Icarus. Yes, it was time to head home, if he could. He meant to give up this useless search for Poll, who either lived in Edinburgh and therefore had received Miranda's letter, or did not, which meant that Lysander would not find him soon enough to matter. He felt an uneasy twist of shame in his gut at the way he'd leapt to leave Worthington House. He didn't truly want to go back, but he knew that he should do so. People did that. They did what they should do.

He walked after Bing, as the man pitched and reeled on his damaged leg across the cobbled stableyard.

That was when Lysander noticed the dog, Topknot, had a strange gait as well. She was so shaggy he not realized it before, but when she ran ahead of him, lurching after Bing, he could see only one rear leg. There seemed to be nothing below her right haunch. When she ran, she twirled her tail like a squirrel, using it to counterbalance.

Bing saw him looking and nodded as he came abreast at the wide stable door. "Aye, that's another one of Missus's strays. Always taking in t' frail and t' fallen, she is. Topknot was Shepherd Gosling's best sheepdog until she fell athwart a wagon wheel. Gosling tried to bind it up and save her, because t' children were so fond. But t' leg got t' gangrene and he decided it was time to call it a bad 'un. The eldest Gosling lass came running for the Missus, begging her to save the dog. The Missus did her best but it was hard and it was ugly and t' poor thing took a long time to heal. By the time she was up again, she wouldn't leave. I took her back to Gosling's three times, and every time she wobbled her way back over all those miles and ended up sleeping in t' stable next to Mrs. Apples. Come on, I'll introduce you."

First, they visited Icarus in the stable. Lysander could see that Icky was extremely content, although the leg was indeed hot and swollen. Bing had done an expert job of wrapping it in cloth strips soaked in something herbal. Furthermore, the gelding had been brushed to a mirror finish, covered in a cozy if somewhat threadbare horse-blanket and was currently eyes-deep in a battered pail making sure he had consumed every last particle of his warm porridge breakfast.

There would be no riding Icarus today, nor tomorrow either. Lysander let his goal of immediate departure go with a vague sense of mingled guilt and relief. He would have another day away from the stifling fear and overwrought silence that permeated Worthington House.

The gentle thoroughbred seemed entirely unconcerned about sharing his large box stall with a small round-bellied goat.