“Horse.”
“Right.” Sean looks back to Corr. “Why did you say you were racing again?”
I hadn’t said, of course. It goes against everything in me to confess the true reasons behind my decision. I can imagine it being chatted all over Skarmouth, as easily as Dory Maud told me how Sean Kendrick had quit over Corr. I haven’t told Peg Gratton, even though it seems like she is on my side, nor Dory Maud, and Dory Maud is nearly family. But I hear myself say, “We’ll lose my parents’ house if I don’t win.”
I realize then how foolish it is to say it. Not because I think Sean Kendrick will gossip. But because he’ll know now that I hope not only to race but to make money at it. And that’s a terribly fanciful thing to be saying to Sean Kendrick, four-time winner of the Scorpio Races. He is quiet for a long moment, his eyes on Corr and Mutt on his back.
“That’s a good reason to gamble,” he says, and I feel incredibly warm toward him for saying that, instead of telling me that I’m a fool.
I exhale. “So was yours.”
“Do you think so?”
“He’s yours no matter what the law says. I think Benjamin Malvern’s jealous of it. And,” I add, “I think he likes to play games with people.”
Sean looks at me in that sharp way of his. I don’t think he realizes how it impales people. “You know a lot about him.”
I know that Benjamin Malvern likes to drink his tea with butter and salt in it, and that his nose is big enough to hide acorns in. I know that he wants to be entertained but that few things manage it. But I don’t know if that means that I know him.
“Enough,” I reply.
“I’m not,” he says, “fond of games.”
We both look back to Corr, who has, against everything I would’ve thought, settled down. He stands perfectly still, looking over the crowd, his ears pricked. Every so often, he quivers, but otherwise he doesn’t move.
“Should I see how fast he is?” Mutt says. He turns in the saddle to eye Sean, who doesn’t flinch. David Prince, still holding the lead, has an odd expression as he glances over to us. A bit guilty, a bit apologetic, a bit thrilled.
“Ho, Sean Kendrick,” Prince says, as if either we or he has just appeared on the beach. “Any advice?”
“Don’t forget about the sea,” Sean says.
Mutt and Prince exchange a laugh at this.
“Look how tame he is,” Mutt tells Sean. And surely, Corr’s ears are pricked and interested. He sniffs at his saddle and at Mutt’s leg as if surprised only that it’s not his usual, as if it’s a curious turn of events. The bells on his bridle shrill almost inaudibly with the movement. “None of Sean Kendrick’s much-touted brand of witchcraft needed. Does it bother you that he’s so faithless?”
Sean doesn’t reply. Mutt’s eyes swipe over me dismissively. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone take so much pleasure in making someone else miserable. I remember that first night when I saw them both outside the pub, the hatred that lurked in both their expressions. There’s nothing hidden about it now; it’s an ugly sore. Mutt addresses the crowd – tourists, most of them. “What do you think? I’m about to take the fastest horse on the island out for a gallop. He’s a legend, right? A hero? A national treasure. Who doesn’t know his name?”
They clap and hoot. Sean is immobile, a piece of the cliffs.
“I know it!” I shout then, and my voice is so loud that it surprises me. Mutt’s gaze finds me next to Sean. I call, “But what’s yours, again?”
I give him my most horrible smile, the one that I learned from having two brothers.
As I watch Mutt’s face light up with anger and listen to the murmur of amusement from the onlookers, I remember, too late, Dory Maud’s advice.
“Where’s your pony, then?” Mutt snaps back. “Plowing fields?”
I’m more embarrassed by the attention than by the insult. Probably because when I’m done down here, I’ll be back in Dory Maud’s booth selling baubles to tourists. It occurs to me that Mutt Malvern doesn’t know me well enough to say something to properly hurt me.
It’s not me that Mutt wants to hurt anyway. He calls, “I have to say I’m pleased for you, Kendrick. Is she a better ride than you’re used to?” He pretends to caress Corr’s rump. I feel my cheeks go hot. Sean’s face doesn’t change and I wonder at it – is it practice? Is it that he’s heard all these things too many times for them to prick his skin?
Beneath Mutt, Corr moves restlessly. He pushes his nose toward Prince, nuzzling into his chest. Prince scratches his forehead and pushes back.
“Steady, old lad,” he says. Prince tilts his head back to face Mutt. “Are you taking him out, then? Before the tide gets up on us?” As he speaks, Corr presses again, more insistently, so that the bells ring again, and Prince pushes back.
“Yeah, indeed,” Mutt replies. He wiggles one of the reins to get Corr’s attention; Corr still nuzzles and pushes at Prince. I see the shudder of Corr’s skin beneath the ironbound breastplate they’ve put on him.
“Okay, now,” Prince says. Corr’s muzzle is at his collarbone, like Dove does when I scratch her mane and she’s feeling fond. Prince lays his hand flat on Corr’s cheek as Corr’s breath whuffs against Prince’s neck.
Sean’s feet kick up sand even as he shouts. “David!”
Prince looks up.
Quick as a snake, Corr’s flat teeth crush into his neck.
Mutt Malvern hauls back on the reins; Corr climbs into a rear. The crowd shouts and scatters. The other two men who were with Mutt leap back, uncertain if they should defend themselves or help Mutt. Sean jerks to a stop, face turned from the spraying sand. On the ground, Prince arches his back, his feet scrabbling. I can’t look away.
Corr rears again, and this time, Mutt can’t keep his hold. He rolls out of the reach of Corr’s hooves and comes up bloody. Prince’s blood, not his. The stallion’s eyes are white and rolling as he spins. His gaze is on the surf. Everyone else’s gaze is on him and on Sean, but none of them is moving.
When Corr circles another time, I dart across the sand to where Prince lies. I can’t tell how badly he’s hurt; there’s too much blood to see his skin. I’m afraid that Corr will trample him, but I don’t know if I can move him. The best I can do is stand between him and the hooves and try to press down this horror inside me.
Corr turns and cries out again; this time it’s like a choked sob. There’s a spiderweb of veins standing out on his shoulder.
“Corr,” Sean says.
He doesn’t shout it. It doesn’t seem loud enough to be heard above the sound of the hoofbeats and the surf or the sound of Prince’s gagging, but the red stallion stills. Sean holds his arms out and approaches slowly. There’s blood on Corr’s lower jaw; his lips quiver. His ears are flat back against his head.
“Hold on,” I whisper to Prince. Up close, he’s not as young as I thought; I can see every line carved around his eyes and mouth. I don’t know if he can hear me. He holds fistfuls of sand and his eyes on me are a terrible, terrible thing. I don’t want to touch him, but I reach down. When he feels my fingers, he clutches my hand so hard that it hurts.
Near Corr, Sean shoulders off his jacket and abandons it on the sand, then tugs his shirt off over his head. Underneath, he’s pale and scarred. I’ve never given much thought to whether broken ribs healed straight before now. Sean speaks to Corr in a low, low voice. Corr shakes, his eyes rolling toward the ocean.
Prince’s blood is all over me. I’ve never seen so much blood before. This is how my parents died. I tell myself not to imagine it, but it doesn’t matter; I can’t picture it. There’s just no way to make my mind accept the possibility of it, and I’m sorry that I can’t. Because as terrible as imagining that might be, it has to be better than living in this current reality with Prince’s shaking hand gripping mine.