The Scorpio Races (35 page)

“Your aunt is a strong woman,” George Holly says to me.

“Dory Maud?”

“That’s the one.”

If Dory Maud has told him we’re related, I might take up spitting again. “She’s not my aunt.”

He is graciously apologetic. “Oh, I’m sorry. You seemed so familiar with her. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“Everyone on Thisby is familiar,” I reply. “Stay here for a month and she’ll be your aunt as well.”

This makes Finn smile at the floor.

“My,” says George Holly. “What a laden promise that is.”

We move forward in line. Finn’s head is going back and forth like an owl’s from tray to tray as he weighs the merits of the different possibilities.

“Mr. Kendrick tells me that your pony has quite a set of legs on her,” Holly says conversationally. I hear someone behind the counter say
bright red hat.

“Horse.”

“Hmm?”

“She’s fifteen-two hands. Horse. He said that?”

“Oh, excuse me, madam,” Holly says. This is because Mary Finch has just squeezed between him and a shelf to get to the window, and her hand went somewhere untoward on his person, a most fortunate accident on her part. Holly moves toward the counter and gathers his dignity back up to himself before he turns back to me. “Word on the beach is he said that if your pony — horse — goes straight while the
capaill uisce
go right, you might get somewhere.”

I wonder if Sean really believes this. I wonder if I really believe that. I must, or else why am I doing this? “I reckon that’s the plan. If we’re being familiar, how well is it you know Sean Kendrick?”

Mary Finch squeezes back by George Holly and his eyes go round for a moment as he receives some more Skarmouth hospitality. I try not to laugh.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh. Well, I was here to look at Malvern horses and we met. He’s a strange old bird, which is to say that I like him quite a bit.”

Finn taps on the counter to draw Holly’s attention to the cakes they’ve just set out under the glass. For a brief moment, their faces wear the same boyish, wistful longing, longing that’s not tempered by the knowledge that the line until they get to the cakes is only six feet long.

“In the interests of familiarity,” Holly says, “how well do
you
know him?”

My cheeks redden, which infuriates me. Curse this ginger hair and everything that comes with it. My father said once that if I didn’t have my mother’s ginger hair, I wouldn’t blush or curse as easily. Which I thought was unfair. I hardly ever curse or blush, even though I’ve had plenty of days that required both. I’m a quite level person, I think, given the circumstances.

Finn’s eyeballing me, too curious about the answer to Holly’s question. I say, “A little. We’re friendly.”

“Like you and your aunt?” Holly asks. When I scowl at him, he suggests, “Like cousins? Like siblings?”

“I don’t know him as well as Mary Finch knows you,” I tell him. When he looks perplexed, I make a little pinching motion and he winces as if his underparts feel her attentions once more.

“Fair enough,” Holly says.

We stand at the counter and Bev Palsson swaps money for cakes. Finn buys an obscene number of cinnamon twists with Dory Maud’s money. Once we actually have them in our hands and stand outside the door where Dove is tied, Finn makes George Holly unwrap one of the cakes so that Finn can observe his reaction. Holly takes a bite, honey slipping over his lip, and closes his eyes in pleasure so pronounced that it’s hard to tell if it’s exaggerated for Finn’s benefit.

“I’m told,” Holly says, “that food tastes better in your memories. I don’t see how I can improve on this in a memory.”

Finn is pleased by this. It’s as if he made them himself. I see something bittersweet in Holly’s expression, though; I think, possibly, that this island has begun to get its hooks into him, and this makes me like him even more. Anyone Thisby chooses to seduce can’t be half-bad.

Holly asks, “Finn, would you be so kind as to ask them for another bag so we can separate these into two parcels? And if I give you this, would you fetch me another twist to take back to my room? Get another one for yourself, too, so your other hand doesn’t feel empty.”

Once Finn is dispatched, Holly says, “Puck, I’m stepping so badly over the line here that I might never return. But there’s quite a few people who don’t care to have you on the beach. I’m not sure if you’ve heard.”

I think of Peg Gratton telling me not to let anyone else tighten my girth. I lose my appetite for my sticky breakfast. “I’ve an inkling.”

