The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [21]
It’s magical and terrifying. I feel lost, and I’m only in Skarmouth. I can’t imagine Gabe making his way on the mainland.
“Puck Connolly,” shouts a voice that I know belongs to Joseph Beringer. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
I park Finn’s bicycle as close to the butcher’s as I can get it and lean it against the metal rail that is meant to keep you from falling into the quay unless you absolutely mean to. The water smells weird and fishy tonight and I peer down to see if there are any fishermen’s boats down there to account for the smell. There’s nothing but black water and reflections, making it look like there is another Skarmouth submerged under the salt water.
Joseph crows something else that I don’t pay any mind to. In a way, I’m grateful that Joseph’s here being an oaf, because he’s such a fixture of life here that he makes everything else seem more familiar.
My head jerks as Joseph pulls my ponytail. I whirl around to face him, hands on my hips. He gives me his too-big smile. He is pimply under his blond hair. His mouth goes whoo like he’s impressed that I’m looking at him.
I try to think of something catchy to say, but there’s nothing but irritation that something that was funny to an eleven-year-old boy is still funny to a seventeen-year-old one. So I just say ferociously, “I don’t have time for you tonight, Joseph Beringer!”
This is true always, but truer tonight. I’m supposed to sign up as a race participant today, I think. Because of my hurry, Finn graciously offered to feed Dove for me. When I left, he was looking at a bucket as if it was the most complicated invention he had ever seen.
Beside me, Joseph is going on about my bedtime again — he likes to just take a topic and worry it to death, never a danger of missing anything subtle with him — and I simply ignore him as I hurry down the walk to Gratton’s, the butcher shop. As I look at all the people, some of them tourists already, I think about how Mum used to say that we needed the races, that this would be a dead island without them.
Well, the island’s alive tonight.
Gratton’s is a riot of sound, with people spilling out onto the walk. I have to push my way through the door. I wouldn’t say people in Skarmouth are rude as a rule, but beer makes people deaf. Inside, the place is abuzz with noise and a crooked line leads around the walls. The ceiling feels low and crowded with its exposed timbers close overhead. I’ve never seen so many people in here before. In a terrible way, though, it makes sense that the butcher’s should be the unofficial center for the races, on account of this is where all the riders get their meat from.
Except me.
I see Thomas Gratton straightaway, shouting directly into someone’s ear by the opposite wall. His wife, Peg, is behind the counter, smiling and chatting, a piece of chalk in her hand. Thomas may own the place, but Dad said that Peg ruled it. Every man in Skarmouth is in love with Peg. Dad said this was because they knew that Peg could cut their heart out neat and they loved her for it. Certainly isn’t for her looks. I heard Gabe say once that Mutt Malvern had bigger tits than Peg. Which I suppose is probably true but I remember being very shocked at my brother saying something so crass and unfair, because what say does a girl have in how big her chest gets?
I edge into the single line of people that leads to where Peg writes names up on the chalkboard. I am standing behind a man in a dull blue jacket and a hat, and his back is so high he blocks my view of everything. I feel like I’ve become a toddler in a room that dangles with meat hooks.