There was a subdued clatter of hooves on stone, and then the horses whickering to each other in greeting. The room was dark; she had fallen asleep. Shaking her head to clear it, Laara forced herself to her feet and went over to the door. It only belatedly occurred to her that it was open, and that there was already the scant, flickering light of a candle at the lean-to. The little wench was holding it–nightgowned, bare-headed, and, of course, barefooted–and awake well after midnight. Laara could hear her voice, thin and piping, indistinct with the mingled blur of sleepiness and distance.
Then Jonathan’s voice, stronger and more familiar. “Huckleberry does not care if he sees you or not. He is a horse.”