The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [44]
Dove is alert, her eyes pricked to the tide, which is still a bit too high for proper training. When dawn finally arrives good and proper, the sea will grudgingly give up several dozen yards of packed sand for the riders to train on, giving them more room to get away from the ocean. But now, the surf is still wild and close, cramping me to the cliff walls.
I don’t feel brave.
High tide, full dark, under a nearly November sky — the ocean near Thisby holds so many capaill uisce right now. I know that Dove and I are vulnerable on this dark beach. There could be a water horse in the surf right now.
My heart’s a low throb in my ears. Shhhhhh, shhhhhh, says the sea, but I don’t believe her. I adjust my stirrups. Dove doesn’t take her ears from the surf. I don’t mount up. I strain my ears for any sounds of life. There’s just the ocean. The sea glints suddenly, like a crafty smile. That could be a reflection off a capall uisce’s sinuous spine.
Dove would know. I have to trust her. Her ears are still pricked. She’s watchful but not wary. I kiss her dusty shoulder for luck and mount up. I steer her as far away from the tide as I can. Too far up and the sand gives way to pebbles and rocks, impossible to ride on. Too far down and shhhhhhhh, shhhhhh.
I warm Dove up in easy, trotted circles. I keep waiting for my body to relax, to forget where I am, but I can’t. Every reflection on the water makes me jerk. My body is screaming at me about the threat of that black ocean. I remember the story we’re all told as soon as we become teens, of the two teen lovers who met illicitly on the beach, only to be dragged into the waves by a waiting water horse. It was considered a good cautionary tale to all the youth of Skarmouth: That would teach us to kiss.
But that story never seemed real, told in a classroom or related over a counter. Here on the beach, it feels like a promise. But it’s no use to think about that. I need to use my time wisely. I try to pretend I’m up in the muddy pasture. For endless minutes Dove and I exercise like this, trotting one way and then the other, then cantering one way, and then the other. I stop between them to listen. To scan the darkness for anything more dark. Dove is calming down, but I can’t stop shivering. Both because it’s cold and because I’m still wound so tight.
There’s just barely a bit of dawn, far away on the horizon. The others will be here soon.
I stop Dove and listen. Nothing but shhhhhh, shhhhhh.
I wait for a long, long moment. Only the ocean.
And then I push her into a gallop.
Joyfully she springs forward, tail snapping in her thrill. The waves become one long dark blur beside us and the cliffs transform into a wall of formless gray. Now I can’t hear the ocean’s shushing, only the pounding of Dove’s hooves and the huffing of her breath.
My hair escapes from its ponytail and beats my face, tiny lashes from tiny whips. Dove bucks once, twice, from the sheer excitement of running, and I laugh at her. We pull up short and race back the way we came.
I think I see someone standing up at the top of the cliffs, watching us, but when I look again, there’s no one.
I consider the morning’s work. Dove is out of breath, and I’m out of breath, and the sea is retreating. The other riders have yet to come down to the beach, and we’re already done for the day.
This might work.
I don’t know how fast we were, but right now it doesn’t matter. One victory at a time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SEAN
There’s no one on the second floor of the tearoom at this time of day. It is only me and a herd of small, cloth-covered tables, each bearing a purple thistle flower in a vase. The room is long and narrow and low-ceilinged; it feels like a pleasant coffin or a suffocating church. Everything