A Coat for Aodh

by Ika Koeck

I have always hated the cold. It makes the simplest of tasks impossible. Trying to tighten the girth around a gelding that was holding his breath on purpose was already difficult with one weak hand and one bad leg. In the cold night, my numb hands simply refused to cooperate, and I was in the midst of heaving, puffing, and cursing the horse’s ancestors when Tipsy meowed and alerted me to a visitor.

I looked over my shoulder to see a young man of maybe fifteen summers, peeking from the side of the stall.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, removing his top hat. “I’m looking for Miss Callan.”

“She isn’t here,” I said, hopping on my good leg and clinging to the saddle when the gelding turned around to face the visitor. I had spent an entire day on my feet evicting a clan of swamp fairies from the city sewers; a nasty affair that necessitated some bloodshed and a very long debrief with Her Majesty’s Chief Constable. I was not in the mood to entertain anymore clients.

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