The Scorpio Races

anything about her, and the feathered and leathered mainlanders listen and nod their heads because he is the son of the owner, so of course he knows something. Holly follows my gaze and for a moment we stand there, shoulder to shoulder.

“Why, good morning!” Holly says broadly, and when I see who he addresses, it makes me glad that I hadn’t spoken against Mutt. Benjamin Malvern stands just behind us.

“Mr. Holly. Mr. Kendrick,” Malvern replies. “Mr. Holly, I trust that you’ve found something that interests you?”

He eyes me.

Holly’s smile is wide and abusively American, rows and rows of white glowing teeth. “Benjamin, so many things about Thisby interest me.”

“Anything of the four-legged variety?”

“I’m looking at Mettle and Finndebar,” Holly says. Despite his earlier protests, he pronounces Finndebar without a stumble.

Malvern says, “Finndebar drops nothing but winners.”

My mouth plays at the sound of my own words from someone else’s lips.

Holly nods his head toward me. “So I’ve heard. Why are you selling her, then?”

“Just getting a little long in the tooth.”

“Something to be said for age and cunning, though,” Holly remarks. “I mean, you should know, ha! Ah, this is a fine country full of fine people. Oh, I see we have all the Malverns here now. And there’s Matthew, looking like his father.”

This last is because Mutt Malvern has found his way within earshot and stands there, deep in conversation with a man about a filly. I think he’s trying to look useful in front of either me or his father. I can hear what he’s saying and it sounds ridiculous, but the man is nodding.

Malvern’s gaze is on Mutt, his expression difficult to discern but certainly nothing that could be called pride.

“So I’ll confess,” Holly says, “that I’m quite taken with Sean Kendrick here. You have quite a right hand in him.”

Malvern’s gaze shifts swiftly to me and then Holly, an eyebrow raised. “I hear that you were making a level effort to export him.”

“Ah, but his loyalty was too strong,” Holly says. The smile he turns on me is ferocious in its sincerity. “Which is just disappointing. You treat him too well, I suppose.”

Nearby, Mutt glances in my direction, his eyes narrowed, and I can see that he has caught wind of the subject at hand.

“Mr. Kendrick’s been with us for close to a decade,” Malvern says. “Since his father died and I took him in.”

In just that phrase, he paints a picture of an orphaned boy sitting at his kitchen table, raised side by side with Mutt, reveling in the pleasures of being a Malvern.

“So he’s practically a son,” Holly says. “That explains the bond. These horses all bear his handprint, don’t they? Seems to me he’s the logical heir to the Malvern Yard, if you were asking me.”

Benjamin Malvern had been looking at his son, who was staring back at him, but when Holly finishes, Malvern’s eyes sweep over me in my suit and he purses his lips. “In many ways, Mr. Holly, I think that is very true.” He looks back up to Mutt and adds, “In most ways.”

I can’t think that he means it. I can only think that he says it because he’s playing a game with Holly. Or because he means for Mutt to hear it, which Mutt clearly does.

Holly exchanges a glance with me, and I can see that he’s as startled as I am.

“Unfortunately,” Malvern says, turning away from Mutt, “the blood doesn’t always come through.” He eyes me and suddenly I realize that I have never once known what he’s truly thinking behind those clever, deep-set eyes. I know nothing of him aside from his horses and the little cold flat above the stable addition. I know that he owns much of Thisby but not which parts. I know that he rode once but doesn’t now, and I know that his son is a bastard but not if the mother still lives on the island. I know that I win the races for him and every year he takes over nine- tenths of the purse, as he would for any man in his employ.

Malvern says, “Mr. Kendrick was born on a horse and he’ll die on one, and maybe that’s not something you can breed for. He’s one of those rare men who can make a horse work for him but never asks for more than they have. If he’s told you to put your money on Mettle and Finndebar, then you’d be a fool not to. Good day, Mr. Holly.”

Malvern nods at Holly and then strides away. In his absence, Holly says something to me that I miss, because I am looking at Mutt. Written on his face is furious rejection and disbelief. In just that moment, it doesn’t matter that both he and I have done our part to earn Malvern’s words. It’s only that they were wounding that matters.

I watch his stare become fearsome as he holds my gaze. Something demanding and uncompromising claws inside Mutt Malvern. He pushes his way back toward the house.

“Sean Kendrick,” Holly says. “What is it you’re thinking?”

“That this doesn’t sit easy with me,” I reply. Holly looks at the space Mutt has left behind and advises, “I would bolt your door tonight.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

PUCK

In the morning, before I head to the cliffs to train and possibly find Sean, Finn and I go to Dory Maud’s – him on his bicycle, me on Dove. The truth of it is that Finn means to do some odd jobs for them if he can and I’m hoping against hope that Dory’s sold some more teapots, because we’ve one lump of butter but no bread to stick around it and no flour to make bread.

We trudge into Skarmouth. I lead Dove at the moment to make certain she doesn’t turn a leg in a bit of uneven cobble. Finn leads the bicycle to make certain he can stare into Palsson’s shop without falling off a moving vehicle.

We both look mournfully in the bakery window as we pass, though I’d sworn to myself that I wouldn’t. Nothing says orphans like two kids breaking their necks looking at trays of November cakes and platters of shaped cookies and lovely soft loaves of bread still steaming the window they’re next to. Finn and I sigh at the same time and continue on our way to Fathom & Sons. I tie Dove out front and Finn tells his bicycle to stay. I’m not sure if the shop will be open or not; Elizabeth and Dory Maud might be at the booth by the cliff path instead.

But the door opens, and when we push inside, I’m surprised to find both Dory Maud and Elizabeth there, as well as a handsome blond man who is exclaiming over a stone grave pillow that Martin Devlin found in his field last year when he was digging for potatoes.

“- really put the head on this at burial!” he says.

Finn gives me a look. I eye the stranger. He’s a foreigner and in his thirties, maybe, but in the best possible way. I think the word for it is dashing or dapper or something like that. He holds a red flat cap in his hands.

“Ah, Puck,” says Dory Maud. “Puck Connolly.”

Finn and I exchange another look.

“Pleased to meet you,” I say to the stranger.

“Oh, but you haven’t met,” Dory Maud says. “Mr. Holly, this is Puck Connolly. Puck, this is Mr. George Holly.”

“Now I’m pleased to meet you,” I say crossly. “I was just dropping Finn off here and -” Elizabeth sidles up to me and places her claws in my skin.

“Just a moment! I need to steal her,” Elizabeth chirps. She whisks me into the back room and shoves closed the door behind us. So it is just us and four chairs and a table bigger than the floor and an audience of boxes filled with Dory Maud’s love letters to sailors. We are nose to nose and Elizabeth smells like a shipload of English roses.