“Just for a walk in the pasture, past the river,” Sylvia whispers briskly, occupied with her tasks, moving with confidence around the horse, focused and efficient, clipping the second of the cross ties to a ring at the right side of the stall, stooping under the rope at the mare’s shoulder and unhooking the blanket at her chest. Safety first. Remove blankets back to front. The horse shudders daintily, her coat and thick skin rippling, as her blanket comes off.

“Good thing I haven’t brought her feed yet, then,” the girl replies. “When you’re back and she’s cool, could you give her crushed oats and half a flake of hay? I’ll scrub her water bucket.”

Sylvia nods. She’s folded the blanket and put it away on a high shelf at the front of the stall, then stepped toward the door, where she left the brushes and currycomb. As the girl walks away, Sylvia takes up the brushes, loosening the caked, dried mud from the horse’s coat with a gentle, circular massage. She brushes neck and belly and loins as the horse patiently submits, turning her impassive head to watch.