The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [47]
There are many paths that Mutt Malvern might be on, but I think we both know that none of them ends as the mogul of an internationally famous breeding yard.
“Ah, well. Have you been at this long enough to know how the horses will go?” Malvern means which of his water horses is the fastest.
“I knew that the first day.”
Malvern smiles. It is not a pleasant smile, but its unpleasantness is not directed toward me. “Which, then, is the slowest of them?”
“The bay mare without white,” I say, without pause. I haven’t named her because she has yet to earn a name. She’s flighty and sea-wild; she is not fast because she takes no pleasure in what the rider wants.
Malvern asks, “And which is the fastest?”
I pause before answering. I know what I say dictates who he puts Mutt on this November. I don’t want to answer truthfully, but there is no point lying, as he’ll find out eventually. “Corr. The red stallion.”
Malvern says, “And which is the safest?”
“Edana. The bay with the white blaze.”
Malvern looks at me then. Really looks at me, for the first time. He frowns, as if he is seeing me anew, the boy who has spent years growing up above his stable, raising his horses. I look at my teacup. He asks, “Why did you jump into the sea after Fundamental?”
“He was my charge.”
“Your charge, but a Malvern horse. My son owned that horse.” Benjamin Malvern pushes his chair back and stands. “Matthew will ride Edana. Turn the other bay loose, unless you think she’ll shape up next year.”
He looks at me for verification. I shake my head.
“Turn her loose, then. And you’ll” — he tucks some coins beneath the edge of his teacup — “you’ll ride Corr.”
Every year I wait and wait for him to say it. Every year when he makes his decision, it eases my heart.
But this year, I feel like I’m still waiting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
PUCK
By lunchtime the next day, I’m in poor spirits. When I find Gabe already missing by the time I get up, I decide to take matters into my own hands and go to the Skarmouth Hotel to find him. At the hotel they tell me he’s at the piers and at the piers they tell me he’s gone out on a boat, and when I ask which boat, they laugh at me and say maybe one that had a drink in the bottom of the glass.
Sometimes, I hate all men.
When I get back, I rant to Finn about how we never talk to Gabe anymore. “I talked to him this morning,” Finn tells me. “Before he left. About the fish.” I manage to contain my fury, but only barely. “Next time you see him, I need to talk to him,” I tell Finn. “What fish?”
“What?” Finn answers. He is smiling at a porcelain dog head in a faraway fashion.
“Never mind,” I say.
Then I take Dove to the beach for the afternoon high tide and she’s irritable and sluggish, in no mood to work. She’s had plenty of days like that in the past, of course, but they’ve never mattered. Not that it matters today, either, but if she’s like this on the day of the race, I might as well not get out of bed.
When I get her back to the house, I turn her loose in her paddock and toss a flake of hay over the fence. It’s cruddy islandgrass hay, I know, though I’ve never cared much until now. I glower at Dove’s hay belly and open the door to the house.
“Finn?”
He’s not here. I hope he’s out fixing the stupid Morris. Something on this island ought to work.
“Finn?” I ask again. No reply. Feeling guilty, I go to the biscuit tin on the counter and rattle the coins that we’ve stashed inside. I count them, then put them back in the biscuit tin. I imagine what Dove might do with better feed. I pull them back out again. I think that this will only buy her a week’s worth of better feed, and use up all of our money. I put the coins back in.
We’re going to lose the house anyway, unless I do something.
I fist my hands and stare at the tin.
I’ll get Dory Maud to advance me on the teapots.
Leaving