Alfred patted Hana on the shoulder with his good hand, the other swathed in plasters and clamped around a large mug of tea. Then he unnerved Hana further by wagging his finger at his son and lifting his eyebrows. Hana dragged her feet at the onslaught of impending doom and wondered if she could fake sick for the day.
Logan led her along the corridor past the ballroom and kept walking until they reached a small room at the end. He opened a door with a keypad and stepped inside. Hana’s socks slid to a halt on the dirty floor, smelling the scent of worn leather and horse. Shelves lined the walls, covered with riding boots, wax coats and hats. A work-table housed a dirty cloth, an open tub of saddle soap and a strap of some kind beneath a metal punch. The room seemed dark with only one long v
