The Scorpio Races

the satisfaction of that possibility, of taking the money I’ve saved and leaving the Malverns and everything they own behind.

Corr makes a night noise – a barely audible, descending wail. It’s the sound of a scream underwater. But from Corr, it’s a homing beacon. A confirmation that waits for an answer.

I cluck my tongue, once, and he immediately falls quiet. Neither of us moves toward the other, but we both ease our weight off one foot at the same time. I sigh, and he sighs as well.

I can’t go without Corr.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PUCK

Based upon my experience on the beach the day before, I form a new plan. Brave high tide, with its possibility of water horses swimming up from the ocean, instead of riding later, at low tide, with its certainty of water horses menacing me on the beach. So I set my alarm clock for five o’clock and saddle Dove before she’s properly awake.

Gabe is already gone. I’m not even sure if he came home. I’m a little glad for the treacherous dark slope, because it doesn’t let my thoughts linger on what his absence means for us.

Once we’ve gotten to the base of the cliffs, I have to move slowly, trying not to lead Dove into any of the boulders that scatter above the high waterline. What little light there is reflects off Dove’s breath, turning it white and solid. It’s so dark that I can hear the sea better than I can see it. Shhhhh, shhhhhh, it says, like I’m a fretful child and it’s my mother, though if the sea were my mother, I’d rather have been an orphan.

Dove is alert, her eyes pricked to the tide, which is still a bit too high for proper training. When dawn finally arrives good and proper, the sea will grudgingly give up several dozen yards of packed sand for the riders to train on, giving them more room to get away from the ocean. But now, the surf is still wild and close, cramping me to the cliff walls.

I don’t feel brave.

High tide, full dark, under a nearly November sky – the ocean near Thisby holds so many capaill uisce right now. I know that Dove and I are vulnerable on this dark beach. There could be a water horse in the surf right now.

My heart’s a low throb in my ears. Shhhhhh, shhhhhh, says the sea, but I don’t believe her. I adjust my stirrups. Dove doesn’t take her ears from the surf. I don’t mount up. I strain my ears for any sounds of life. There’s just the ocean. The sea glints suddenly, like a crafty smile. That could be a reflection off a capall uisce’s sinuous spine.

Dove would know. I have to trust her. Her ears are still pricked. She’s watchful but not wary. I kiss her dusty shoulder for luck and mount up. I steer her as far away from the tide as I can. Too far up and the sand gives way to pebbles and rocks, impossible to ride on. Too far down and shhhhhhhh, shhhhhh.

I warm Dove up in easy, trotted circles. I keep waiting for my body to relax, to forget where I am, but I can’t. Every reflection on the water makes me jerk. My body is screaming at me about the threat of that black ocean. I remember the story we’re all told as soon as we become teens, of the two teen lovers who met illicitly on the beach, only to be dragged into the waves by a waiting water horse. It was considered a good cautionary tale to all the youth of Skarmouth: That would teach us to kiss.

But that story never seemed real, told in a classroom or related over a counter. Here on the beach, it feels like a promise. But it’s no use to think about that. I need to use my time wisely. I try to pretend I’m up in the muddy pasture. For endless minutes Dove and I exercise like this, trotting one way and then the other, then cantering one way, and then the other. I stop between them to listen. To scan the darkness for anything more dark. Dove is calming down, but I can’t stop shivering. Both because it’s cold and because I’m still wound so tight.

There’s just barely a bit of dawn, far away on the horizon. The others will be here soon.

I stop Dove and listen. Nothing but shhhhhh, shhhhhh.

I wait for a long, long moment. Only the ocean.

And then I push her into a gallop.

Joyfully she springs forward, tail snapping in her thrill. The waves become one long dark blur beside us and the cliffs transform into a wall of formless gray. Now I can’t hear the ocean’s shushing, only the pounding of Dove’s hooves and the huffing of her breath.

My hair escapes from its ponytail and beats my face, tiny lashes from tiny whips. Dove bucks once, twice, from the sheer excitement of running, and I laugh at her. We pull up short and race back the way we came.

I think I see someone standing up at the top of the cliffs, watching us, but when I look again, there’s no one.

I consider the morning’s work. Dove is out of breath, and I’m out of breath, and the sea is retreating. The other riders have yet to come down to the beach, and we’re already done for the day.

This might work.

I don’t know how fast we were, but right now it doesn’t matter. One victory at a time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

SEAN

There’s no one on the second floor of the tearoom at this time of day. It is only me and a herd of small, cloth- covered tables, each bearing a purple thistle flower in a vase. The room is long and narrow and low-ceilinged; it feels like a pleasant coffin or a suffocating church. Everything glows in slightly rose hues because of the pink lacy curtains in front of the small windows behind me. I am the darkest thing in the room.

Evelyn Carrick, the young daughter of the owner, stands by the table I sit at and asks what I’d like. She doesn’t look at me, which is all right, because I don’t look at her, either. I look at the little printed card on the tablecloth in front of me.

There are some French words on the menu. The items in English are long and descriptive. Even if I wanted to order tea, I’m not sure I would recognize it.

“I’ll wait,” I say.

She hesitates. Her eyes flicker to me and away again, like a horse uncertain about an unfamiliar object. “May I take your coat?”

“I’ll keep it.” Having dried on my radiator overnight, my jacket is crisp with salt water and stained with mud and blood.

Every day that I’ve been on the beach is written on it. I can’t imagine her touching it with her small white hands.

Evelyn does something complicated and useful looking with the napkin and saucer on the other side of the table, and then slips back down the narrow stairs. I listen to the creak of her footsteps; every single step pops and groans. The tall, narrow teahouse is one of the oldest buildings in Skarmouth, pressed right against the grocer and post office. I wonder what it was before it sold petit pain.

Malvern is late for the appointment he has set, an appointment whose timing I was expecting, if not the location. I turn to look out the rose-curtained window at the street below. Already there are a few long-necked tourists down there, here in advance of the festival, and I can hear the drummers practicing a few streets away. In a few days, I think the tables on this level of the teahouse will be full, as will the streets. At the end of the festival, the other riders and I will be paraded among the crowd. If I still have my job.

I pull up the cuff of my sleeve a little to look at my wrist; the stiff jacket has rubbed my skin raw during the