There’s genuine worry on George Holly’s face. “You’re the first, aren’t you? The first woman?”

It’s strange to be called a woman, but I nod.

“It just sounds quite bad down there,” he says. “I wouldn’t say anything if I didn’t think it seemed dangerous.”

How quickly George Holly’s become one of us — that I should be riding in a race against a few dozen
capaill uisce
and he thinks it’s the men I should be worried about.

“I know not to trust anyone,” I say. “Except …”

Holly studies my face. “You do fancy him, don’t you? What a strange, wonderful, repressed place this is.”

I glare at him, relieved that I seem to be out of blushes, or perhaps I’m still blushing and can’t get any redder. “I’m not the one letting myself be played by three sisters with four and a half eyes between them.”

Holly laughs delightedly. “Very true.”

Dove strives for my November cake and I push her away with my elbow. “Annie’s all right,” I say. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

“I do.”

“I reckon she finds you agreeable, too,” I say. I glance at him sideways with a sly smile. “Since she can’t see any farther than her arm. I wouldn’t count on her baking you any of these cakes, though. There’s a reason Palsson’s is full of women. Thisby women are lazy.”

“Lazy as you?”

“Just about.”

“I think I could bear that.” He glances up; Finn has just broached the door of Palsson’s, bearing two bags, and he approaches us looking cheerful. Holly says to me, “I sure do wish you the best of luck, Miss Connolly. And I hope you won’t wait for Sean Kendrick to realize that he’s lonely.”

I want to ask him,
Wait for what?
but Finn’s come up then and it’s not a question I want to ask in front of one of my brothers.

So we merely exchange pleasantries, and Holly goes on his way to watch the training on the beach, I go my way to get Dove to the cliff top, and Finn gets ready to go back to Dory Maud’s to do odd jobs.

“Did you hear his accent?” Finn asks.

“I wasn’t born deaf.”

“If I were Gabe, I’d go to America instead of the mainland.”

This statement ruins any good mood I had germinating in my soul. “If you were Gabe, I’d slap you.”

Finn is unperturbed. He gives Dove’s rump a friendly pat before starting away.

“Hey.”
I stop him and remove another two cakes from the bag. “Now go.”

He trots gleefully off, so easily pleased by the arrival of food. I balance my cakes in one hand and take Dove’s reins with the other, leading her toward the cliffs. I think about George Holly’s comment about food tasting better in memories. It strikes me as a strange, luxurious statement. It assumes you’ll have not only that moment when you take the first bite but then enough moments in front of it for that mouthful to become a memory. My future’s not that certain that I can afford to wonder what will become of the taste later. And in any case, the November cake tastes plenty sweet to me now.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

SEAN

I’m already waiting when Puck gets to the top of the cliffs. I’m not the only one; about two dozen race tourists have made perches out of rocks, watching Corr and me as closely as they dare. Puck glares at them all, searing enough that some of them flinch in surprise. I’m not certain what to expect from her after last night. I don’t know how to address her. I don’t know what she expects from me or what I expect from me.

What I get is a wordless hello and a November cake in my hand. We each silently eat one under the attentive audience of the tourists and then scrub our sticky palms on the grass.

Puck grimaces at the onlookers. “Dove is timid around the water horses.”

“As she should be.”

She turns her ferocious expression on me. “Well, it won’t do for the race now, will it?”

I turn my attention to her dun mare. She’s very aware of Corr’s presence, but she doesn’t look fearful.

“She doesn’t have to love them,” I say. “A little respect will give her some speed. As long as you aren’t afraid that she’s afraid.”

I can see Puck working it out, getting her mind in the right place. Her eyes are narrowed as she studies Corr, and I wonder if she’s remembering our ride on the cliff tops.

“Myself I can trust,” she says. She looks at me as if it’s a question, but if it is, it’s one only she can answer.

“Ready to work?” I ask her.

We work.

Corr’s not at all tired from the gallop the night before, and Puck’s horse is fresh and hot in the wind. We circle and tag, gallop and skirmish. I pull ahead until Corr is distracted and then Puck is suddenly beside us, her dun mare’s ears pricked and clever. We match stride for stride, not racing, just running for the sake of it.

