Under his spell just as the mare is, I forget myself. Forget that I’m the girl from the family up the hill who is mocked or feared but never spoken to. Let myself imagine I’m released from the burden and promise of the power I carry within.

I step forward. ‘How did you do that? She should’ve killed you.’

He starts and turns towards me, a deep flush spreading over his face. The horse whinnies and he reaches a hand to comfort her, eyes still on me. He focuses briefly on the skin on my cheek, broken by the farmhand’s knuckles, then drops his gaze.

‘Oh, I …’ He looks behind, confused.

‘’Tis a gift.’

‘Oh no, it’s just … It’s nothing.’

‘I’ve never seen owt like it.’ There’s a rare gentleness about him, a self-doubt. ‘Can I stroke her?’

He hesitates, nods. ‘Carefully.’

The mare darts back, showing the whites of her eyes and snorting as I walk towards her.

‘Don’t look at her,’ he says. ‘Just – keep your head down. That’s right.’

I move towards them, looking down. Slowly. Slowly. The mare shifts a little. He keeps a hand on her neck. She will not hurt me, I know. He won’t let her.

‘Good,’ he says.

I reach out a hand and he guides my fingers to the mare’s forehead.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘Like this.’ Together we stroke her with round movements. She blows softly.

‘See,’ he says. ‘She likes you.’

His words are like summer sky, I could lie underneath them and be warmed. The sun, breaking through weighty cloud, catches his every freckle and blond eyelash. A bruise shadows his eye, swollen and fresh.

‘How did you learn it?’ I ask.

‘I just – I don’t know. I’m no good at anything.’ He laughs, uncertain. Shrugs. ‘I like animals, I watch them. It’s easy.’

‘You’re good at this.’ I stroke the mare and she nuzzles my hand. ‘It’s like you bewitched her.’

As I speak the words, he recognises me. I see it in his eyes, a flash of fear. He is suddenly still and clutches the horse’s back. She cries in response. I don’t realise I’m smiling until I stop. The unfamiliar sensation leaves me and I am once more just a thin crust of person with nothing inside. The sweet solid warmth of being another was brief, but its absence burns like the sores I cursed upon the farmhand.

He stumbles back, tripping over his own feet, gasping like a stranded fish. Face white as the sky above us is dark. I hate him for the kindness he has shown then taken away more than I’ve ever hated the brutes that taunt and beat me.