She suspected his statement was not a simple change of subject. “Yes. And I asked him to meet Donal.”
Hartley cocked his head. In the next building, a horse whinnied. “And did your marquess find your cousin’s son to his liking?”
“I told him the truth.”
His surprise was almost gratifying. “You told him that Donal is your son?”
She met his gaze. “He was far more understanding than I had a right to expect.”
“But?”
“Remember when you first came—you and Donal played a game about hearing the horses speak. I asked you not to encourage Donal in such fancies.” She gave a brief laugh. “I did not really expect you to obey my instructions, but it has all become… I am beginning to believe…” The words trickled to a stop. How could she admit that she had allowed herself to consider that Donal might not be an ordinary child?
“That he is different,” Hartley said, completing her sentence. “That he has special gifts.”
She looked at him sharply, searching for the slightest hint of mockery or disbelief. He had never appeared more sincere than he did now. What had seemed ridiculous took on the weight of incontrovertible truth.
“You believe it as well?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“How can you be so sure… that it is real?”
“I, too, have seen the evidence.” He stood over her, strong and immovable as an ancient oak. “You know it is true, Eden.”
She shook her head, more in confusion than denial. “He… speaks to horses.”
“To all beasts of wood, field, and pasture.” Hartley smiled with a fondness that stopped Eden’s heart. “He listens to them, and they speak.”
The absurdity of the conversation gave this moment the air of a dream. “If you knew, why didn’t you tell me?”
“But I did, and so did Donal. You did not wish to hear.”
Nor did she wish to hear it now. The implications were staggering. If Francis had fled because Donal had actually done what he claimed, then the marquess also believed. And if he knew, so might others.
Others who would wonder, and question, and fear. Just as she had feared when she saw a man sprout antlers and work magic at an inn on the Scottish border.
“Has he… displayed these abilities to other people?” she asked.
“Not to any who can do him harm. Yet.”
The air in the room turned icy. “Harm him?”
He leaned opposite her on a harness stand and captured her gaze. “Think how the boy’s rare gifts at the track could alter the outcome of a race. Draw birds from the skies right to the waiting guns. Summon sheep from another man’s pasture. Send a dog to attack an enemy. Even your city teems with animals who can listen and obey.”
Indeed. Cats, stray dogs, mice. Rats. Terrible pictures formed in Eden’s mind. She had thought of suspicion and misunderstanding from other children and adults, but not how Donal might be a tool to feed the desire for profit or power.
She did not know such people. But what if Spencer had lived and learned of this? He had loved the racetrack, and he was always in desperate need of money. Could Donal, as Hartley suggested, make some horses win and others lose?
Surely not. Not my son.
Did Donal even understand what he could do, and how he might use such abilities? Or was he only beginning to experiment, as children had done since the dawn of time?
Had her son deliberately set out to drive the marquess away?
“Do not make the mistake of thinking that Donal’s gifts can remain secret,” Hartley said. “Not even if you hide him at Hartsmere until he is old enough to understand why he must keep them to himself. And he must, Eden.” He reached for her hand, hesitated, let his own fall. “He must learn to control what he can do, so that no one may ever use him. The world is a cruel place, Eden. It holds no mercy for those who are different.”
Eden stared at him. “How do you know all this?”
“I have seen it before.”
Seen what? A-child who could speak to animals? Or similar, eldritch powers that did not belong among mortal men—that might only be granted to the children of those not… human?