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been unfortunate, true, that she had not been presented to Her Majesty—but how could it have been otherwise? The Queen Mother was suffering fits and fevers! As for their son, Jean, it was understandable that the King and his brother would be kept apart, not permitted to mix with the local gentry. Laurent himself had laid eyes on His Majesty only a few times. It was attested that the King, although yet a boy, had cured hundreds of people of the Evil, the disfiguring neck growths melting away at his touch. (What a thing that would be to see!)
    And then Françoise had started in about money. True, he had spent quite a sum on the royal welcome—hiring musicians and having banners and caparisons made up—but it was a privilege to serve, an honor. This his wife would never understand: it was not in her blood. “If any money’s to be spent, it’s to get back my pearls,” she’d told him, demanding that he petition the Queen Mother for favor. He had saved the Queen Mother’s life and deserved some sort of recognition—but simply serving was reward aplenty, was it not?
    Laurent had been awed to see the Queen Mother’s famously fine hands clasped in prayer as she lay stretched out on a bed, propped up against tasseled silk pillows. Although aged now, and somewhat large, it was easy to see that she had once been a beauty. He had been asked to obtain finely woven covering-sheets for her. Another expense, Françoise had complained. But to think of it: the Queen Mother had slept on cloth he had touched with his own hands.
    Laurent patted his leather pouch where he kept his rosary. He had put it with the coin the Queen Mother had given him. The gold louis had slipped from her hand, rolled across the floor, and the young King himself had scooped it up. The Queen Mother—saintly woman—had asked her son to give the coin “to this kind man here.” The King’s hand had brushed his own.
    “Only one lousy louis? Is that all she gave you?” Françoise had wept. “You spent a hundred! We could have used that money to repair our leaking roof, or replace the broken window in the sitting room, or mend the chimney so we could burn a fire without being smoked out, or…”
    Or buy back his wife’s pearls. Laurent pressed old Hongre forward over the bridge with a touch of his spurs. Françoise was young and ever so pretty. He wished he could make her happy. Ever since the loss of the baby, her humors had been out of balance.
    “Papa?” he heard his son call out as they approached the gates to the family manor.
    Laurent looked back to see Françoise standing up in the carriage, holding onto Jean’s shoulder for support. “Laurent, do something!” She pointed at the manor and burst into tears.
    Laurent turned, and gasped, for there, at the entrance to their courtyard, was his daughter—riding the White.
    He crossed himself. Mon Dieu. What a glorious sight! It was the White, surely, yet this horse was combed and groomed, his mane plaited with mismatched ribbons, his haunches draped withone of Françoise’s old comforters, like a royal caparison. The steed lifted his hooves neatly, stepping lightly.
    “Yes, Father—it’s Diablo,” his daughter called out, grinning proudly. She was riding astride without a saddle, her skirts bunched around her thighs. She looked like a pixie atop such a large animal—such a large beast.
    “Laurent, that horse will kill her,” he heard his wife cry out behind him.
    “ Get off! ” he bellowed, finding his voice.
    “Isn’t he beautiful?”
    “Fie!” he cried, panic filling him.
    “But he’s gentle now,” his daughter said, holding the reins loosely. The White’s head bent submissively, one ear pricked back.
    “Get off, I say,” Laurent commanded, a sudden pain piercing his heart.
    “Father?” Petite called out as he toppled. “Father!”
    P ETITE WATCHED IN CONFUSION as her father slumped and slowly slid off his horse, his foot caught in one stirrup. She jumped from Diablo and ran