, especially to see her and then lose her again, but if that’s what has to be done. . . .”
•••••
It was nice that it was wintertime; there wasn’t all that much to do in the afternoons. We’d have to figure out a schedule for market, but I could do that on my way home from work. At least get the staples. We could cook late, or honestly skip dinner completely. I’d done that sometimes when I was spying on Windflower. Breaking up my sleep left me feeling tired and it had gotten to the point where obsession and exhaustion had overcome hunger pangs.
Milfoil might have ideas, too. Ponies didn’t go for TV dinners or microwaves, but they surely had low-prep meals, things they could eat in a hurry. Hopefully it was something I could also eat, and not just a few mouthfuls of hay.
I had to do a little bit of rearranging in the living room, shifting around the armchair so that it also faced the hallway. I wanted Windflower to always be able to see who was in the room before she entered; that way, she’d be able to choose rather than be surprised when she came in.
Bathtime for Biscuit was still where I’d left it, so I got that out and set it on the table while Milfoil built the fire. And that was it; our preparations were complete.
“We’re going to have to wake up this time,” I reminded her. “Before she goes through the house looking for us.”
“I know. It’s weird taking a nap when you’re not all that tired and the sun’s still up.”
“It takes time to get accustomed to, trust me.” I folded the covers back and sat on the bed to take my shirt off.
•••••
We didn’t sleep, but I still felt at least a little bit refreshed when it was time to get out of bed.
Milfoil wanted to see what would happen if I was alone in the living room when Windflower came downstairs, so she offered to cook dinner. She thought it would be a good measure of Windflower’s confidence. I thought it might scare her, and she might not be willing to approach. Thus far, she’d wanted to make sure that Milfoil was between us, or I was asleep.
Still, I was also interested in finding out, and no matter what we’d learn something. If I did scare her off, Milfoil and I could switch places. She’d probably retreat and check again, rather than leave entirely.
Since I didn’t want to be just staring down the hallway when she arrived, I picked up Bathtime for Biscuit. I’d paged through it, but I hadn’t read it, and even though it was far below my age level, I was interested in seeing how it turned out.
Unsurprisingly, Biscuit did not want to take a bath. And I was somewhat proud of myself for figuring out that the filly was going to fall into the wash basin a few pages before she actually did.
The book did very little to alleviate boredom. There just wasn’t that much to it, and I didn’t learn anything new on a second reading. I should have gotten a different, smaller book and put it inside.
It was hard to pretend to be engrossed in a foal’s book. Still, if it worked, it would be worth it.
•••••
In movies at least, there are secret agents who pretend to read newspapers while spying on their targets, and the audience is meant to believe that they had been on station before we see them, watching alertly while pretending not to. If such people existed in real life, I admired them. It was something I wasn’t cut out to do.
I finally put the book back on the table; I couldn’t look at it any more. I just couldn’t. Even though I knew that if Milfoil saw she might be upset I was deviating from the plan.
I told myself it was only going to be for a minute, and then I’d pick it back up and pretend to be interested in it again.
How aware of our schedule was Windflower? Did she do any reconnaissance before she came into the house? I’d never really noticed, but how hard would it be for her to see a pony shape silhouetted in the kitchen? That would give her a location for Milfoil, but she wouldn’t know where I was.
When she’d come downstairs when we were in front of the fire, she was unlikely to have seen us, unless she went around to the street side. There wasn’t a clear line of sight from the kitchen window.
Of course, that was assuming that her vision still worked like a pony’s. Maybe she could see our auras through the wall.
That didn’t make sense, though: if she could see auras through walls, she would have known I was in the box-fort from day one.
It was too complicated to figure out, and there weren’t any answers to be had in Bathtime for Biscuit.
•••••
Windflower came downstairs when I was putting more wood on the fire. Neither of us spotted each other at first, and then we both saw each other nearly simultaneously. Her ears folded down and then snapped forward again as I took a step back.
She looked around the room and didn’t see Milfoil, so she retreated back to the safety of the hallway.
Once I sat down on the couch, she took a cautious step forward, so I picked up the book and opened it again.
I could tell she was interested; she kept moving forward and back again. She still didn’t trust me enough to approach me without Milfoil, it seemed.
That would come in time.
Her ears turned at the sound of a pot moving on the stove. “Milfoil’s in the kitchen,” I said.
“I’m making stew.”
Windflower’s ears turned in that direction, and she trot-floated along the wall and stuck her head into the kitchen to verify that that was the case.
I could have followed her in, but I didn’t. I stayed where I was and wondered what would happen if she tried to eat something. I was certain she couldn’t, and equally certain that she knew she couldn’t. But what would she think if we set out only two places for dinner? Or if we did set out three, would she sit down and try to eat? Would she get frustrated that she couldn't pick up the spoon and then stick her nose into the stew? What would happen if she did?
Luckily, I didn’t have to find out. When she was satisfied that Milfoil was really in the kitchen, she came back out into the living room. She went around and inspected the plants for long enough that I finally put the book back down and leaned my head back against the cushions and sort of zoned out until she came over to the table and leaned down to look at the book.
•••••
I’d already foreseen the trouble she was about to have. Her hooves couldn’t touch the book, so she leaned down and tried to open the cover with her snout, and that didn’t work, either.
She tilted her head and got a good look at the edges to verify that it was indeed a book and that it ought to open, and then tried again with the same result. I could see that her hooves were slipping into the book and then coming back out of it again, which I suppose was a problem with being incorporeal.
“Here.” I reached for the book myself, and she shied back, away from my hand.
I opened the book to the first page and waited. Her eyes flicked between me and the book, until her curiosity finally won out and she moved forward again.
When she’d read to the end of the page, she moved back from the table and looked up at me hopefully, so I turned the page for her.
•••••
By the time she’d gotten to the end of the book, she was no longer moving back each time I turned a page, no longer nervous of my hands. That was important progress, I thought.