The Light Within the Storm #AStormOfFanFiction

2. Are You Sure That's Not a Sheep?

After a few short minutes in my uncle's garden shed -- which was a marvelous place to change, as long as you didn't mind spiders in your clothes -- I stepped out in my best trousers, tailcoat, and a bright purple vest. After tucking up my short brown hair in a top hat with a feather on the side, my clothing and lack of a feminine bust were enough to make me pass for a smallish, fashion-forward young man. There wasn't a mirror in the garden shed, but I fancied I looked quite spiffing. It was a shame, really, that women weren't allowed to wear trousers in polite society without having to pretend to be men.

The coins in my pocket jingled, the weight threatening to pull my trousers down and give the rest of the people on the street a rare glimpse of the latest style in chemises. In the months that I had been secretly working as Mr. Ambrose's secretary, the leftover coins from my paycheck that did not go to colorful vests or chocolatey treats had added up, and so I stuck my nose up in the air, attempted to radiate the air of a snobbish rich gentleman, and marched to the horse market.

The horse market was a glorified tent down near the docks, but I began smelling it when I was still three blocks away. The odor was reminiscent of a bunch of rodents that had gotten together to roll around in manure, die, and start rotting. I put my hand over my nose as I pushed through the throngs of people into the middle of the tent where the horses were being sold.

At last! No demure young lady would sacrifice her reputation by riding in any other way than the ridiculous fashion known as side saddle, but it was time for that belief to be trampled into the dust! Sure, to all onlookers I would seem like just another man, but Mr. Ambrose would know that I was a daring feminist. He had already seen me ride a camel, but that had been in the desert, where the only observers were soldiers, robbers, and mercenaries, and they rarely cared about the rules of etiquette. This stunt would get at least a nostril flare from him.

Something poked at my rear. "Hey! Watch your hands, you bloody --" I turned around and came face to face with an inquisitive horse. I shook a finger at him. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you manners? That area is strictly off limits!"

The horse responded by trying to bite off the finger I was wagging in his face.

"Hello, sir! I suspect you are in need of a good horse?"

I turned again, to come face to face with a portly man in an old, stained suit. "Actually, I just got horribly lost on my way to the powder room."

Ignoring my statement, the man clapped his meaty hands. "Excellent! I have just the one for you!" He tugged on a rope and an animal came into view from behind his back: short, smelly, and covered in fuzz.

"Erm, this is the horse?"

The portly man's head bobbed up and down. "Yes, and you'll not find a finer animal!"

"Interesting. He certainly looks nice, but I was under the impression that horses were a bit taller. And not covered in a layer of wool."

The "horse" gave a sad bleating sound.

"No, no, the seller guaranteed that this is a horse of the noblest blood! A descendant of the great steeds of the desert!"

I backed away. "I think I'll look elsewhere, thanks. Maybe try to do a bit of research on sheep the next time you're in the countryside."

I was already feeling a bit foolish. Automatically, I imagined Mr. Ambrose's reaction to my failing venture -- a cold silence, but a smug, condescending one that suggested I was nothing more than a foolish member of the inferior sex. I balled my hands into fists. "No! I'll never prove him right! I'm going to show him that I can be a better horseman -- err, horsewoman -- than even he is!"