The Scorpio Races (24 page)

I join Malvern by the rail of the gallop. He frowns in the direction of Mettle. One of the grooms is riding her, and she’s playing and lazy. Mettle’s got a peculiarly ugly face — ugliness and coarseness are traits that for some reason seem to accompany the fastest of the thoroughbreds — and right now she is flipping up her mule-like upper lip as she gallops. The groom’s not taking her to task, either; I’m not sure if he just doesn’t know what she’s normally capable of doing or if he’s disinterested. But either way, Mettle is taking him for a walk in the park.

Malvern speaks, finally. “Mr. Kendrick. Is this filly always like this?”

I consider how to answer. “She’s out of Malvern Penny and Pound and by Rostraver.” Penny and Pound is one of Malvern’s favorite broodmares and the rumor is that Rostraver’s won so much over hurdles on the mainland that no one will race against him.

“The blood doesn’t always come through,” Malvern says. He spits and looks back to her.

“It came through.”

“And she’s out for a lark in front of the buyers, is it?”

All I can think about is what I’m about to ask him, but it’s not the right moment. Instead of answering, I grip the rail and slide beneath it, walking across the track to where the groom — another one of Malvern’s new ones, no one tolerates the grooms’ quarters and the pay for long — walks Mettle around in a circle, cooling her down. I walk up to Mettle and take hold of her bridle.

“Ho,” the groom says to me, surprised. He’s young as I am. I think his name is Barnes but I can’t be sure. Maybe Barnes was the last one. “Sean Kendrick!”

With my free hand, I reach up and snatch the crop out of his hands. I haven’t even touched Mettle with it and she dances in a circle, pivoting around where I hold her. “Malvern is watching you. You’re going to take her out again and you’re going to make her work. She’s having you on.”

“I was pressing her,” Barnes insists.

I lightly touch the crop to Mettle’s hamstrings and she crow-hops forward as if I’ve slapped her. She knows my voice and she feels my certainty where I hold her bridle. “Maybe you were. But she didn’t believe you, and neither did I. Take this back.”

Barnes takes the crop and gathers the reins back up again. Mettle is trembling and eager now, held only by my touch on her bridle. Barnes looks at me, and I can see that he’s scared of the potential, scared of speed. I think he’d better learn to love it soon.

I release her bridle and lift my other hand as if I’ve still got the crop in it, and Mettle explodes off the mark, down the gallop. I watch her for a moment to see how Barnes handles himself — he’s not half-bad, despite his terror — and to see if Mettle stays on it. I could’ve done better, but still, at least she’s working now.

I walk back to the rail and duck under. Malvern’s eyes follow Mettle as he scratches his chin; I can hear his fingernails on his skin.

I put my hands in my pockets. I don’t need a stopwatch to know that Mettle has bettered her time. For a moment, I’m silent, reaching for something that will give some weight to what I’m about to say. But there’s nothing for it but to just say it. “I would buy Corr from you.”

Benjamin Malvern casts me a look that is cross if it is anything, and looks back to the gallop. He produces a stopwatch, which I see now he’s had nestled in his hand all this time, and clicks it as Mettle reaches the end of the gallop.

“Mr. Malvern,” I say.

“I don’t like having the same conversation twice. I told you years ago, and I can hear that I’m repeating myself, he’s not for sale to anyone. Don’t take it personally.”

I know, of course, his reasoning for not selling Corr. To sell him is to lose a strong contender for the Scorpio Races. To sell him is to lose one of the biggest pieces of advertising he has.

“I understand why you don’t want to sell him,” I say. “But maybe you’ve forgotten what it was to ride for someone else and not have a horse to call your own.”

Malvern frowns at his stopwatch; not because Mettle was slow, but because she was the opposite.

“And I told you before, I’ll sell you any of the thoroughbreds.”

“I didn’t make any of those thoroughbreds. I didn’t make them what they are.”

Malvern says, “You made all of them what they are.”

I don’t look at him. “None of them made me who I am.”

It feels like an incredible confession. I’ve turned my heart out for Malvern to examine the contents. I’ve grown up alongside Corr. My father rode him and my father lost him, and then I found him again. He’s the only family I have.

