The Tanqueray family had secrets. Guy supposed most families did, but he had still not worked out all the rules of negotiating such things.

One rule, which he learned from the twins, was all about asking.

He discovered the biggest secret when he was nine, when he overheard his elder brothers having one of their lively conversations.

On that particular morning, Guy had brought gingerbread to the family’s steeds for the morning whinny-up. 

He carried it carefully because the whinny-up was a serious matter. One had to be absolutely fair and make sure every steed got a treat and that Fleur-de-Lis, the greedy, crafty, and far too clever little grey who had taught them all to ride, did not get two.

Lis had a way of popping up unexpectedly and snaking her head under one’s elbow. She was also an accomplished teller of untruths.

You missed me.

I haven’t had mine yet.

The only one Guy had ever known to equal her in this was his sister’s dog, Glory, who would always wheedle treats with a fast-beating tail and pleading muzzle.

Guy made a quick tally. Papa’s big roan Phinneas was in the orchard, along with Lis. Guy had ridden her until a year before when Horry, the youngest of the family, had been deemed old enough to ride alone. Now Lis belonged to Horry, and Guy mostly rode old dun Floris who, he saw with affection, was approaching with his steady stride and whickering a welcome. 

The other two visible steeds were his mother’s uppity Plaisir, and Pink, the odd-coloured roan his sister Ancella usually rode. Pink belonged to their Aunt Ysabelet, but for some reason Guy had never bothered to ask, she lived at the manor.

Plaisir was ignoring him, as usual, but Pink, Lis, and Phinneas were on the move.

Timpani and Barleycorn, the chestnuts, were not in sight. 

Guy frowned. It was unlike them to miss out on treats, but entirely like them to be together wherever they were.

He listened, and the tiny mystery resolved itself.

The twins were talking inside the stable. They must be grooming the chestnuts.

Apart from a trifling difference in colouring, Rupert and Robert might as well have been one person. They shared a chamber, and they rode two matched steeds who were twins like themselves. Robert, who was a few minutes younger, was a little kinder and more patient, but their voices were so alike it was difficult to tell which one was speaking unless one could see them.

Guy tossed up options in his mind. He might give out gingerbread to the horses who were present, then go into the stable, or he might go and feed the chestnuts first. That was the better notion because he wouldn’t then have to guard their portions from Lis.

He walked around the stable towards the door and, as he’d expected, found his brothers brushing Timpani and Barleycorn. Glory was with them, perched on a round of hay, wagging her tail and turning her head from side to side to watch whoever was speaking.

“Remember when Timpani and Barleycorn first came here?” one of the twins said.

“And Papa said we had to figure out which of them was for which of us,” the other responded.

“And it seemed such a big task.”

“We thought we had to choose the right one.”

“But they looked just alike.”

“They still do, except the whorl on Barley’s neck goes widdershins.”

“And Timpani’s goes the clock way.”

“Why is that? Our hair doesn’t do that.”

The twins lifted their right hands in unison and both managed to hit themselves on the head with the brushes they were using on their mounts.

“Ow,” they said together.

Guy drew breath to enquire if they wanted to hand out the treats, but they were off again, brushing loose hair from the chestnuts’ coats.

“Then Aunt Zerenity said there was no right one for either of us. We could pick whichever we wanted…”

“And we just said, that one and it was done.”

“Lucky we didn’t—”

“—both point to the same one.”

The twins rambled on.

“It wouldn’t have mattered. We could have shared.”

“We shared Lis.”

“I wonder if she’s ever carried two before.”

“Bound to have.”

“In all that time.”

“She’d probably had more riders than—”

“—Aunt Zerenity has had hot dinners.”

They laughed, not, Guy surmised, because it was really funny, but because it was something Aunt Zerenity often said.

Aunt Zerenity lived in the ash-key wing of the manor, next door to their own family. Uncle Guilbert, who had been their maman’s great-uncle, had gone to glory the year before and their daughter Mantilla had gone away long before that, to marry a gentleman in Norlands. 

Now Aunt Zerenity lived alone, but she wasn’t lonely. The Tanquerays loved her and visited a lot.

“Do you remember when we climbed the chairs?”

“Of course. Do you remember the bird in the ballroom?’

“If it hadn’t flown in—”

“—and if Glory hadn’t barked—”

“—and if Aunt Zerenity hadn’t chased it—”

“—and if Guy hadn’t wailed—”

“—we might not—”

“—ever have seen—”

“—it.”

The twins banged their brushes against the stall partition in unison.

Guy took advantage of the pause in their conversation to say, “What are you talking about?”

The twins, and Glory, turned to look at him, wide-eyed.

“Yes?” Rupert said briskly in a way that was almost, but not quite, sharp.

“No, what are you talking about? What did you see? Why was I wailing? I don’t remember.”

There was a small pause, then Robert said, “Just something we remembered from when you were a little lad.”

“I know that,” Guy said impatiently. “But what?”

They went on looking at him. Then Glory got off the hay and ran to him, wagging madly and snuffing the air with her crooked snout.