“Yes,” Ruth says, glancing at her mother-in-law. “It came just in time for her birthday, actually.” She looks again at Wilson. Kick? The Roman Empire was more than a month ago! Where has Wilson been?

They are quiet. Wilson’s spoon clinks against the china as he sets it down. “Well,” he says. “In any case.”

Ruth turns back to the bacon. “Your mother is going to let Isabelle name a foal in the spring,” she says, lifting the bacon one piece at a time from the skillet and setting each on a plate she’s made ready with a paper towel.

“Is that so?” Wilson says.

Ruth watches bacon grease spread across the paper towel. She imagines Isabelle nodding her head, that mysterious smile still on her face. She wonders if Wilson finds it strange.

“Lucky girl!” he says.

Ruth turns from the stove. “Bacon,” she says. She sets the plate down.

II

“Here she is,” her grandmother says. “Agnes.” The horse lifts her head and gazes at them. She blinks slowly, her eyelid lowering itself heavily over a big black globe of an eye. Isabelle has never seen eyelashes so long. “Hello, girl.” The horse shifts her weight. Her nostrils quiver as she sighs. “Still tired, huh? Come here. This is Isabelle.”

Her grandmother clicks her tongue at the horse and extends a hand. “That’s right,” she says. The horse sighs again and takes the few slow steps to the stall door. Her belly sways. “That’s a girl.” Isabelle watches her grandmother run her hand, clumsy and firm, down the horse’s face. “Now where are those sugar cubes?”

Isabelle reaches into her jacket pocket for the handful of sugar cubes she’s brought from the table. She holds them out for her grandmother to take. “No,” she says. “You give them to her.” Isabelle looks at the horse uncertainly. She has never been brave enough to feed the horses herself. “Go ahead.”

Isabelle takes a cube between her fingers and holds it out for the horse.

“No.” She feels her grandmother’s hand on her shoulder. “Like this.” Her grandmother takes Isabelle’s hand in her own and presses it flat. She puts the sugar cube in her palm. “Keep your fingers together,” she says. “They’re very gentle, but they have bigger teeth than they know what to do with.” Isabelle timidly extends her palm toward the horse. “That’s it,” her grandmother says. She feels the horse’s hot breath in her hand, and the tickle of her huge lips as they scoop the sugar cube up.

“She’ll foal in April. She’s the only one this year.”

The horse has stretched her neck over the stall door and nudges Isabelle’s chest.

“She likes you.” Isabelle reaches up and strokes the horse’s face just in the way she has seen her grandmother do. Her face is solid and warm. “Go ahead and give her another sugar cube, if you want.”