About the weather, scathing rainstorms eight days straight, enough to flay the walls off houses. About the hazy stranger who stays those same eight days, looking for what she won’t tell. About her stallion whose coat no day will light. The stableboy dreams of escape. Townsfolk say they say. They say the stranger tries to trade vague future favors for rumors about what dark rites the neighbors might be hiding. They say any may brave the floodwaters, say those who ride bareback and survive a fortnight gain foresight of their fate. The stableboy dreams of greatness. Townsfolk mutter about each other. Every town conceals a secret. Every hoofbeat prophecy reveals a different riddle. Every whisper spins into the wind. Whichever trades the stranger makes, she wins. She takes her seeking to the next town down this byway. The stableboy wakes, still a stableboy. He mucks out all the vacant stalls.