The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [118]
Now the frown really has taken over. “Two days isn’t very long for her to get used to that.”
“It’s not for her. It’s for you. And it’s one day, not two,” I remind her. Corr dances, and I still him with my legs. “Last day the beach’s off-limits to horses. Tomorrow’s the last day on the sand.”
Dove scratches her belly with a back hoof, like a dog. She looks like less than a sure bet when she does this, and Puck must know it, because she looks annoyed and taps her boot into Dove’s side to make her stop. “You aren’t just saying that because I gave you a cake, are you?”
“No, it’s been in the rules for as long as I’ve been racing.”
She studies my expression to see if I’m serious and then makes a face. “I meant about us standing a chance.”
Corr bends around my leg, restless and losing interest in the idea of standing still. It reminds me that I need to swap his stall with Edana’s. Since she hasn’t been worked on the beach, Edana has been getting more and more restless in her window-less stall in the back seven stalls of the stable. Corr’s view isn’t much, but it might keep her settled until after the races when I have time for her again.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
“I mean really have a chance.” She looks away from me then, as if she thinks the idea we’re both competing for first might offend me.
“There’s a bit of money for second and third,” I say. She fumbles her fingers through a knot in Dove’s mane. “Would that be enough?”
Puck’s voice is faint. “It would help.” Then her tone changes abruptly. “You should come to dinner with us. It’ll be beans or something else absolutely lovely.”
I hesitate. My dinner is usually taken in my flat, standing up, the door hanging open, the stable waiting for me to go back out to the rest of my work. Not with my legs tucked under a table, trying to find words and answers to polite questions. Dinner with Puck and her brothers? It’s mere days until the race. I have to clean my saddle and my boots. I need to wash my breeches and find my gloves in case it is rainy or the wind is brittle. I need to swap Corr and Edana and clean their stalls. I should go to the butcher’s again to see if they have anything that would do Corr good.
“It’s okay,” Puck says. She has a quick way of hiding her disappointment. If you’re not looking for it, she’s put it away somewhere before you know it was there. “You’re busy.”
“No,” I tell her. “No, I’ll — think about it. I’m not sure if I can get away.” I don’t know what I’m thinking. I cannot find the time to get away. I’m not a good dinner companion. But it’s hard to think of that. Instead I’m wishing that I’d spoken sooner, before I’d seen her disappointment.
Puck rallies with the best of them. “If not, I’ll see you on the beach tomorrow?”
This I’m certain of. On horseback, it’s easy to be certain. “Yes.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
PUCK
Gabe brings home a chicken and Tommy Falk for dinner. Truth be told, I’m not unhappy to see any of them: Gabe, because it’s been so long since we’ve had dinner with him; the chicken, because it’s not beans; and Tommy Falk, because his presence makes Gabe cheerful and goofy. They toss the plucked chicken back and forth over my head until it loses its wrapping and I shout at them as I pick it up off the floor.
“If we all die of plague or whatever is on this floor, I want you to know it’s not my fault,” I say. There’s a bit of silt stuck to the dimpled skin of the chicken’s back.
“Just scrub it off. A little dirt never hurt anybody,” Tommy Falk says. “Gabe says you make a mean chicken.”
Finn, who is sitting by the fireplace making smoke, comments for the first time. “Well, she certainly doesn’t make a nice one.”
“You can shut up or make it yourself.” It turns out that the dirt on the chicken is the least of my worries. My hands are filthy. It takes me quite a long time to make my hands clean, and even once they’re mostly pale again, they still smell suspiciously like both Dove and Corr.
Gabe