His jacket is absolutely filthy, caked with dried sand and blood and stiff with salt water on top of it all. It’s like a piece of canvas sail. I was going to just drape it over Sean’s bare arm, but without his shirt to soften it, it would chafe.
“I’ll bring it to you,” I tell him. “I’ll wash it with my horse blanket. Where do I bring it?”
“The Malvern Yard,” he says. “For now.”
I look back to Prince. There he is, stretched out, and someone’s gone to get Dr. Halsal to declare him well and truly dead. The men chat quietly next to his body, as if lowered voices show their respect. But I can catch snatches of their conversation and they’re talking about race odds.
“Thanks,” Sean says.
“What?” But I’ve already realized what he’s said, my brain catching up to real time. He sees the realization in my face and nods, shortly. Pulling Corr’s head down, Sean whispers to him, and then he puts his hand to the red stallion’s side. The stallion starts as if Sean’s palm is fiery. But he doesn’t lash out, and Sean leads him away from the beach and back toward the cliffs. He stops only once, an arm’s length from Mutt. From here, he looks wiry and pale without his shirt on, just a boy with a blood-red horse.
“Mr. Malvern,” he says, “would you like to take your horse back to the yard?”
Mutt just stares at him.
As Sean leads Corr away from the beach, I crumple and uncrumple his jacket in my hands. I can’t quite make myself believe the truth of it. That ten minutes ago I held a dead man’s hand. That days from now I will put myself on a beach with a few dozen capaill uisce. That I told Sean Kendrick I’d clean his jacket for him.
“Bit of a bollocks.”
I turn. It’s Daly.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Bollocks,” Daly says again, that helpless swearing that comes from needing something better to say but not having it on hand. “The whole island is.”
I don’t reply. I don’t have anything to say. I hold Sean’s jacket tightly to still my shaking hands.
“I want to go home,” Daly tells me, voice miserable. “No game’s worth this.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
SEAN
Benjamin Malvern wants to meet at the hotel in Skarmouth. That’s a game itself, somehow, because these days the Skarmouth Hotel will churn with people, every room filled with tourists for the races. While the butcher’s is a local hub for betting and news, a place where the riders know to come for talk, the hotel is where the mainlanders compare notes and talk about the day’s training, scratch their heads, and wonder if this mare or that stallion will calm down enough to be a contender in the race. For me to stand in the hotel lobby where Malvern arranged for us to meet is for me to be gobbled up.
So I step into the hotel, out of the cold, but I slide through the lobby as quickly as I can and find a stairwell to wait in. It looks like it leads upward to only a few of the guest rooms, so the odds of being bothered are slight. I rub my arms — it’s drafty — and peer upward through the stairs. The hotel is the grandest building on the island, everything about it designed to make someone from the mainland feel at home. So the architecture inside is painted columns and civilized wooden arches, cornices and polished wood. A Persian rug cushions my feet. On the wall adjacent to me is a painting of a thoroughbred posing in a bridle, standing before a halcyon landscape. Everything about the hotel says that those who stay here are gentlemen and scholars, cultured and safe.
I steal a glance into the lobby, looking for Malvern. Knots of race tourists stand in twos and threes, smoking and discussing the training. The room is full of their foreign, broad accents. From a room off the lobby, a piano plays. The minutes move sluggishly. It’s a strange neverland, right now, between the festival and the races. The most die-hard of race enthusiasts arrive for the Scorpio Festival, but Skarmouth isn’t large enough to entertain them long. There’s nothing for them to do until the races but watch us live and die down on the sand.
I retreat back into the stairwell and cross my arms against the draft. My thoughts won’t be contained, and they run out again to the memories of the image of Mutt Malvern on Corr. Of the sound of Corr’s cry. Of the curl of afternoon-red hair on Puck Connolly’s cheek.
This feels like dangerous ground.
I hear the stairs above me creak as footsteps descend. I look just in time to see George Holly trotting brightly down the stairs, like a boy. When he catches sight of me, he checks himself sharply and ducks against the wall as if it were his destination all along.
“Hello and hello,” Holly says to me. He looks like he hasn’t slept, like the storm cast him up on the shore and left him to choose land or sea for himself. It’s an odd thought, as I can’t think of what George Holly does with himself when he’s not watching the horses. Something loud and enthusiastic, no doubt, anything that can be accomplished in a white sweater. It’s strange how I’ve come to feel friendship with someone so different from myself.
I nod.
Holly says, “Right, and always the nod. So you’re waiting on Malvern, then.”
I’m not surprised that he knows. News of my quitting took only a moment to spread across the island like a cough, and I’m sure that whispers of Corr’s violent morning took even less. I nod again.
“And of course he’s meeting you in this stairwell.”
I glance out into the main room again. I realize that I’m at once impatient for Malvern to come and say his piece, and hoping that he’ll be late so I can delay hearing what he has to say. I ball my fists up in my armpits, but this cold inside me is nerves, not temperature.
“What you want is a jacket,” Holly says, observing my posture.
“I have a jacket. Blue one.”
Holly ruminates on this for a moment. “I remember it now. Thin as a dead child?”
“That’s the one.” In Puck Connolly’s custody. That might be the last I see of that jacket.
“Did you ever wonder …” Holly says, after a pause. “No, perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you know. If anyone knows, you do. I’ve been wondering as I’ve been here, why it is that Thisby has the capaill uisce and no one else does?”
“Because we love them.”
“Sean Kendrick, you’re an old man. Do you smoke? Me neither. We might as well with the air in here. Have you ever seen so many men doing nothing so busily? Is that your final answer, by the way?”
I shrug and reply, “This island’s had horses for as long as it’s had men on it. On the other side of Thisby, there’s a cliff cave with a red stallion drawn on the wall. Ancient. How long do you have to be in a place before it’s your home? This is their home on land.”
I’d found the drawing once while looking to catch a capall. At low tide, the cave led so far into the island that it felt I’d come out the other side if I pressed much farther. Then, all at once, the tide had roared in so fast and sudden that I’d been trapped. I’d spent hours braced on a tiny, dark ledge, each push of the surf soaking me again. Below me, I’d heard the low shrills and clucks of a water horse somewhere in the cave. To keep myself from falling, I’d eventually rolled onto my back on the ledge, and there, high above me where the water couldn’t reach: the drawing. A stallion brighter than Corr, painted in a red that had only faded a little, the pigment out of the reach of the sun. There was a dead man at his feet, too, in the drawing, a dash of black for his hair, a line of red for his chest.