The black loam of the well-trod earth contrasted with the silvery coats of six horses, motionless, save the vapors of their soft, puffing breaths. Bess didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, staring at them through her latched window. She only knew that this perch high above Foggy Bottom was one of the few places on earth where she felt truly happy. On nights like this, when sleep eluded her, this window drew her near. Of all the well-appointed rooms in the manor house, she liked this one best, because everything in it reminded her of her mother. Her mama had sewn the ruffled white curtains that hung at the many-paned windows. She'd crocheted the lovely fringe that trimmed the canopy above Bess's bed, and embroidered flower baskets from colorful satiny threads on the fluffy white pillows plumped against the window seat. Even the paintings, hung by wide pink satin ribbons from ornate black hooks near the ceiling, bore her mother's signature.
