“Then you wouldn’t mind taking a gamble on her,” I say. I feel petulant but I try to sound businesslike. It’s not the easiest thing in the world trying to be treated like an adult during a negotiation when the idea of driving a successful bargain is making you a little sick to your stomach.
“I’m not in the mood to come back and collect,” the monger says.
I cross my arms. I pretend I’m Gabe. He has a way of looking both unimpressed and disinterested when he’s really both of these things. I sound as bored as possible. “Either she’s everything you say, or she isn’t. If she’s the fastest thing on four legs, don’t you trust her to win more than you could sell her for?”
The gnome eyes me. “It’s not her I don’t trust.”
I glower at him. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
He grins suddenly.
“Get up on her, then,” the monger says. “Let’s see what you got.” He jerks his head toward his saddle, tipped up on its pommel on the sand.
I take a deep breath and try not to remember her scream from earlier. I try not to think about how my parents died. I need to think about Gabe and his face when he said that he was leaving. I feel like my hands are fluttering, but they’re quite still at my sides.
I can do this.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PUCK
The monger leads the mare up to one of the kelp-covered boulders for me to use as a mounting block. She fidgets around and around, never quite close enough to it. She won’t stop looking at the dog that’s hovering around interested in someone’s rejected breakfast near her hooves. The wind is cold on my neck and my toes are numb little stones in my boots.
“She’s not getting any stiller than this,” the monger says. “Are you on or off?”
My hands are balled into fists to keep them from betraying me. All I can think of is those massive teeth pulling my parents down into the ocean. It’s not even fear that’s stopping me right now. It’s imagining them watching me from wherever they might be — Can they see this beach from heaven? Maybe the cliffs block the view — and thinking about what they would say. They’d always scoffed at the races and the horses had killed them in their boat and now here I was going to get on one of them to ride in the races. I can just imagine Dad’s face and the way a small semicircle wrinkle appeared on his upper lip when he got disgusted or disappointed.
The mare jerks her head up; the gnome is nearly lifted from his feet.
There has to be another way. There has to be something I can do that will keep me off this horse. But how can I ride in the races without her?
I realize then that Finn has appeared from nowhere to stand beside the boulder I’m balanced on. He doesn’t say anything. His fingers are pinching his upper arms over and over again as he looks up at me, but he doesn’t seem to notice them.
“Stop that,” I tell him, and he stops. I think I’ve made up my mind.
“Girlie,” the monger says. “Come on now.” The mare’s muscles shudder beneath her skin.
This isn’t who I am.
I say, “I’m sorry. I’ve changed my mind.”
I just have time to see him roll his eyes when everything becomes a blur of motion. There is a surge of black and white, and a shove pushes me from the boulder. My breath gasps out in two massive puffs as my back slams the ground. Part of my face goes warm and wet. As the mare rears above me, I realize that there is something screaming at the same time I realize that the wetness on my face is blood, coming from above, not from me. Draining from the thing in the piebald mare’s jaws.
I roll out of the way of the hooves, scrubbing sand from my eyes, trying to straighten. Trying to get my breath back. Trying to see. The mare crouches, shaking her dark quarry. She’s ripping it, holding part down with a hoof. The sand pools blood.
I scream Finn’s name.
Now the mare tosses part of her victim at me, ears flattened back. I half gasp, half sob, jumping back from the bloody joint. There’s something stringy coming out of it, like jellyfish tentacles. I want to just kneel down and stop thinking.
The piece in front of me is covered with short, dark hair, matted with sand and blood. It’s a ruin, almost unrecognizable. I am in danger of throwing up.
It’s the dog.
People are shouting, “Sean Kendrick!” but I’m shouting, “Finn!” and there he is. He is a copy of the weird carvings on the church doorway in Skarmouth, little old men with big round eyeballs.
He says, “I thought —”
I know, because it’s what I was thinking, too.
“Please don’t ride her,” Finn says, fervent. I can’t quite remember the last time he’s asked me something and sounded like he really meant it. “Don’t ride one of them.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m riding Dove.”
CHAPTER NINE
SEAN
That evening, long after everyone is driven inland by the high tide, I bring Corr down to the beach. Our shadows are giants before us; this time of year, it gets dark at five and the sand is already cooling. I leave my saddle and boots at the top of the boat ramp, where grass still grows through the soft sand. Corr’s eyes are on the ocean as it slowly slides back toward low tide.
We leave fresh prints in the hard-packed sand the tide’s left behind; it is frigid against my bare feet, especially when cold seawater presses out of the ground around my skin. My blistered feet welcome it.
End of the first day, the endless first day. The beach has had its share of casualties. One boy fell off and bloodied his forehead on a boulder. Another man got bitten, an impressive-looking wound, but nothing a pint and a few hours of sleep won’t fix. And then there was the dog. I couldn’t be surprised that its maiming was the piebald mare’s handiwork.
All in all, there’ve been worse starts to the training.
This evening, the registration will start at Gratton’s. I’ll put my name and Corr’s there, though at this point it feels like a formality. Then there will be a frantic week of uncertain islanders and tourists trying out horses to see if they have the nerve to truly race, and if they do, if they have the nerve to race on the horse they have beneath them. Horses will be bought, sold, bartered. Men become owners, fifths, riders. It’s a frustrating time for me. Too much negotiation and not enough training. It’s always a relief when the festival ends the first week and forces riders to officially declare their mounts.