The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [141]
“Did he ask you to ask me?”
I shake my head. “He doesn’t know I’m here. And he might feel a little odd if he knew that I was.”
Malvern looks into his tea. “You two are a strange pair. You are a pair, aren’t you?”
“We’re in training.”
He shakes his head. “Fine. I’ll sell him. But the price isn’t changing just because the horse stands on three legs instead of four now. Is that all from you?”
“I said three things and that’s what I gave you.”
“Indeed it is. Well, then, leave me to my tea. Come back on Monday and we can talk about your wheelbarrow.”
I stand up, leaving the notes sitting untouched on the table, and head out into the yard. The breeze runs long and low across the ground, sweeping up the sea and the island grass and the hay and the horses. I think it’s the best smell in the world.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
SEAN
The November sea is a jewel in the evening, dark and glittering beyond the ruddy stones. Corr and I leave the white cliffs behind us as I lead him toward the water. As when I first pulled him from the sea, he wears just a rope halter. I have long since pulled the wrap from his hind leg; it won’t heal him. Holly tells me that they have ways in California of setting the bone, but that he’d still never race again. He tells me that there’s nothing more foolish than for me to buy Corr only to turn him back into the ocean.
But Corr could no sooner go to California than he could fly, and in any case, I’m uncertain what a life like that would hold for a capall uisce. He loves the sea and to run, and while I could give him one of those things, we were happy.
And so now I walk him slowly down to the surf. In the sea, his clumsiness will disappear, his weight cradled by the salt water, and he won’t notice so much that his hind leg is not what it was.
I don’t want to say good-bye.
Back by the cliffs, Puck Connolly and George Holly wait for me, both of them with their arms crossed over their chests, their postures identical. They give me this moment alone, and I’m grateful for it.
Despite his painful progress, Corr’s ears prick to the sea. This November ocean sings sweetly to him, luring him and caressing him, quickening his blood. Together we step into the frigid water. In this light, he’s red like the sun before night, a giant, a god. His ear flicks back as the ocean plays over his injured leg and then back out to the horizon. The sea out there is black and depthless, hiding more wonders, perhaps, than even the waters of Thisby.
It wasn’t that long ago that Corr and I splashed in this surf, here at the base of these cliffs. Now he couldn’t even take a step without thought.
I run my hands down his neck, over his withers, down his shoulder. It’s something I’d taken for granted, just the presence of him. I rest my cheek against his shoulder, my eyes closed for just a second, and then I whisper to him. Find happiness.
Then I can’t stand because my legs won’t hold me here a moment longer. I blink to clear my vision and reach up. I pull off his halter.
I back out of the surf, watching him. His ears are still pricked on the horizon, not toward me. The ocean is his love and now, finally, he’ll have it.
I flip up my collar and turn my back to him as I pick my way back up toward the cliff base. I don’t think I can watch him disappear into the water. It will break my heart.
Puck’s scrubbing her eyes busily as if she has something in them. George Holly bites his lip. The cliffs tower above me and I try to console myself, I will find another capall uisce, I will ride again, I will move to my father’s home and be free. But there’s no comfort in my thoughts.
Behind me, the ocean says shhhhhhhh, shhhhhhhhh.
There’s a thin, long wail. I keep walking, my bare feet slow on the uneven stones.
The wail comes again, low and keening. Puck and Holly are looking past me, so I turn around. Still at the shoreline, Corr has noticed my going, and he