Free The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater Page A

says, and though he sounds jovial, I can see that he’s cautious. “I think it’s time you push off.”
    As if Thomas Gratton hasn’t spoken, Sean leans into Mutt, and he says, “Five years I’ve kept you alive on that beach. That’s what your father asks of me, and that’s what I’ll keep doing. You’ll ride what I tell him you’ll ride.”
    He turns to Gratton and nods sharply, suddenly old, before striding inland. Mutt makes an obscene gesture to his back. When Mutt sees Gratton looking at him, he takes his time lowering his hand and putting it in his pocket.
    “Matthew,” Gratton says. “It’s late.”
    Dr. Halsal glances in my direction. His eyes narrow, as if he’s convincing himself of what he sees, and I hurry to retrieve Finn’s bike before he can say anything. I should be off anyway. Like Thomas Gratton said, it’s late. And I have to be up early tomorrow.
    Sean Kendrick is no one to me that his worries should be mine. He’s just another rider on the beach.

PUCK
     
    That night, I dream about Mum teaching me to ride. I’m nestled in front of her like we are one creature, her arms around me. Her fingers are stubby like mine, and it’s easy to compare them — my hands are fisted on the pony’s mane, and hers are light on the reins. It is neither raining nor sunny, but somewhere in between, as it often is on Thisby. My hands are wet with the sky’s sweat.
    “Don’t be nervous,” she tells me. The wind beats her hair against my face and my hair against hers. It’s the same color as the ruddy fall cliff grass that bows down to the ground and back up again. “The Thisby ponies love to run. But it’s easier to get a barnacle off a rock than a Keown woman off a horse.” I believe her, because she feels like a centaur, like she’s part of the pony. It’s impossible for either of us to fall.
    I wake from my dream. I have a memory of the door to the house closing and I think this is what woke me. I lie there, looking at nothing because the room is too dark to see, waiting for my eyes to adjust or waiting for sleep to return. I wipe some of the tears off my cheeks. After a few minutes, I start to doubt that I actually heard the door close.
    But then there’s the smell of salt water, momentarily terrifying, and Gabe, standing at the door to my bedroom, peering in. I can see the line of his neck as he looks. Inside my head, I say please come in, over and over again. I want so much for him to sit on the end of my bed like he used to, before our parents died, and ask me what my day was like. I want him to tell me he’s changed his mind and I don’t have to ride after all. I want him to say where he’s been out so late.
    But most of all, I just want him to come in and sit.
    He doesn’t. He silently knocks his fist against the door-jamb as if I’ve said something to disappoint him. Then he turns away, and eventually, I fall back asleep. But I don’t dream of our mother again.

SEAN
     
    The Malvern stables are a haunted place at night.
    Though I have already been awake for seventeen hours and need to be up in another five if I’m to have the beach to myself in the morning, I don’t go straight up to my flat. Instead, I take my time in the chilly stable, walking up and down the dimly lit aisles, making sure that the grooms have fed and watered the thoroughbreds and drafts as they were supposed to. They’ve mucked out most of the stalls but now that it’s nearly November, they’re too cowardly to enter the few stalls occupied by the capaill uisce, even when I had the water horses down at the beach. Part of that is the water horses’ reputation, I think, and part of it is the stable’s. Regardless, it leaves me with three stalls I don’t want the capaill uisce to stand in all night. As head trainer, my time’s supposed to be too valuable to be bothering with mucking, but I’d rather do it myself than have Malvern’s two new frightened mice do it badly.
    So while the horses make their