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Digging sharp heels against his mount's flank, Mr. Harrow ground his teeth. That damnable sooty streak still outdistanced him, the shrieking interloper marring his land like a blight. Such shouts would cost so low a trespasser... for had the intruder been silent, they might have gone unnoticed in thick mist.

He knew why they raced with such vigor to cross the marshes—they had need to fear the man who might pursue. And based on their mangled path, it was clear he knew the terrain far better than they.

Another kick to urge on his steed’s vigorous pace, and he cut through marshy wetlands, the thicker east fog hiding his approach.

No local would have dared encroach so deep into his land. No farmer, no merchant, no soul familiar with the name Gregory Harrow. None were welcome here. None endured his unhappy attention—none who wanted to thrive, at least.

Should he not like what he found, that bandit would lie with the others—a forgotten mass sunk to the bottom of a bog.

Harrow checked his beast, slowing so no clop of hooves betrayed their approach. In the fog, all that waited between him and the rocks was a fine stallion. The black giant stood without tack—no doubt stolen—the horse’s ears pinned back, nostrils flared.

Wary his true prey hid out of sight, Mr. Harrow chose to work quickly. Abandoning a fool in the marshes with no steed to see them out was simpler than overtaking one. If all went well, the vagrant would be less a horse, while he one the richer.

Gathering a length of rope from his saddle, the gentleman dismounted. His target grew hostile, chuffed loudly, and stomped to the point Mr. Harrow’s own gelding shied.

Despite the horse’s agitated neigh, there were no sounds of its missing rider. There was nothing. No footfalls, no slick scratch of a blade pulled from sheath. Even the wind was oddly still.

Eager to take the horse while the opportunity stood, Harrow clicked his tongue and prepared to throw the lead.

The Arabian was having none of it. The monster reared, hooves tearing at the air.

When braced forelegs landed and the stallion stood ready to charge, a voice came from above. “He is a killer. You would be wise to step away while you still can.”

Snapping his head upward, Mr. Harrow saw nothing... at least at first. It was the wind that betrayed her—one solitary breeze flapped worn edges of a cloak the same drab grey of her surroundings.

Perched like a gargoyle above him, the intruder stared down with narrowed eyes.

“You.” He caught the full measure of the vagrant, the sneer to his lip far more threatening than her stamping horse. “Imp...”

Before Mr. Harrow could continue, the woman slid down the rocks, graceless in her landing. Feet bare and muddy, a mess of wind-tangled blood-red hair spilled from her hood, but it was the eyes, the way they turned up, that gave her away.

She was no English lass, yet she stared at him as if he were the one out of place.

Mr. Harrow had been wrong. The girl had not been running from him. She had not even known he’d pursued.

Circling, he didn’t make it within three paces before her stallion reared and forced him back.

She warned a second time, “If you continue your approach, I cannot be responsible for his actions. He is an outright demon of a horse. Lower your rope and go.”

“I will not.”

It was not only the harshness of his tone, or the mean look of him... it was the half-hidden female’s hesitation. Hubris or not, he frightened her. Had she been alone without her great beast, the woman’s command would never have been so steady. “You will.”

He offered a crass leer. “Whose household do you belong to? Or, are you some vagabond?”

The accusation brought a shadow to her lips. “I am not the one trying to steal a horse, Mr. Harrow.”

Chin lifted, Harrow sneered. “How do you know me?”

Before the horse might trample the intruder into an early grave, the woman reached out dirty fingertips, cooing even when her stallion snorted. The beast gave an agitated whinny, stamped, and stilled to the point it was uncanny.

In a blur of grey wool, she mounted his back, as haughty as any queen on her throne.

No matter her cold looks, Mr. Harrow knew why she’d scaled the creature. It was fear. And how easy it had been to terrify her so; all it had taken was one dark, promising look.

His black eyes glittered, the meanest of grins offered. “Your name, red-haired wench?”

Curving her lips in false delight, she mocked him in reply. “Imp was quite astute. You may call me that.”

A simple twitch of her thigh, and her stallion launched itself into the wilds.

***

Nothing had been gained in Harrow's hunt of horse and rider. The Imp was still running free, an occasional distant streak across the horizon he could not ensnare. He’d pursued the brazen harridan, only to turn his head and find her miles off—as if she were some specter capable of being in two places at once.

It was that devil horse—the beast too swift, the girl’s careless riding preserving her from him.

Unwilling to be reckless over such dangerous ground, Harrow was not about to risk his gelding or his neck giving further chase. Like all fools who bounded through unknown lands, the woman with her dirty feet would find soon enough the savagery of the landscape would not tolerate her games. He need not even bother. The bogs would claim her... or she would lose the road and wander without food or water. Either way, she would learn. And if she didn't, if he found her again, she would learn another way.

Hours lost and nothing gained, Mr. Harrow turned towards the direction of his initial goal. He was overdue to receive a new tenant—the complication another slight against the miscreant Imp.

Ambling up the pathway of the long vacant Crescent Barrows, Mr. Harrow peered past neglected foliage to find a cart had already arrived, as had a lanky figure, the gentleman ancient and ramrod straight.

The weathered fossil seemed a good match for a crumbling manor tainted by rumors of ghosts.

The old tales the landlord had found both baseless and bland. The only thing one needed to fear within Crescent Barrows was what living men could do.

Clearing the overgrown hedgerows, Mr. Harrow dismounted with little preamble. “Good afternoon, Mr. Griggs.”

Hollowed cheeks were sucked deep as Solicitor Griggs observed his tardy host. “I am here to take governance of the property.”

“Then by all means.” Pulling a tangle of iron keys from his pocket, Mr. Harrow brushed past the man to unlock the main entry. The heavy door whined under the demands of a heavy shoulder. “Let us enter.”

Before following, the old man looked to the solitary manservant. “Payne.”

A burly grey-haired African came from the cart, stoic as he followed the party inside.

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