roly-poly. Grace had had to select the latter—Varinia couldn’t tell one roly-poly from the other—but when it came time to pick the donkeys, she was in her element. Her parents had been ranchers. Her mother had encouraged her to spend free weekends tending the four-leggeds in their stables. A kind of family tradition, stretching right back to the aristocratic Wilcoxes of England’s once-green Midlands. Varinia had loved every minute, and she’d learned to ride her two mares, Lenore and Danai, over two successive summers. When she’d graduated secondary school, Varinia had vowed, no matter what else transpired in her life, to ride every morning she was able.
Thinking back, she cringed. That was the same day the regional Selene modeling scout had approached her with an offer, on the steps of the school, in front of her dumbstruck classmates. That was the last time she’d ever seen Lenore and Danai and the ranch. Her parents had signed the consent form on the spot, and in a matter of hours she’d cried her heart out, alone in her new home—her tiny quarters in the Selene Modeling Academy—never to set foot in her family home again.
In retrospect, it had been the worst day of her life, the curse that came with all great opportunity.
“You see something else you fancy?” the voice in the remote microphone box crackled. The gizmo was mounted on one of three parallel tracks on top of the metal fence. It had followed her every step around the corral. The foreman was probably in one of the tin shacks behind the enclosure. Perhaps he was crippled or infirm with old age—his creaky voice and clipped accent did sound ancient—and could no longer get out of bed to hobnob with customers directly.
“No. I’m almost done. Thanks.” She dipped into her credit purse and reckoned she had two hundred clips, ballpark, remaining from the expedition funds. Hmm, not enough for this place. She’d already bought the cheapest items on offer.
Turning to leave, she heard a clatter to her left, followed by a whump of warping sheet metal, as though something had shifted its weight in one of the thin empty cubicles arrayed along the entry lane.
As she neared, one of the cubicles shuddered—insistent scraping, followed by another whump, then the unmistakable high-pitched neigh-eigh-eigh of a horse.
For real? It seemed to be calling to her. She peered through the slender grid window and her breath caught. Two ill-shod hooves slammed against the reinforced glass. When they fell, she gazed upon a magnificent black mare, whose tantrum now seemed to make perfect sense. The cubicle was far too small for such an athletic-looking animal. She had not been well-kept—her coat was mangy and her mane a-tangle, not to mention her fidgety knees, signs of thirst and exhaustion—but Varinia gasped at the mare’s physical proportions. She was an absolute stunner, most likely an Arabian.
Why wasn’t she for sale in the corral? If someone had already purchased her, what was she doing cramped between a dozen empty freight cubicles? Unless…no, they couldn’t be disposing of her!
Varinia raced to catch up with the microphone box doing its circumnavigation. “Hey, stop a minute. I need to ask you something.”
It halted. “You again. What can I do for you now, darlin’?”
“The black mare—what’s her story?”
“Damaged goods. Won’t pull nothing. Not much use out here if she won’t pull nothing. Don’t know anything more about her apart from she’s space dizzy.”
“She’s disoriented?”
“Yeah. That’s called space dizzy out here, miss. She ain’t no good to no one unless she pulls when you tell her.”
Varinia wanted to choke the bastard voice box. How dare these suck-baits treat an Arabian racer like a pack pony! Didn’t they know she’d been selectively bred from ancient times to be groomed, shown off, ridden in exotic races, and generally coddled like royalty?
Hmm, what if they honest-to-goodness didn’t know?
Thinking back, she cringed. That was the same day the regional Selene modeling scout had approached her with an offer, on the steps of the school, in front of her dumbstruck classmates. That was the last time she’d ever seen Lenore and Danai and the ranch. Her parents had signed the consent form on the spot, and in a matter of hours she’d cried her heart out, alone in her new home—her tiny quarters in the Selene Modeling Academy—never to set foot in her family home again.
In retrospect, it had been the worst day of her life, the curse that came with all great opportunity.
“You see something else you fancy?” the voice in the remote microphone box crackled. The gizmo was mounted on one of three parallel tracks on top of the metal fence. It had followed her every step around the corral. The foreman was probably in one of the tin shacks behind the enclosure. Perhaps he was crippled or infirm with old age—his creaky voice and clipped accent did sound ancient—and could no longer get out of bed to hobnob with customers directly.
“No. I’m almost done. Thanks.” She dipped into her credit purse and reckoned she had two hundred clips, ballpark, remaining from the expedition funds. Hmm, not enough for this place. She’d already bought the cheapest items on offer.
Turning to leave, she heard a clatter to her left, followed by a whump of warping sheet metal, as though something had shifted its weight in one of the thin empty cubicles arrayed along the entry lane.
As she neared, one of the cubicles shuddered—insistent scraping, followed by another whump, then the unmistakable high-pitched neigh-eigh-eigh of a horse.
For real? It seemed to be calling to her. She peered through the slender grid window and her breath caught. Two ill-shod hooves slammed against the reinforced glass. When they fell, she gazed upon a magnificent black mare, whose tantrum now seemed to make perfect sense. The cubicle was far too small for such an athletic-looking animal. She had not been well-kept—her coat was mangy and her mane a-tangle, not to mention her fidgety knees, signs of thirst and exhaustion—but Varinia gasped at the mare’s physical proportions. She was an absolute stunner, most likely an Arabian.
Why wasn’t she for sale in the corral? If someone had already purchased her, what was she doing cramped between a dozen empty freight cubicles? Unless…no, they couldn’t be disposing of her!
Varinia raced to catch up with the microphone box doing its circumnavigation. “Hey, stop a minute. I need to ask you something.”
It halted. “You again. What can I do for you now, darlin’?”
“The black mare—what’s her story?”
“Damaged goods. Won’t pull nothing. Not much use out here if she won’t pull nothing. Don’t know anything more about her apart from she’s space dizzy.”
“She’s disoriented?”
“Yeah. That’s called space dizzy out here, miss. She ain’t no good to no one unless she pulls when you tell her.”
Varinia wanted to choke the bastard voice box. How dare these suck-baits treat an Arabian racer like a pack pony! Didn’t they know she’d been selectively bred from ancient times to be groomed, shown off, ridden in exotic races, and generally coddled like royalty?
Hmm, what if they honest-to-goodness didn’t know?
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