The woman stalked into the horse market, head held high, with her silky, blonde hair pulled back into a bun so tight you'd be sure it should hurt. She narrowed her eyes, flecks of uncaring emerald roaming the hall as she tried to hide a sneer at most of the selection on offer. There were many breeds up for grabs, but Mrs Asimov wasn't interested in any old horse. Not the Swedish Warmblood, nor the Hanoverian, not even a beautiful Lusitano. No, she had her mind set on a Loshenka and followed t...