"No, let go."  Imogen wrestled the feed bills out of Patrick's chubby hand and fixed him with her sternest look.  "These are Mama's papers.  Not toys."

He reached for her cream-colored braid instead, and it began to unravel under his touch. Only a moment before, he'd been contentedly stacking wooden blocks in the corner of her office.  Now they lay strewn across the rug.  Imogen set the bills on the far side of her desk, picked Patrick up, and carried him in the direction of the kitchen.  "Let's go see Miss Mary, all right?"

As she walked along the farmhouse's white-painted hallway, Patrick tugged at the sleeve of her cambric blouse.  "Where Papa?"

"Papa's out with the horses," Imogen said, trying to untangle his chestnut hair with her free hand.  "If you're good for Miss Mary, I'll take you out there after your nap."

Patrick wrinkled his nose, much as she'd expected him to.  "Papa, now!"

"Later," she said firmly, "after your nap."  Her husband Guaire served as the trainer for the farm's racing stables, something for which he was eminently suited--as he'd been a racehorse for nearly a decade before arriving at Hawk's Folly Farm.  A puca, one of the Lesser Folk, he had the ability to take on horse form.  A family out of Ireland had kept him bound in horse form, racing on iron-shod feet.  It was a painful thing for anyone with fairy blood to contemplate.  Iron burned.

But Fate had, Guaire maintained, brought him to the perfect place in the end.  Hawk's Folly had a history of collecting unusual people.

Imogen swung open the door to the kitchen, a cheery room that always smelled of bread, cakes, and soap.  She found Mary there, reviewing a menu with the cook.  "Mary, I hate to ask, but can you keep track of him for a bit, just until I can get the checks written out?"

Mary Sanders came around the table with a broad smile.  The fresh-faced girl actually enjoyed wrangling a difficult two-year-old, partially a preparation for dealing with her own child, due in a month or so.  She tucked a dark strand of hair behind one ear, then lifted the toddler from Imogen's arms and carried him off down the hallway.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Dougherty," Imogen said while she braided her hair once more.  "I'm simply not getting any work done.  I need to find another nursemaid, and soon."

The cook laughed.  "One that will stay more than a week?  Good luck, missus.  That boy is a terror."

And they all knew it.  Patrick had a gift of unbinding—not a surprise when both of his parents did as well.  It was part of his puca heritage.  Things came apart under his touch, and unfortunately he hadn't yet learned to be judicious about the things he unbound.  He broke things, undid them, split them, and unraveled them.  Fortunately, his gift didn't affect living things, so Imogen had no worry that he would hurt Mary or the baby.