Only thing left is my hair. I grab Mama’s shears.

I’ve always liked my hair. It’s long and thick, gold-brown like my eyes. I was so proud the day Mama let me put it up, knowing it would shimmer in the sunshine. I didn’t bother putting it up today. Before I can think about it a second longer, I grab my braid and start hacking away.

Hair is stern stuff. It takes some effort before the braid comes away in my hand. My head immediately feels lighter. Remembering how Mama always trimmed Daddy’s hair, I snip along the top and sides too, so it’s short all over. I’m probably making a mess of it without a mirror to guide me, but my hat will cover the worst of it.

I shrug the saddlebags over my shoulder. Braid in hand, I start to descend the ladder, but wisps of gold-brown hair catch my eye. They almost blend into the hay, but not quite. I can’t leave my hair for Hiram to find.

I gather it all up, quick as I can. I’ll hide it in one of the stalls. No—too risky. I should dump it somewhere in the woods, along with my women’s clothes.

My saddlebags are already fit to burst, but I shove the shiny mess down inside one anyway, then I spread loose hay around to blur the sight of any stragglers. I drop the saddlebags to the ground and follow them down the ladder.

I toss the bags beside Peony, and I grab her bridle from its peg outside her stall.

The unmistakable clop-clop of hooves nears the barn entrance.

I dart inside Peony’s stall and swing the door shut. I crouch in the front corner as the barn doors creak open and light fills the space, along with a rush of fresh, icy air.

The creak of a saddle as someone dismounts. The jangle of a bridle. “There, there,” Hiram says. “That’s a good boy.”

Will my uncle wonder why the wagon is gone, even though he didn’t ask me to sell it? Will he see that Peony’s bridle is missing from its peg?

I hardly dare to breathe as I strain my ears. He’s unsaddling Blackwind, far as I can tell. Now he’s removing the bridle. Blackwind stomps, and Hiram chuckles. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, boy?” he says. “Fine. A rubdown it is.”

No, no, no.

Peony snorts and tosses her head. My uncle’s footsteps approach. “Hullo, girl,” he says.

Don’t look down, don’t look down.

Above me, a thick arm in a black woolen sleeve snakes out. Peony allows her muzzle to be rubbed, though her nostrils remain flared. “You’ll get used to us, girl,” Hiram says. “So will your mistress. I promise.”