“Hey.” I stop him and remove another two cakes from the bag. “Now go.”
He trots gleefully off, so easily pleased by the arrival of food. I balance my cakes in one hand and take Dove’s reins with the other, leading her toward the cliffs. I think about George Holly’s comment about food tasting better in memories. It strikes me as a strange, luxurious statement. It assumes you’ll have not only that moment when you take the first bite but then enough moments in front of it for that mouthful to become a memory. My future’s not that certain that I can afford to wonder what will become of the taste later. And in any case, the November cake tastes plenty sweet to me now.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
SEAN
I’m already waiting when Puck gets to the top of the cliffs. I’m not the only one; about two dozen race tourists have made perches out of rocks, watching Corr and me as closely as they dare. Puck glares at them all, searing enough that some of them flinch in surprise. I’m not certain what to expect from her after last night. I don’t know how to address her. I don’t know what she expects from me or what I expect from me.
What I get is a wordless hello and a November cake in my hand. We each silently eat one under the attentive audience of the tourists and then scrub our sticky palms on the grass.
Puck grimaces at the onlookers. “Dove is timid around the water horses.”
“As she should be.”
She turns her ferocious expression on me. “Well, it won’t do for the race now, will it?”
I turn my attention to her dun mare. She’s very aware of Corr’s presence, but she doesn’t look fearful.
“She doesn’t have to love them,” I say. “A little respect will give her some speed. As long as you aren’t afraid that she’s afraid.”
I can see Puck working it out, getting her mind in the right place. Her eyes are narrowed as she studies Corr, and I wonder if she’s remembering our ride on the cliff tops.
“Myself I can trust,” she says. She looks at me as if it’s a question, but if it is, it’s one only she can answer.
“Ready to work?” I ask her.
We work.
Corr’s not at all tired from the gallop the night before, and Puck’s horse is fresh and hot in the wind. We circle and tag, gallop and skirmish. I pull ahead until Corr is distracted and then Puck is suddenly beside us, her dun mare’s ears pricked and clever. We match stride for stride, not racing, just running for the sake of it.
I forget that I am working, forget that the race is only days away, forget that she is on an island pony and I am on a capall uisce. There’s just the air past my ears and the slender moon of her fleeting smile in my direction and the familiar weight of Corr in my hands.
Then it is an hour gone by without me noticing and I have to pull Corr up. I don’t want to overwork him. Puck brings Dove to a halt, too. For a moment, I see that she’s about to say something; her tongue presses against her teeth. But in the end, all she says is my own words back to me. “I’ll see you on the cliffs tomorrow?”
PUCK
Sean’s there the next day, and the next day, and the next. I think that I won’t see him on Sunday, because I’ve never seen him in St. Columba’s and I don’t know where he would go if he’s not there. But after Mass I walk to the cliff top and there Sean is, his eyes already trained down onto the beach.
We watch the training below, exchanging only a few words, and the next day, we return on horseback. Sometimes we skirmish together, sometimes we ride dozens of lengths apart, just within sight of each other. I think every now and then about Sean’s thumb pressed against my wrist and daydream about him touching me again. But mostly I think about the way he looks at me — with respect — and I think that’s probably worth more than anything.
The only thing is, the more I see him and Corr together, the more I think of how unbearable it would be for Sean to lose him.
But we can’t both win.
SEAN
For a week we ride together, until it’s hard to remember my daily routine of going to the beach. I miss the lonely early mornings on the sand, but not enough to trade them for Puck’s company. Some days we barely speak at all, so I’m not certain why it makes a difference to me. But then, Corr and I have never needed words, either.
So it’s just hours of riding Corr slowly, building up what is already there, and hours of watching Puck invent new games for Dove to keep her interested in the work. Already Dove’s hay belly has disappeared, either through regular schooling or through better feed. Puck’s changing, too — she has a stillness about her when she rides now. More certainty and less self-conscious petulance. The transformation from the horse and rider I first saw in the surf weeks ago is startling. I no longer question why I’m training alongside her.
I’m not sure the exact moment when I realize that Corr is actually trying, not hard, but he is trying, and Dove keeps stride beside us. Even after an hour of schooling. Even beside a capall uisce.
I pull Corr up. He trips with purposeful clumsiness, showing off for the mare, and I wiggle his reins to remind him that I’m here. It takes Puck a moment to realize I’ve stopped. She doubles back. Dove’s sides heave and her nostrils flare, but her ears are still pricked and game.
I say, “You might pull this off.”
Puck’s face is half frown, half smile. She didn’t hear me. I repeat myself. I see the moment when she understands what I said, and her smile vanishes.
“I don’t know if you’re being serious,” she says.
“I’m being serious. Tomorrow you should take her down to the beach to make sure you can still handle her with all the others. To get used to it.”
Now the frown really has taken over. “Two days isn’t very long for her to get used to that.”
“It’s not for her. It’s for you. And it’s one day, not two,” I remind her. Corr dances, and I still him with my legs. “Last day the beach’s off-limits to horses. Tomorrow’s the last day on the sand.”
Dove scratches her belly with a back hoof, like a dog. She looks like less than a sure bet when she does this, and Puck must know it, because she looks annoyed and taps her boot into Dove’s side to make her stop. “You aren’t just saying that because I gave you a cake, are you?”
“No, it’s been in the rules for as long as I’ve been racing.”
She studies my expression to see if I’m serious and then makes a face. “I meant about us standing a chance.”
Corr bends around my leg, restless and losing interest in the idea of standing still. It reminds me that I need to swap his stall with Edana’s. Since she hasn’t been worked on the beach, Edana has been getting more and more restless in her window-less stall in the back seven stalls of the stable. Corr’s view isn’t much, but it might keep her settled until after the races when I have time for her again.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
“I mean really have a chance.” She looks away from me then, as if she thinks the idea we’re both competing for first might offend me.