Chapter 3

Cellie was struggling to stay awake, her eyelids heavy as they flirted with sleep. Subtle traces of attention kept her somewhat-tethered to the classroom, where the monotonous whiteboard seemed an unyielding adversary in her fight against slumber. As the lure of drowsiness grew, a rebellious droplet of saliva dared to escape her mouth, which she briskly wiped away in defiance.

The room was filled with the ceaseless murmur of Professor Finnegan's voice - a tone so devoid of variation it could make the thrilling seem dull. Then suddenly...

"Miss Garcia!"

Her name, sharply cut through the air by the professor's stern call, acted as an impromptu alarm, shaking Cellie to alertness. "Nani?" she blurted out, confusion clouding her half-awake mind.

Professor Finnegan's gaze was fixed upon Cellie at her chosen spot by the window - a place she liked not only for its view but also because it allowed playful glimpses of the football team below.

"Miss Garcia, is there a problem?" The question hung heavily in the air.

With cloudy thoughts, Cellie responded lamely, "No?"

The atmosphere tensed; dozens of curious eyes now upon her. A tactful cough echoed from behind; it was Diana Hitchens offering a silent critique with her fist covering a smirk. How peculiar that they were course mates and yet strangers - considering Diana's lineage of esteemed Veterinarians.

Professor Finnegan's patience seemed to be hanging by a thread as he posed his next question, "Does Hippotherapy fail to capture your interest?"

Cellie hesitated before pondering aloud whether his inquiry needed an answer at all. The mood lightened momentarily with subdued laughter and muffled chuckles punctuating the tension throughout the lecture hall.

In response to her impudence, Professor Finnegan issued a demand for a post-lecture meeting before continuing on his academic monologue about equines and healing – content that should have invigorated Cellie but somehow failed against her weary disposition.

Across the room, whispers of disapproval intertwined with subtle encouragement; Amanda offered an approving thumbs-up backdropped by nods and grins.

Resigned to her inevitable fate, Cellie let out a deep sigh and rested her forehead against the barren page - still untouched by academic reflection. Inwardly she scolded herself for not guarding her unfiltered thoughts more carefully, though part of her couldn't help but hope that such confrontations could've been postponed to a more distant 'later'.

Cellie was toiling away at the muck-laden task assigned by Finnegan. The heat of her labor was evident as a rivulet of sweat traced a path down her temple, each heavy load of manure adding to the already mountainous heap destined for disposal behind the stable. The assignment had been daunting, not merely in its nature but also in its timing: a thorough clean-up of every stall, at the crack of dawn on a weekend, an hour so ungodly that it felt like an act of cruelty.

And still, she had only conquered half of one barn.

Exhaling a sigh laced with frustration, she maneuvered the wheelbarrow back into the barn, cringing as fresh blisters formed on tender palms. The pangs of hunger echoed within her, spurring her on towards completion and the promise of food in the cafeteria before it vanished.

Approaching the next stall brought her to a sudden halt; 'BEATRIX' was inscribed upon a glossy golden plaque above, owned by DIANA HITCHENS and sired by BALOU DU ROUET. She observed Beatrix through the bars—a magnificent bay mare adorned with dappled beauty and entangled shavings in her dark mane and tail. She recognized the emblem branded onto the horse's hindquarters—a prestigious symbol that also adorned her hero's steed from Chariot du Nord.

"Ah, Hanoverian," she whispered underneath her breath.

"That's right," came a gentle confirmation from behind. Startled, Cellie released her grip on the pitchfork, which clanged against the floor causing Beatrix to shuffle nervously. Spinning around, Cellie found herself unexpectedly in the elegant presence of Diana Hitchens. Stealthy as a shadow, Diana had entered unnoticed—surely she had some secret ninja skills—with her tumbler shining in hand and attired flawlessly for riding: navy breeches clasped with brown grips, brown paddock boots complemented by a crisp white shirt under a soft gray vest. Her blonde waves were collected into an understated ponytail; she embodied equestrian sophistication straight from a Dover catalog.

"Uh, hey," stammered Cellie, acutely aware of her own disheveled appearance marked by stained shorts and tattered shirt against Diana's immaculate figure. "Sorry, I haven't gotten to hers yet."

Diana's impassive gaze swept over Cellie—was there a flash of assessment? It seemed likely—as she redirected her focus to the eager mare poking her head over the stall door. The blonde moved closer, extending a gloved hand to caress the horse's neatly trimmed muzzle. "No need," she murmured.

Caught off guard, Cellie stepped backward to grasp the forgotten pitchfork from the ground. "Huh?"

Diana shot her a quick glance, a single eyebrow arched in an eloquent gesture. "I've got her stall covered," she declared, deftly manipulating the latch and slipping into the enclosure with the mare. "You're Cellie, aren't you?"

"Um—yes," stammered Cellie, sensing heat suffuse her face. "Cell's fine. And you're Diana?"

With an affirmative hum, Diana traced the irregular line of white marking the mare's face with her fingers. "If I may offer some advice?"

Cellie watched through the stall bars, perplexed. "Sure."

"In Professor Finnegan's lectures, you might want to show some extra courtesy."

Without glancing back, Diana spared Cellie any further embarrassment as redness engulfed her features. Cellie's gaze lingered as Diana crouched to examine one of Beatrix's hooves with professional interest.

"Oh, um, sure," uttered Cellie, hovering awkwardly longer than necessary before realization dawned that Diana had no more to impart. "Alright. Thank you," she said feebly before abruptly wheeling away with her barrow toward another task.

As she went about sterilizing the stalls, muted conversations trickled in from next door; for a moment Cellie mistook them as being directed at her until it became apparent that they were meant for Beatrix alone. Talking to horses wasn't unusual—after all, Cellie often held one-sided chats with Chariot—but that didn't detract from their importance.

However, lingering on Diana's melodic voice unintentionally slowed Cellie's pace. An irrational hope flickered inside her—that maybe Diana would initiate an exchange beyond horse care—but that hope faded swiftly with the creaking swing of Beatrix's stall door and the receding sound of hoofbeats down the aisle. Why entertain such a notion when it was clear Diana had no interest in conversing with her?

With that realization settling in like a weight, Cellie exhaled deeply and refocused on her chores.