Benjamin Malvern rubs his great coarse thumb over his chin, and for a moment I think that he’s actually considering it. But then he says, “Choose another horse.”

“I’ll train the others. That’s the only thing that will change.”

“Choose another horse, Mr. Kendrick.”

“I don’t want another horse,” I say. “I want Corr.”

He still doesn’t look at me. If he looks at me, I think, I have him. My blood sings in my ears.

Malvern says, “I’m not having this conversation again. He’s not for sale.”

As Malvern watches the next horse stepping onto the track, I fist my hands in my pockets, remembering how Kate Connolly didn’t back down at the riders’ parade. I remember Holly saying that there must be something that Malvern wanted more than Corr. I remember the mare goddess’s strange voice:
Make another wish.
I even think of Mutt Malvern, risking everything for fame on that piebald mare. I had always thought that I’d spent my entire life gambling, risking my life each year on the beach, but I now know that I’ve never risked the one thing that I truly was afraid to lose.

I don’t want to do this.

I say, very quietly, “Then, Mr. Malvern, I quit.”

He turns his head and one of his eyebrows is raised. “What’s that?”

“I quit. Today. Find another trainer. Find someone else to ride in the races.”

The faintest hint of a smile moves his lips. I recognize it: disdain. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Call it what you like,” I say. “Sell me Corr, and I’ll race for you one last year, and I’ll keep on training your horses.”

On the gallop, a dark bay gelding lopes along, breathing hard. He’s not in racing condition yet. Malvern rubs his hand over his lips again, an action that somehow reminds me of Mettle.

“You overestimate your importance to this yard, Mr. Kendrick.”

I don’t flinch. I’m standing in the ocean, feeling it press against my legs, but I won’t let it move me.

“Do you think I can’t find someone else to ride your stallion?” Malvern asks me. He waits for me to answer, and when I don’t, he says, “There are twenty boys I can think of dying to get on the back of that horse.”

The image splinters in my heart, and I’m sure he means it to.

When I still don’t speak, he says, “Well, that’s that. Have your things out by the end of the week.”

I’ve never had to be this steady. Never had to make myself so still and fearless. I can’t breathe, but I make myself hold out my hand.

“Don’t play that game,” Malvern says, without looking at me. “I invented it.”

The meeting’s over.

I might never ride Corr again.

I don’t know who I am without him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

PUCK

Most of the time, I trust Dove more than just about anybody, but she does have her moments. She doesn’t like to be in water above the knee, which on Thisby is probably wisdom instead of cowardice. As a filly, she had an altercation with a sheep truck and she has yet to make her peace with them. And she’s generally daunted by anything that could be described as
weather.
I can forgive her these, though, because it’s not often I need to plow through a river or race a sheep truck or trot to Skarmouth in a gale.

But by the time I return to the cliff tops that afternoon, there is definitely weather. The wind cuts straight and low across turf made deep, dark green by the clouds pressing overhead. When the gusts blast across Dove’s face, strong enough to check her speed, she spooks and shivers. The air stinks of the
capaill uisce.
Neither of us wants to be here in this night-dark afternoon.

But I know we ought to stay. If there is wind or rain on the day of the race, I need Dove to be solid. Not the slippery, jerky animal that she is right now.

“Easy,” I tell her, but her ears are swiveling to catch everything but my voice.

A howl of wind sends her skittering dangerously close to the cliff edge. For a moment I see the hump of the cliff grass where it falls over the edge of the rock, toward the froth of the surging ocean far below. I feel the timeless, swimming sensation of possibility. Then I jerk one of the reins and kick her forward.

Dove shoots inland, still out of control, twisting and impossible to sit on.

I use everything my mother ever told me about riding. I imagine a string attached to my head pulling down through my spine, tying me to the saddle. I imagine I’m made of sand. I imagine my feet are stones hanging on either side of Dove’s belly, too weighty to be shifted.

I keep my balance and slow her down, but my heart’s hammering.

I don’t like being afraid of her.

This is when Ian Privett arrives. Under this iron sky, he looks dark as a funeralgoer. He rides up on his sleek gray, Penda, who’s not so much dappled as streaked with white like the storm-crazed ocean down below. A few lengths away from him is Ake Palsson, the baker’s son, on a chestnut
uisce
mare, and with him is a bay
capall uisce
ridden by Gerald Finney, who’s a second cousin or something of Ian Privett’s. There’s an attending group of men on foot, noisy and wind-tossed.

