He let her take charge of Betty’s mash, mixing the bran, grain, and hot water. And he permitted her to assist him in heating the foal’s milk and wrapping the spout of the teakettle with soft toweling. But it was he who carried the bucket. He always sought to spare her a burden. To make the way smooth for her.

Yet another admirable quality to file away in her box of memories.

She walked alongside him down the aisle. As they approached Betty’s loose box, she poked her shaggy head out over the door. When she saw Neville and marked the bucket he was carrying, she gave an impatient whinny.

“Here, Betty.” He let himself inside the loose box, shutting the door behind him. “Easy.”

Clara cradled the teakettle in her hands as she watched over the door. Betty was still a little wary of Neville, but she no longer cringed away or threatened to kick him. Taking his cue from his dam, Firefly stepped forward to bump Neville’s arm with his tiny muzzle, demanding his attention.

It was one of the sweetest things Clara had ever beheld. “Is it safe for me to come in yet?”

Neville clipped the bucket to the hook on the wall. Betty thrust her head into it without hesitation. “Now it is.”

Clara crept inside. Betty didn’t pay her any attention, but Firefly was ready and waiting. He nudged her with his nose, and pushed her hard with his shoulder. “He’s getting strong!”

“He wants his milk.” Neville held Firefly’s neck, keeping him still. “Remember…you have to p-pour it.”

“I remember.” She offered Firefly the padded spout of the teakettle, tilting it so the milk slowly streamed into his waiting mouth. He drank deeply. A smile spread over her face. “He’s getting better at this.”

“So are you,” Neville said.

She didn’t know about that. It was impossible to keep the milk from spilling. At least now, however, after three days’ practice, she was confident that more was ending up in Firefly’s stomach than on the straw-covered floor.

“Good boy,” she murmured. “How clever you are.”

When the teakettle was empty, she stepped outside the loose box again. She was careful not to press her luck with Betty. It was Neville who must win the ponies’ trust, not her.

He remained inside with both of them. His hands moved over Betty while she ate, stroking along her neck, shoulders, and flanks. It was as if he was speaking to her. Gentling her and reassuring her. Persuading her to trust him.

Firefly wandered along with him, mouthing at Neville’s sleeves with tiny, experimental nips.

Neville glanced at Clara. “Fetch your bonnet and cloak.”