I forget that I am working, forget that the race is only days away, forget that she is on an island pony and I am on a
capall uisce.
There’s just the air past my ears and the slender moon of her fleeting smile in my direction and the familiar weight of Corr in my hands.

Then it is an hour gone by without me noticing and I have to pull Corr up. I don’t want to overwork him. Puck brings Dove to a halt, too. For a moment, I see that she’s about to say something; her tongue presses against her teeth. But in the end, all she says is my own words back to me. “I’ll see you on the cliffs tomorrow?”

PUCK

Sean’s there the next day, and the next day, and the next. I think that I won’t see him on Sunday, because I’ve never seen him in St. Columba’s and I don’t know where he would go if he’s not there. But after Mass I walk to the cliff top and there Sean is, his eyes already trained down onto the beach.

We watch the training below, exchanging only a few words, and the next day, we return on horseback. Sometimes we skirmish together, sometimes we ride dozens of lengths apart, just within sight of each other. I think every now and then about Sean’s thumb pressed against my wrist and daydream about him touching me again. But mostly I think about the way he looks at me — with respect — and I think that’s probably worth more than anything.

The only thing is, the more I see him and Corr together, the more I think of how unbearable it would be for Sean to lose him.

But we can’t both win.

SEAN

For a week we ride together, until it’s hard to remember my daily routine of going to the beach. I miss the lonely early mornings on the sand, but not enough to trade them for Puck’s company. Some days we barely speak at all, so I’m not certain why it makes a difference to me. But then, Corr and I have never needed words, either.

So it’s just hours of riding Corr slowly, building up what is already there, and hours of watching Puck invent new games for Dove to keep her interested in the work. Already Dove’s hay belly has disappeared, either through regular schooling or through better feed. Puck’s changing, too — she has a stillness about her when she rides now. More certainty and less self-conscious petulance. The transformation from the horse and rider I first saw in the surf weeks ago is startling. I no longer question why I’m training alongside her.

I’m not sure the exact moment when I realize that Corr is actually trying, not hard, but he is trying, and Dove keeps stride beside us. Even after an hour of schooling. Even beside a
capall uisce.

I pull Corr up. He trips with purposeful clumsiness, showing off for the mare, and I wiggle his reins to remind him that I’m here. It takes Puck a moment to realize I’ve stopped. She doubles back. Dove’s sides heave and her nostrils flare, but her ears are still pricked and game.

I say, “You might pull this off.”

Puck’s face is half frown, half smile. She didn’t hear me. I repeat myself. I see the moment when she understands what I said, and her smile vanishes.

“I don’t know if you’re being serious,” she says.

“I’m being serious. Tomorrow you should take her down to the beach to make sure you can still handle her with all the others. To get used to it.”

Now the frown really has taken over. “Two days isn’t very long for her to get used to that.”

“It’s not for her. It’s for you. And it’s one day, not two,” I remind her. Corr dances, and I still him with my legs. “Last day the beach’s off-limits to horses. Tomorrow’s the last day on the sand.”

Dove scratches her belly with a back hoof, like a dog. She looks like less than a sure bet when she does this, and Puck must know it, because she looks annoyed and taps her boot into Dove’s side to make her stop. “You aren’t just saying that because I gave you a cake, are you?”

“No, it’s been in the rules for as long as I’ve been racing.”

She studies my expression to see if I’m serious and then makes a face. “I meant about us standing a chance.”

Corr bends around my leg, restless and losing interest in the idea of standing still. It reminds me that I need to swap his stall with Edana’s. Since she hasn’t been worked on the beach, Edana has been getting more and more restless in her window-less stall in the back seven stalls of the stable. Corr’s view isn’t much, but it might keep her settled until after the races when I have time for her again.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

“I mean really have a chance.” She looks away from me then, as if she thinks the idea we’re both competing for first might offend me.

“There’s a bit of money for second and third,” I say. She fumbles her fingers through a knot in Dove’s mane. “Would that be enough?”