The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [80]
This earns him a laugh. It’s not until the laugh’s over that I realize he means me.
Finney’s bay snaps at Ake as they trot closer. Just a squabble, but the sound of those teeth snapping makes Dove flinch.
“It’s a shame what passes for humor these days,” I reply. I try to hide how much work it’s taking for me to hold Dove steady. The wind was bad enough, and now capaill uisce.
“It’s got a bit of currency,” Ake says. I can’t see the important parts of his expression in this light, so I can’t tell if his smile is a funny one or not. “Down on the beach, they’ve started calling you Kevin.”
Before I can stop them, my fingers dart self-consciously up to the edge of my hat to feel if any of my hair curls out. Gabe once joked, years ago, that Finn and I looked alike if you looked at just our faces. I’m a bit ashamed at how much the idea that I might be mistaken for a boy distresses me.
“That’s hilarious,” I say. “I’m riding in the race, so I must be a boy.” As Ake and Finney come closer, I let Dove trot around in a small circle to hide the fact that I can’t hold her in a full stop.
Ake shrugs, like he could’ve thought of better. Behind him, Finney’s bay crow-hops, crashing into the chestnut, who nearly stumbles into Dove. Dove’s fear shivers through the reins.
Ake laughs as Finney hurriedly gathers up his bay.
“Pisser,” Finney says, pulling his bowler hat down to restore his ego. He jerks his chin in my direction. “Come on, Kevin, let’s see what you got.”
“Don’t call me that,” I reply. He and Ake circle me; their horses dwarf Dove. They must know that it’s driving her to a frenzy. “And I was just finishing up.”
Finney says, “Come now, be a sport. They said you were a whip.”
“I’m not racing you right now,” I say. I grid my teeth into a smile. “But I’ll watch you boys.”
Ake laughs. It’s not a mean laugh, but it’s not a thoughtful one, either. He says, “Tommy says you’d race us.”
I find Tommy beyond them. He shakes his head.
“Then Tommy doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I reply.
Finney asks, “Where are your balls?”
I need to get away. In the back of my head, I’m thinking that this is going to be a problem, that Dove’s going to have to deal with a lot more than this on the day of the race. But that’s a faraway concern. The more immediate one is that Dove is shaking and ready to break.
“You’re the one who said I have them, not me.” I glance behind me, looking to see if there’s room to back Dove away from them. A few drops of rain spatter across my face. The worst of it is that there’s nothing mean about Finney and Ake; they’re being just like Joseph Beringer. Only Joseph Beringer never teases me from the back of a massive capall uisce.
“The bookies are here,” Finney says, elbowing back toward the onlookers. “Don’t you want to show them something better than your forty-five to one?”
Finney lets his bay jostle into Ake’s mare again, and the chestnut shoves against Dove, hard. I hear teeth snapping and Dove squeals, the wind ripping through her mane. I cling to her as she rears. Behind her left ear, I see a shallow scrape where the capall’s teeth grazed her. The blood wells up in a dozen small drops.
“Give me some room!” I shout.
I’m simultaneously terrified and humiliated as I hear myself. It’s the voice of a scared little girl.
Ake and Finney hear it, too, because their faces change. Ake hauls on his chestnut’s reins so hard that she nearly rears. Finney kicks his bay away from Dove.
They’re both looking at me, Ake especially, with apologies in their expressions.
Dove lifts her head to the wind and whinnies, shrill and terrified. Ake keeps backing his horse away. I’m relieved to have distance between her and the capaill uisce, but at the same time, I’m ashamed down to my bones by this space suddenly surrounding me.
From their vantage point nearby, the bookies wipe moisture from their hats and murmur to each other before they walk away without a glance back for me. Ian Privett, still watching from Penda, nods to Ake before