I can’t imagine why they’d be coming up here, full of purpose, until Tommy Falk trots up behind them on his black mare. When his gaze finds me, there’s a warning in it.

Ake Palsson leads the way toward me. He looks like his father the baker, which should be bad, since giant Nils Palsson has wild tufts of white hair, deep crevices for eyes, and a paunch that looks as if he’s smuggling a bag of flour under his shirt. But Ake’s squinted eyes only make the shock of his blue eyes more impressive, and his white-blond hair is carefree instead of startling. He’s intimidatingly tall, and if there are sacks of flour in his future, his hard frame has no hint of it now. My father always liked Ake. He said,
Ake gets things done,
which is a compliment because on this island, so many people don’t.

Curled on the back of his chestnut, Ake calls, jolly, “And how is the third Connolly brother doing today?”

This earns him a laugh. It’s not until the laugh’s over that I realize he means me.

Finney’s bay snaps at Ake as they trot closer. Just a squabble, but the sound of those teeth snapping makes Dove flinch.

“It’s a shame what passes for humor these days,” I reply. I try to hide how much work it’s taking for me to hold Dove steady. The wind was bad enough, and now
capaill uisce.

“It’s got a bit of currency,” Ake says. I can’t see the important parts of his expression in this light, so I can’t tell if his smile is a funny one or not. “Down on the beach, they’ve started calling you Kevin.”

Before I can stop them, my fingers dart self-consciously up to the edge of my hat to feel if any of my hair curls out. Gabe once joked, years ago, that Finn and I looked alike if you looked at just our faces. I’m a bit ashamed at how much the idea that I might be mistaken for a boy distresses me.

“That’s hilarious,” I say. “I’m riding in the race, so I must be a boy.” As Ake and Finney come closer, I let Dove trot around in a small circle to hide the fact that I can’t hold her in a full stop.

Ake shrugs, like he could’ve thought of better. Behind him, Finney’s bay crow-hops, crashing into the chestnut, who nearly stumbles into Dove. Dove’s fear shivers through the reins.

Ake laughs as Finney hurriedly gathers up his bay.

“Pisser,” Finney says, pulling his bowler hat down to restore his ego. He jerks his chin in my direction. “Come on, Kevin, let’s see what you got.”

“Don’t call me that,” I reply. He and Ake circle me; their horses dwarf Dove. They must know that it’s driving her to a frenzy. “And I was just finishing up.”

Finney says, “Come now, be a sport. They said you were a whip.”

“I’m not racing you right now,” I say. I grid my teeth into a smile. “But I’ll watch you boys.”

Ake laughs. It’s not a mean laugh, but it’s not a thoughtful one, either. He says, “Tommy says you’d race us.”

I find Tommy beyond them. He shakes his head.

“Then Tommy doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I reply.

Finney asks, “Where are your balls?”

I need to get away. In the back of my head, I’m thinking that this is going to be a problem, that Dove’s going to have to deal with a lot more than this on the day of the race. But that’s a faraway concern. The more immediate one is that Dove is shaking and ready to break.

“You’re the one who said I have them, not me.” I glance behind me, looking to see if there’s room to back Dove away from them. A few drops of rain spatter across my face. The worst of it is that there’s nothing mean about Finney and Ake; they’re being just like Joseph Beringer. Only Joseph Beringer never teases me from the back of a massive
capall uisce.

“The bookies are here,” Finney says, elbowing back toward the onlookers. “Don’t you want to show them something better than your forty-five to one?”

Finney lets his bay jostle into Ake’s mare again, and the chestnut shoves against Dove, hard. I hear teeth snapping and Dove squeals, the wind ripping through her mane. I cling to her as she rears. Behind her left ear, I see a shallow scrape where the
capall
’s teeth grazed her. The blood wells up in a dozen small drops.

“Give me some room!” I shout.

I’m simultaneously terrified and humiliated as I hear myself. It’s the voice of a scared little girl.

Ake and Finney hear it, too, because their faces change. Ake hauls on his chestnut’s reins so hard that she nearly rears. Finney kicks his bay away from Dove.