I haven't named either of my new horses, I suddenly realize.
My brush pauses on the pristine white hide of one of the Ferghana horses Julian gave me for my birthday, the one that had been wounded with the nail Julia had planted in its saddle. It huffs in complaint, prompting me to continue the monotonous movement amidst the overpowering scent of horse poop and hay.
This is a newfound therapeutic hobby, newfound in the sense that I have only discovered it today in the wake of the earth-shattering revelations my father decided to unleash upon me without warning. A tremor runs through my hand at this moment, as if the aftershocks are still coursing through me.
"Your highness." The brush nearly falls out of my hand. I look over my shoulder to see the nervous stable hand waiting near the mouth of the horse's stable. I had previously dismissed all the staff so I could be alone with myself and my chaotic thoughts.
