Hunting was not something that came naturally to Ophelia. She had been raised among all sorts of animals, both magical and mundane, but that had been entirely different. Growing up on a farm, they'd had a small range of animals that had been tended by the hired help. Their father's profession as a magizoologist had garnered a small crowd of more unusual things — a pair of nifflers that had snuck home in his suitcase from a trip abroad, an injured leucrottas that he had nursed back to health, a pond full of ramora that he was breeding with the intent to release into their native sea to bolster the surviving population, that sort of thing. Her father had never balked at getting his hands dirty, and Ophelia admired him enough that she would have done anything for their animals under his guidance. Only twice in her childhood had they ever killed any of their animals, though — once to put an injured animal out of its misery, and once when they'd accidentally hatched a basilisk that had killed two thirds of their chicken coop before they'd realized the snake egg had been slipped into one of the nesting boxes.

Killing for sport was something only the wealthy did, and Ophelia hadn't been a member of the upper crust of society long enough to have grown up around it. It hadn't been something Armando had ever indulged in, either, since he was too frail to find an afternoon riding a horse over rocky terrain desireable. She was determined to try it, because this was the sort of thing that rich wives did — and she was determined to be good at it, because Mr. Devine's parents were here, and she wanted to impress them. Determination, however, didn't seem to be enough to give her the skill set she needed. It didn't help that her horse was fighting her every step of the way. She'd ridden horses before, but not in several years — not since the death of her father had shuffled her off to Armando's house in London — and this horse, for whatever reason, didn't seem to like her.

Honey-sweet though the other woman's tone might have been, Ophelia knew immediately what she was really saying. Putting on a fake but glowing smile, she replied in the same pleasant way, "How kind of you to offer, Miss Nott. My horse stumbled at the last moment. I don't expect it to be a problem again."

Her horse hadn't stumbled at all, but that sounded like a reasonable excuse. Besides, the way this mare was acting, it might very well have stumbled just as she took aim, out of pure spite.