Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [19]
I shrug. ‘I’m heading for Dublin.’
‘So,’ he says. ‘You’re going in the wrong direction.’
The black horse wheels around a little, scuffing up the mud. ‘You must have walked six or seven miles over the hills,’ the boy tells me. ‘You’re on Lough Choill, not far from your dad’s place.’
‘No way!’ My cheeks burn until I guess they’re about as red as my hair.
‘Did you hurt yourself?’ he asks, looking at my swollen ankle. ‘What happened to your shoes?’
‘Lost them.’
The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. ‘Don’t tell me, red stilettos?’ he asks.
‘Funny. Red wedge heels, actually, with ribbon ties.’
‘Ah. Much more sensible, obviously’ His eyes flicker up to the leaves above my head, where one sandal still hangs from a branch, spinning slightly. ‘You found the wishing tree then? Most people tie on rags or scarves, not sandals.’
‘Wishing tree?’ I echo. ‘What’s that?’
‘This tree,’ the boy says, wheeling the black horse round in a circle. ‘The old hazel that marks the spring, the holy well. The water has healing properties, and people come and tie cloth on to the branches to ask for a wish, a prayer, a favour. It’s either very holy or very magical, depending on who you believe!’
‘I don’t believe any of it,’ I say coldly. ‘It’s rubbish.’
‘Sure.’ The boy laughs. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never made a wish.’
‘Wishes are for losers.’
‘No, wishes are for dreamers,’ he says. ‘My name’s Kian, and the horse is Midnight. I’m guessing you’re Scarlett, right?’
‘Maybe,’ I reply carelessly.
‘Red hair, fluffy bag, a scowl that could turn milk sour.’ Kian considers. ‘Yeah, you’re Scarlett. Want a lift back to your dad’s?’
I look at him carefully. He can’t be much older than me – thirteen, fourteen at most. His eyes are darker than the lough, his grin is wide and lazy, and his accent dips softly like a whispered song. I love the sound of his name – Kee-an, soft and lilting. There’s something strong about him, something cool. He peers at me through a tangle of black, jaw-length hair.
‘So. You wanting a lift or not?’
‘Not back to Dad’s,’ I say. ‘How about Dublin?’
He looks back at me steadily, his lips twitching into a smile. ‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Do I look like I’m joking?’
I get to my feet, trying for a don’t-care attitude, but my ankle gives way and I grab on to Midnight’s bridle for support. I breathe in sweet hay and the thick, warm, treacly smell of horse, and somehow it reminds me of a little girl with big dreams and a shedload of wishes that didn’t come true. Midnight pushes his nose against my neck, nuzzling gently. It tickles.
‘Don’t think you’re running far on that ankle,’ Kian says. ‘Better get it X-rayed.’
He wheels the horse round and I look for a saddle to grab on to, but there isn’t one. Instead, he leans over and hauls me up in front of him like a sack of potatoes, and I wriggle and yelp and fold one leg over until I’m facing forward. It’s way higher up than I imagined.
Midnight sways dangerously beneath me, moving off along the path. ‘I don’t like this,’ I say.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Kian says. ‘We’ll go slowly. Relax.’
‘Dublin then?’ I ask hopefully.
Kian laughs. ‘I don’t think so – not with that ankle, and half the countryside out looking for you. Another time, OK?’
‘Yeah, right,’ I huff. The truth is, though, I don’t even know where I’m running to any more.
I take a deep breath in. Kian wraps his arms round me and buries his fingers in the horse’s mane, and I see that his wrists are threaded with bracelets made of plaited leather, braided cotton, beads. We turn away from the twilit lough at a slow walk.
Midnight knows the forest paths, picking his way through the undergrowth while twiggy trees ruffle my hair and clutch at my legs. By the time we’ve pushed out through the trees and into the tiny lane, I’m leaning back against Kian, relaxed enough to let go of the tight knot of hurt that’s been eating at my guts for days. The sound of Midnight’s hooves on the road is like a heartbeat.
‘Your dad’s cottage is just along the way,’ Kian