The Scorpio Races (36 page)

Puck’s voice is faint. “It would help.” Then her tone changes abruptly. “You should come to dinner with us. It’ll be beans or something else absolutely lovely.”

I hesitate. My dinner is usually taken in my flat, standing up, the door hanging open, the stable waiting for me to go back out to the rest of my work. Not with my legs tucked under a table, trying to find words and answers to polite questions. Dinner with Puck and her brothers? It’s mere days until the race. I have to clean my saddle and my boots. I need to wash my breeches and find my gloves in case it is rainy or the wind is brittle. I need to swap Corr and Edana and clean their stalls. I should go to the butcher’s again to see if they have anything that would do Corr good.

“It’s okay,” Puck says. She has a quick way of hiding her disappointment. If you’re not looking for it, she’s put it away somewhere before you know it was there. “You’re busy.”

“No,” I tell her. “No, I’ll — think about it. I’m not sure if I can get away.” I don’t know what I’m thinking. I cannot find the time to get away. I’m not a good dinner companion. But it’s hard to think of that. Instead I’m wishing that I’d spoken sooner, before I’d seen her disappointment.

Puck rallies with the best of them. “If not, I’ll see you on the beach tomorrow?”

This I’m certain of. On horseback, it’s easy to be certain. “Yes.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

PUCK

Gabe brings home a chicken and Tommy Falk for dinner. Truth be told, I’m not unhappy to see any of them: Gabe, because it’s been so long since we’ve had dinner with him; the chicken, because it’s not beans; and Tommy Falk, because his presence makes Gabe cheerful and goofy. They toss the plucked chicken back and forth over my head until it loses its wrapping and I shout at them as I pick it up off the floor.

“If we all die of plague or whatever is on this floor, I want you to know it’s not my fault,” I say. There’s a bit of silt stuck to the dimpled skin of the chicken’s back.

“Just scrub it off. A little dirt never hurt anybody,” Tommy Falk says. “Gabe says you make a mean chicken.”

Finn, who is sitting by the fireplace making smoke, comments for the first time. “Well, she certainly doesn’t make a nice one.”

“You can shut up or make it yourself.” It turns out that the dirt on the chicken is the least of my worries. My hands are filthy. It takes me quite a long time to make my hands clean, and even once they’re mostly pale again, they still smell suspiciously like both Dove and Corr.

Gabe crouches over the radio, trying to get it to pick up one of the mainland music stations, which only works when the weather is just right and the appropriate slain sacrifices have been made. In the absence of radio entertainment, Tommy Falk sings a bit of a song that he caught on the radio before the storm. The house feels full for the first time in months.

“Bands, Gabe,” Tommy says. He’s settled next to Finn, helping him turn the smoke into fire. He stretches out to take my father’s concertina where it had been abandoned near the armchair. He plays the same tune he just sang; it sounds more mournful on the concertina. “Can you imagine it? Concerts.”

He’s talking about the mainland, of course. Because it’s not just the race that is days away.

“And the cars,” adds Gabe. “And oranges every day.”

“Also,” says Tommy, “bands.”

Finn studies the fire.

I study the chicken.

“Don’t be down,” Tommy says, leaping up when he sees my expression. “It’s not like we won’t come back. We’ll send money, too. Haven’t you seen Esther Quinn’s clothing, Puck? Her brother’s on the mainland selling something to somebody and he sends home money — that’s why she looks like she was bought from a catalog. When’s a good visit, Gabe? Easter, maybe? Easter’s a good time to come back. We’ll throw more chickens.”

Gabe takes the concertina from Tommy and slides out a tune; I’d forgotten how well he could play. Tommy grabs my waist and swings me around in a circle. I drag my feet because I am opposed to people touching me when I’m not expecting it. Also because it will take more than dancing to cheer me up. Tommy says, “Come now, you can move faster than that! Everyone says you were a spitfire on the cliffs this morning.”

I let him spin me at that. “They do?”

“They’re saying that you and Sean Kendrick were burning up the cliffs.” Tommy spins me again and grins at me. “And when I say you and Sean Kendrick, I mean
you and Sean Kendrick.
And by burning, I mean
burning
.”

