He swallows.
“How can they do this?” I demand.
Corr makes a strange, frenzied sound, like half a whinny, a sound cut off before it began. He stands still, but he jerks his head as if trying to rid himself of a fly.
“I reckon,” Sean says, in that same low voice, “that it’s wise of you to ride your own horse, Puck, even if she’s just an island pony. Better that your heart’s your own.”
Mutt Malvern says, “I thought he’d be bigger.”
He’s climbed onto Corr, though Prince still holds the lead rope. One of the other men stands between Corr and the sea, his arms held out on either side like a fence. Mutt swings his legs and looks at the ground as if he’s a child on a pony.
“This is Mutt Malvern’s gift to me,” Sean says, and there’s enough bitter in his words for me to taste it with him. “This is my fault.”
I try to think of what I can say to comfort him. I don’t even know if he wants it. I don’t know if I’d want to be comforted, if I’m being honest. If I’m being forced to eat soot, I want to know that somewhere else in the world, someone else has to eat soot as well. I want to know that soot tastes terrible. I don’t want to be told that soot’s good for my digestion. And of course, by soot, I mean beans.
“Probably it is,” I reply. “But in twenty minutes or thirty minutes or an hour, Mutt Malvern will get bored of this. And then he will be back on that wretched black-and-white creature that he’s put on the butcher’s board by his name. And I think the piebald’s quite enough of a punishment for anyone.”
Sean looks at me then, his eyes bright, in a way that makes me feel out of sorts. I glare back.
“Where did you say your horse was again?”
“Home. Trained yesterday evening. Why did you say you quit again?”
He looks away with a rueful snort. “It was a gamble. Like you and your pony.”
“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.