The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [119]
“Bands, Gabe,” Tommy says. He’s settled next to Finn, helping him turn the smoke into fire. He stretches out to take my father’s concertina where it had been abandoned near the armchair. He plays the same tune he just sang; it sounds more mournful on the concertina. “Can you imagine it? Concerts.”
He’s talking about the mainland, of course. Because it’s not just the race that is days away.
“And the cars,” adds Gabe. “And oranges every day.”
“Also,” says Tommy, “bands.”
Finn studies the fire.
I study the chicken.
“Don’t be down,” Tommy says, leaping up when he sees my expression. “It’s not like we won’t come back. We’ll send money, too. Haven’t you seen Esther Quinn’s clothing, Puck? Her brother’s on the mainland selling something to somebody and he sends home money — that’s why she looks like she was bought from a catalog. When’s a good visit, Gabe? Easter, maybe? Easter’s a good time to come back. We’ll throw more chickens.”
Gabe takes the concertina from Tommy and slides out a tune; I’d forgotten how well he could play. Tommy grabs my waist and swings me around in a circle. I drag my feet because I am opposed to people touching me when I’m not expecting it. Also because it will take more than dancing to cheer me up. Tommy says, “Come now, you can move faster than that! Everyone says you were a spitfire on the cliffs this morning.”
I let him spin me at that. “They do?”
“They’re saying that you and Sean Kendrick were burning up the cliffs.” Tommy spins me again and grins at me. “And when I say you and Sean Kendrick, I mean you and Sean Kendrick. And by burning, I mean burning.”
I jerk to a stop and spin him instead. I pretend he’s talking about racing. “You worried?”
“It’s Gabe who should be worried,” Tommy says. He takes my hands and swings me wide enough that I worry for the objects on the counter. “Because his baby sister’s growing up so fine.”
Mum said that I shouldn’t be moved to do anything by someone with sweet words, but Tommy Falk doesn’t seem to be trying to persuade me of anything, so I let his compliment slip down nice and easy. It’s quite agreeable and I’d be happy enough with another.
Gabe stops playing mid-measure, his hands around the concertina spread as if he holds a book open. “Don’t make me punch you in the mouth, Tommy. When’s that chicken going to be done, Kate?”
Tommy mouths, Oooooh, Kate to me, but Gabe refuses to rise to the bait.
“Twenty minutes,” I say. “Maybe thirty. Maybe ten.” There’s a tap on the door then. We all exchange looks, Tommy Falk’s as uncertain as the rest of ours. No one moves, so I finally wipe my hands off on my pants, go to the door, and open it a crack.
Sean stands on the other side, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a loaf of bread.
I wasn’t prepared for it to be Sean, and so my stomach does a neat little trick that feels like either hunger or escaping. There is something very shocking about seeing him standing dark and still on our doorstep.
I lean out the door a ways. The night’s getting chilly. “You got away from the yard.”
“Is it still all right?”
“It’s all right. It’s me and Gabe and Finn and Tommy Falk.”
“I’ve brought this.” He holds up the bread, which is clearly a Palsson’s loaf, and it’s still so fresh that I can smell the warmth of it. He must’ve come straight from there. “Is that what’s done?”
“Well, you’ve done it, so it must be.”
Gabe asks, “Puck, who is it?”
I open the door wide to reveal the answer. They all look at Sean standing there with his hand in his pocket and the other hand around a loaf of bread and it occurs to me all in a rush as they stare at him that Sean looks a little, just a little, like he’s courting. I don’t have time to explain the truth of it before