I jerk to a stop and spin him instead. I pretend he’s talking about racing. “You worried?”

“It’s Gabe who should be worried,” Tommy says. He takes my hands and swings me wide enough that I worry for the objects on the counter. “Because his baby sister’s growing up so fine.”

Mum said that I shouldn’t be moved to do anything by someone with sweet words, but Tommy Falk doesn’t seem to be trying to persuade me of anything, so I let his compliment slip down nice and easy. It’s quite agreeable and I’d be happy enough with another.

Gabe stops playing mid-measure, his hands around the concertina spread as if he holds a book open. “Don’t make me punch you in the mouth, Tommy. When’s that chicken going to be done, Kate?”

Tommy mouths,
Oooooh, Kate
to me, but Gabe refuses to rise to the bait.

“Twenty minutes,” I say. “Maybe thirty. Maybe ten.” There’s a tap on the door then. We all exchange looks, Tommy Falk’s as uncertain as the rest of ours. No one moves, so I finally wipe my hands off on my pants, go to the door, and open it a crack.

Sean stands on the other side, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a loaf of bread.

I wasn’t prepared for it to be Sean, and so my stomach does a neat little trick that feels like either hunger or escaping. There is something very shocking about seeing him standing dark and still on our doorstep.

I lean out the door a ways. The night’s getting chilly. “You got away from the yard.”

“Is it still all right?”

“It’s all right. It’s me and Gabe and Finn and Tommy Falk.”

“I’ve brought this.” He holds up the bread, which is clearly a Palsson’s loaf, and it’s still so fresh that I can smell the warmth of it. He must’ve come straight from there. “Is that what’s done?”

“Well, you’ve done it, so it must be.”

Gabe asks, “Puck, who is it?”

I open the door wide to reveal the answer. They all look at Sean standing there with his hand in his pocket and the other hand around a loaf of bread and it occurs to me all in a rush as they stare at him that Sean looks a little, just a little, like he’s courting. I don’t have time to explain the truth of it before Tommy laughs and jumps to his feet. “Sean Kendrick, the devil. How are you?”

We fold him into the house and Gabe shuts the door because I forget to in my sudden glee. Gabe tries to separate Sean from his jacket while Tommy says something about the weather, and it’s quite loud for no reason at all, because it’s only Gabe and Tommy and sometimes Finn speaking. Sean, as always, manages to get by on one word where everyone else needs five or six. In the middle of all this, as Sean slips out of his jacket, he looks over his shoulder at me and he smiles at me, just a glancing, faint thing before he turns back to Tommy.

I’m quite happy for the smile, because Dad told me once you should be grateful for the gifts that are the rarest.

After a few minutes, Tommy and Gabe begin to play cards in front of the fire because there’s no one to tell them not to.

Finn just watches because he hasn’t decided whether or not it’s a sin. Sean joins me by the counter, standing close enough that I can smell hay and salt water and dust on him.

“Give me something to do,” he says.

I put a knife in his hand. “Cut something. Your bread.”

He begins to cut it with single-minded devotion. In a low voice, he says, “I saw Ian Privett after you’d gone. He took Penda out after the rest were gone and ran him hard. He was fast before and he’s fast again. One to watch.”

“I heard that he likes to come up fast from the outside at the end.”

Sean glances at me, an eyebrow raised. “True enough. Privett lost him four years ago when he fell in the races. He beat me twice on him before that.”

“He won’t beat you this year,” I say.

Sean doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to; I know he’s thinking about losing Corr. I stir the chicken. It’s done, but I don’t want to have to sit at the table yet.

After a pause, he says, “I was thinking. No one will want the inside, since the sea will be bad on the first of the month.”

“So I should hug the sea because Dove won’t care.”

Sean’s done slicing the bread, too, but he rearranges the pieces as if he still works at it.

I say, “I was thinking, too, that I should hang back. Save Dove for the end.”

“And maybe the pack will have thinned?” Sean considers. “I wouldn’t wait too long or hang too far back. She’s not strong enough to come up from too far back.”

“I want to steer clear of the piebald, and she’ll be at the front,” I say. “I’ve seen the way Mutt rides her.”

Sean narrows his eyes; I can tell he’s pleased that I’ve noticed, and I’m pleased that he’s pleased.

