It was nearing twilight when they reached Morestead. The gloaming hour. That was a word Willie had always loved: gloaming. It sounded a little magical, a time of lingering daylight and long shadows and dusk slowly deepening in the hollows.
Morestead was too small to be called a village. It possessed a small church, a crossroads, a bridge, and that was all. The gig slowed as they approached the bridge, going from brisk trot to slow walk to complete standstill. The horse planted its hooves firmly, put its ears back, and refused to take another step.
Lieutenant Mayhew laughed. “I see what you mean.”
“Aye,” Mr. Penny said, around his pipe stem. “Stubborn as an ox, our Dobbin. Ain’t no doin’ nothin’ about it.”
Mayhew jumped down from the gig and held up a hand to Willie. She took it and jum
