The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [27]
Finally, I sleep, and when I do, I dream of a day when I can turn my back on Mutt Malvern and keep walking.
CHAPTER TWELVE
PUCK
The morning is raw and pink as I make my way out to Dove’s pasture. Cold as a witch’s tit, my father used to say, and my mother would say is that the sort of language you’re teaching your boys? and apparently it was, because Gabe said it just the other day. It’s not cold enough to freeze the mud, however — only a few years does it ever get cold enough for that — so I slide and stomp and shiver my way across the muddy yard. I’m trying not to notice that I’m nervous. It’s nearly working.
I call Dove’s name and bash the coffee can of feed against the fence post. It’s not a lot — I’ll feed her more after we’ve worked — but it’s enough to tantalize her. I can see her muddy rump poking out from the lean-to. Her tail doesn’t even move as I jostle the can again.
I jump as Finn says, right at my elbow, “She knows you’re cranky, that’s why she won’t come over.”
I glower at him. Somewhere, someone in Skarmouth is making meat pies, because I can smell them on the wind and my stomach grumbles as it rolls to point in the direction of the scent. “I am not cranky. Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning the kitchen or something?”
Finn shrugs and stands on the lowest rung of the fence. He seems unperturbed by the cold. “Dove!” he calls gaily. I am gratified to see that Dove doesn’t move an inch for him, either.
“Well,” he says, “she’s a useless mule. What are you doing today?”
“Taking her down to the beach,” I say. I touch my nose with the back of my hand; it’s that sort of cold that makes me feel like it’s going to run, even though it’s not.
“The beach?” Finn echoes. “Why?”
The idea of answering him irritates me as much as the answer does, so I pull the rule sheet out of my woolly jacket pocket and hand it to him. I rattle the can while he unfolds the sheet, and try not to feel sorry for myself as he reads. It takes him awhile to get to the rule that answers his question. I can tell exactly when he gets to it, because his mouth gets thin. I had thought, when I first decided to ride Dove in the races, that I would be able to exercise her far away from the beach and go down there only for the race. But the rule sheet that Peg Gratton gave me tells me I can’t. All entries must train within 150 yards of the shoreline. Penalty: disqualification with no refund of the entry fee. It feels specifically designed to thwart me, even though I know there’s a good reason for it. No one wants water horses running amok over the island as it gets close to November.
“Maybe you can ask them to make an exception,” Finn says.
“I don’t want them to notice me at all,” I say. If I went to the officials and made a kerfuffle over Dove, they might disqualify me anyway. My plan seems frightfully thin at the moment. All for a brother who left before either of us got up.
Finn and I both start at the sound of a car coming up the road to the house. Cars are never a good sign. Not many people on the island have them, and fewer still have a reason to come out here. Usually the only people who come this way are men who don’t take off their hats as they hand over unpaid invoices.
Finn, valiant soul that he is, vanishes, leaving me to it. The same amount of money has to be handed over regardless, but it stings less if you aren’t the one who has to count it out for them.
But it’s not a bill collector. It’s a long, elegant car the size of our kitchen, with a tall, elegant grille the size of a dustbin. It has round, friendly-looking eyeballs with chrome eyebrows; its tailpipe breathes white puffs that creep around the tires. And it is red — not the red of the horse I saw on the beach yesterday, but red like only humans can imagine. Red like candy. Red like you’d like to taste or possibly paint your lips with.
Red, Father Mooneyham often remarks sadly, like sin.
I know