Maybe you need a foot in the sea to be able to see beyond your horse’s bloodlust.
“It’s about wanting,” I say eventually, after some considering. “The tourists always seem to want something. On Thisby, it’s less about wanting, and more about being.” I wonder after I say it if he’ll think I sound like I have no drive or ambition. I suppose in comparison to him it must seem that way. I seem at once cursed to say precisely what I’m thinking to him and unable to tell what he thinks about it.
He says nothing at all. We watch the horses mill and surge below us. Finally, he says, not looking at me, “They’ll still try to keep you off the beach. It won’t have ended last night.”
“I don’t understand why.”
“When the races are about proving something about yourself to others, the people you beat are as important as the horse you ride.” His eyes don’t leave the piebald.
“But that’s not what they’re about for you.”
Sean pushes up to his feet and stands there. I look at his dirty boots. Now I’ve offended him, I think. He says, “Other people have never been important to me, Kate Connolly. Puck Connolly.”
I tip my face up to look at him, finally. The blanket falls off my shoulders, and my hat, too, loosened by the wind. I can’t read his expression — his narrow eyes make it difficult. I say, “And now?”
Kendrick reaches to turn up the collar on his jacket. He doesn’t smile, but he’s not as close to frowning as usual. “Thanks for the cake.”
Then he strides off across through the grass, leaving me with my pencil touching my paper. I feel like I’ve learned something important about the race to come, but I’ve no idea how to write it down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SEAN
The first thing I do when I get back to the yard is search for Benjamin Malvern. I feel the same slanting, groundless sensation that I felt while training Fundamental, after encountering Puck for the first time. That I felt after the mare goddess told me to make another wish. I’d never realized how changeless this changeable island was until it turned into something different than I’d ever known.
I find Malvern at the gallops with two men at his elbow. He’s got his head jutted forward like he does when he’s with buyers, as if he can bully them into buying. The other two men are standing huddled; they look cold and damp, cats left out in the wet.
The first thing I notice when I draw closer is the filly they’re looking at: Malvern Mettle, a filly with promising speed and heart. She’s generally willing to do more than she’s able, which is always better than the opposite.
The next thing I notice is that one of the buyers is George Holly. When he sees me, realization dawns on his expression. He says something to the other buyer and then to Malvern. Malvern nods his head, smiling but looking like he’s unhappy about it. He points them back toward the house, and George Holly shepherds the other buyer in that direction.
As we pass, Holly juts his hand out in my direction and says, “Sean Kendrick, right? Happy morning.”
I allow him to shake my hand as if we are strangers and I raise an eyebrow at his guile. Then he and the other buyer are gone, leaving me to Malvern.
I join Malvern by the rail of the gallop. He frowns in the direction of Mettle. One of the grooms is riding her, and she’s playing and lazy. Mettle’s got a peculiarly ugly face — ugliness and coarseness are traits that for some reason seem to accompany the fastest of the thoroughbreds — and right now she is flipping up her mule-like upper lip as she gallops. The groom’s not taking her to task, either; I’m not sure if he just doesn’t know what she’s normally capable of doing or if he’s disinterested. But either way, Mettle is taking him for a walk in the park.
Malvern speaks, finally. “Mr. Kendrick. Is this filly always like this?”
I consider how to answer. “She’s out of Malvern Penny and Pound and by Rostraver.” Penny and Pound is one of Malvern’s favorite broodmares and the rumor is that Rostraver’s won so much over hurdles on the mainland that no one will race against him.
“The blood doesn’t always come through,” Malvern says. He spits and looks back to her.
“It came through.”
“And she’s out for a lark in front of the buyers, is it?”
All I can think about is what I’m about to ask him, but it’s not the right moment. Instead of answering, I grip the rail and slide beneath it, walking across the track to where the groom — another one of Malvern’s new ones, no one tolerates the grooms’ quarters and the pay for long — walks Mettle around in a circle, cooling her down. I walk up to Mettle and take hold of her bridle.
“Ho,” the groom says to me, surprised. He’s young as I am. I think his name is Barnes but I can’t be sure. Maybe Barnes was the last one. “Sean Kendrick!”
With my free hand, I reach up and snatch the crop out of his hands. I haven’t even touched Mettle with it and she dances in a circle, pivoting around where I hold her. “Malvern is watching you. You’re going to take her out again and you’re going to make her work. She’s having you on.”
“I was pressing her,” Barnes insists.
I lightly touch the crop to Mettle’s hamstrings and she crow-hops forward as if I’ve slapped her. She knows my voice and she feels my certainty where I hold her bridle. “Maybe you were. But she didn’t believe you, and neither did I. Take this back.”
Barnes takes the crop and gathers the reins back up again. Mettle is trembling and eager now, held only by my touch on her bridle. Barnes looks at me, and I can see that he’s scared of the potential, scared of speed. I think he’d better learn to love it soon.
I release her bridle and lift my other hand as if I’ve still got the crop in it, and Mettle explodes off the mark, down the gallop. I watch her for a moment to see how Barnes handles himself — he’s not half-bad, despite his terror — and to see if Mettle stays on it. I could’ve done better, but still, at least she’s working now.
I walk back to the rail and duck under. Malvern’s eyes follow Mettle as he scratches his chin; I can hear his fingernails on his skin.
I put my hands in my pockets. I don’t need a stopwatch to know that Mettle has bettered her time. For a moment, I’m silent, reaching for something that will give some weight to what I’m about to say. But there’s nothing for it but to just say it. “I would buy Corr from you.”
Benjamin Malvern casts me a look that is cross if it is anything, and looks back to the gallop. He produces a stopwatch, which I see now he’s had nestled in his hand all this time, and clicks it as Mettle reaches the end of the gallop.
“Mr. Malvern,” I say.
“I don’t like having the same conversation twice. I told you years ago, and I can hear that I’m repeating myself, he’s not for sale to anyone. Don’t take it personally.”
I know, of course, his reasoning for not selling Corr. To sell him is to lose a strong contender for the Scorpio Races. To sell him is to lose one of the biggest pieces of advertising he has.
“I understand why you don’t want to sell him,” I say. “But maybe you’ve forgotten what it was to ride for someone else and not have a horse to call your own.”