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Though she had strayed from the Secret Grove since December had left in search of the promised healer, Sheba had never gone far. Aside from the occasional trip to the Thistle Meadow in search of food, the deep snow had prevented her from any longer journey, and so she remained a constant fixture of the place, alternately grazing and dozing amongst the willows. The days were long and the nights were cold, but what really set her to shivering were those thoughts of the giantess. She had no doubt that the large mare would return—for though she could not understand it, Sheba had more than enough evidence to support the idea that December derived some odd pleasure from helping others—and if she wanted to play the Good Samaritan, then all the better for the crone.
However, what she could not comprehend was the other mare’s interest in her. In her days, she had encountered enough of those savior-complex types…but why would December choose to help her? Sheba knew that she wasn’t pleasant in any sense of the word. She was about as physically appealing as an old mule, she smelled like the bottom of a pond, and she had been abrasive enough to drive almost every stranger who had come across her away. Why hadn’t December chosen someone more…conventional as her pet project? Someone who’d ooze gratitude, who’d look at her with those big shiny lamb eyes that those so-called selfless angels were always after, someone easier to love? Sheba couldn’t understand the logic in it, and the irrationality both fascinated and frightened her. And so, while she was by no means a creature of her word (and given the snow, had little choice to boot), the old mare had lingered about the grove, waiting for December. If only to see what this was all about, she told herself as she settled into the nest of dry grasses that the giantess had left for her.
• • • •
She was dozing when her Samaritan returned, tucked beneath a willow at the center of a thick cluster. A light sleeper, she stirred when December called out, heaving herself to her hooves with great effort. Though her frame was naturally slight, made lighter still by Frostfall’s scarcity, a series of arthritic pops and clicks made it difficult for her to move anywhere quickly. A tremor rippled across her patchy coat, shedding the stray grass stalks as if they were pesky flies, and she peered out from behind the fronds at the great gray mare who had re-entered the clearing.
“So you’re back,” she commented hoarsely, stepping out from beneath the trees. “I hope you weren’t worried about little old me.”
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