“Blackwell’s the other one,” Sean says. “He’s the one whose stallion tried to take you down, but he got a replacement horse. This new one’s a fast bitch.” He says it without malice.

Of course, there’s one horse that I know will be a contender. But I’ve never seen him in a real race and I’ve never seen his rider give me the slightest hint of how he likes to pace himself.

“Where will you and Corr be?” I ask.

Sean presses two fingers along the edge of the counter, sweeping crumbs into a pile. I notice that his fingers are permanently dirt-stained like mine. He says, “Right next to you and Dove.”

I stare at him. “You can’t risk not winning. Not because of me.”

Sean doesn’t lift his eyes from the counter. “We make our move when you make yours. You on the inside, me on the outside. Corr can come from the middle of the pack; he’s done it before. It’s one side you won’t have to worry about.”

I say, “I will not be your weakness, Sean Kendrick.”

Now he looks at me. He says, very softly, “It’s late for that, Puck.”

He leaves me standing at the counter looking into the sink, trying to remember what I was supposed to do next.

“Puck,” snaps Gabe. “Your soup!”

The dumplings are boiling over and for a moment it appears that we may have flames for dinner, but I manage to snatch the pot and get the heat off.

The boys all hover around the table now that the presence of food seems imminent. Tommy says, “You’re right, Gabe, she does make a mean chicken. Tried to bite her.”

“Ah, but Puck bites back,” Gabe says.

Finn begins to dole the dumplings out into bowls while I swipe up the spill. Tommy chatters on about how his
uisce
mare lets herself get pushed around by the other horses but perks up when she sees their asses. Gabe gives everyone a glass of water whether or not they asked for it. And all the while I try very hard to keep my eyes from darting to Sean because I’m quite certain that no one at the table will be able to miss how I look at him and how I find him looking back.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

SEAN

I wake to the sound of crying. I got back too late; it took sleep too long to come to me. For a moment, I just lie there. Exhaustion makes me unwilling to fully wake, and yet: the crying.

The sound resolves itself into an agonized keening, and I am awake. I am awake and I have my jacket and my boots and I am in the stairwell with my flashlight.

The stable is dark, but I hear the sounds of movement, not from the aisles, but from the stalls. The horses are awake. Either the sound has woken them, or someone has been here. I keep my flashlight switched off and make my way in the dark.

The moaning grows louder as I creep down to the main floor. It’s coming from Corr’s old stall, the one I just put Edana in.

I slide down the aisle as quickly as silence allows. The crying has gone silent but I’m certain now that it’s Edana. In the darkness, I can barely see inside the stall. The night outside throws some dark blue light in, just enough for me to press myself against the bars and look in.

When she keens again, I start back. She’s right by my face.

Her head lies against the bars, neck pressed against the wall, nose pointed toward the ceiling, jaw cracked open.

I whisper her name and she cries back to me softly. My eyes follow the line of her neck to her sloping withers and the slanting line her hips make low to the ground. I’ve never seen a horse stand like this. There’s a sick knot inside me as I pull open the door and step into the stall. Now, her body silhouetted against the light of the window, I see that she leans against the wall with her head and neck, sunk down onto her haunches like a dog. Her back legs splay out as if the ground is slippery.

I touch her shoulder; it’s trembling. I have a terrible feeling rising inside me. I run the flat of my hand from her withers down her spine, and then, crouching to keep searching, around the curve of her twitching haunches, and down toward her hamstring. Edana whimpers.

My hand comes away soaked. I lift it toward my eyes, but I don’t need it any closer to smell the blood on it. I snatch my flashlight from my pocket and flick it on.

Both of her hamstrings have been sliced.

The top edge of the wound curves up like a ghastly smile, and blood pools around her hocks.

I go to her head and she struggles, trying to get her legs under her. I stroke her forelock and whisper in her ear.
Be still. Don’t be afraid.
I wait for her breathing to become easier, for her to believe me.

She’ll never walk again.

I can’t understand it. I don’t understand who would mutilate Edana, a horse that wasn’t in the races, a horse that was no threat to anyone. And like this, this savage cruelty — I was meant to find her and be sickened. I can think of only one person who would want to hurt me like that.