“There’s a bit of money for second and third,” I say. She fumbles her fingers through a knot in Dove’s mane. “Would that be enough?”
Puck’s voice is faint. “It would help.” Then her tone changes abruptly. “You should come to dinner with us. It’ll be beans or something else absolutely lovely.”
I hesitate. My dinner is usually taken in my flat, standing up, the door hanging open, the stable waiting for me to go back out to the rest of my work. Not with my legs tucked under a table, trying to find words and answers to polite questions. Dinner with Puck and her brothers? It’s mere days until the race. I have to clean my saddle and my boots. I need to wash my breeches and find my gloves in case it is rainy or the wind is brittle. I need to swap Corr and Edana and clean their stalls. I should go to the butcher’s again to see if they have anything that would do Corr good.
“It’s okay,” Puck says. She has a quick way of hiding her disappointment. If you’re not looking for it, she’s put it away somewhere before you know it was there. “You’re busy.”
“No,” I tell her. “No, I’ll — think about it. I’m not sure if I can get away.” I don’t know what I’m thinking. I cannot find the time to get away. I’m not a good dinner companion. But it’s hard to think of that. Instead I’m wishing that I’d spoken sooner, before I’d seen her disappointment.
Puck rallies with the best of them. “If not, I’ll see you on the beach tomorrow?”
This I’m certain of. On horseback, it’s easy to be certain. “Yes.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
PUCK
Gabe brings home a chicken and Tommy Falk for dinner. Truth be told, I’m not unhappy to see any of them: Gabe, because it’s been so long since we’ve had dinner with him; the chicken, because it’s not beans; and Tommy Falk, because his presence makes Gabe cheerful and goofy. They toss the plucked chicken back and forth over my head until it loses its wrapping and I shout at them as I pick it up off the floor.
“If we all die of plague or whatever is on this floor, I want you to know it’s not my fault,” I say. There’s a bit of silt stuck to the dimpled skin of the chicken’s back.
“Just scrub it off. A little dirt never hurt anybody,” Tommy Falk says. “Gabe says you make a mean chicken.”
Finn, who is sitting by the fireplace making smoke, comments for the first time. “Well, she certainly doesn’t make a nice one.”
“You can shut up or make it yourself.” It turns out that the dirt on the chicken is the least of my worries. My hands are filthy. It takes me quite a long time to make my hands clean, and even once they’re mostly pale again, they still smell suspiciously like both Dove and Corr.
Gabe crouches over the radio, trying to get it to pick up one of the mainland music stations, which only works when the weather is just right and the appropriate slain sacrifices have been made. In the absence of radio entertainment, Tommy Falk sings a bit of a song that he caught on the radio before the storm. The house feels full for the first time in months.
“Bands, Gabe,” Tommy says. He’s settled next to Finn, helping him turn the smoke into fire. He stretches out to take my father’s concertina where it had been abandoned near the armchair. He plays the same tune he just sang; it sounds more mournful on the concertina. “Can you imagine it? Concerts.”
He’s talking about the mainland, of course. Because it’s not just the race that is days away.
“And the cars,” adds Gabe. “And oranges every day.”
“Also,” says Tommy, “bands.”
Finn studies the fire.
I study the chicken.
“Don’t be down,” Tommy says, leaping up when he sees my expression. “It’s not like we won’t come back. We’ll send money, too. Haven’t you seen Esther Quinn’s clothing, Puck? Her brother’s on the mainland selling something to somebody and he sends home money — that’s why she looks like she was bought from a catalog. When’s a good visit, Gabe? Easter, maybe? Easter’s a good time to come back. We’ll throw more chickens.”
Gabe takes the concertina from Tommy and slides out a tune; I’d forgotten how well he could play. Tommy grabs my waist and swings me around in a circle. I drag my feet because I am opposed to people touching me when I’m not expecting it. Also because it will take more than dancing to cheer me up. Tommy says, “Come now, you can move faster than that! Everyone says you were a spitfire on the cliffs this morning.”
I let him spin me at that. “They do?”
“They’re saying that you and Sean Kendrick were burning up the cliffs.” Tommy spins me again and grins at me. “And when I say you and Sean Kendrick, I mean you and Sean Kendrick. And by burning, I mean burning.”
I jerk to a stop and spin him instead. I pretend he’s talking about racing. “You worried?”
“It’s Gabe who should be worried,” Tommy says. He takes my hands and swings me wide enough that I worry for the objects on the counter. “Because his baby sister’s growing up so fine.”
Mum said that I shouldn’t be moved to do anything by someone with sweet words, but Tommy Falk doesn’t seem to be trying to persuade me of anything, so I let his compliment slip down nice and easy. It’s quite agreeable and I’d be happy enough with another.
Gabe stops playing mid-measure, his hands around the concertina spread as if he holds a book open. “Don’t make me punch you in the mouth, Tommy. When’s that chicken going to be done, Kate?”
Tommy mouths, Oooooh, Kate to me, but Gabe refuses to rise to the bait.
“Twenty minutes,” I say. “Maybe thirty. Maybe ten.” There’s a tap on the door then. We all exchange looks, Tommy Falk’s as uncertain as the rest of ours. No one moves, so I finally wipe my hands off on my pants, go to the door, and open it a crack.
Sean stands on the other side, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a loaf of bread.
I wasn’t prepared for it to be Sean, and so my stomach does a neat little trick that feels like either hunger or escaping. There is something very shocking about seeing him standing dark and still on our doorstep.
I lean out the door a ways. The night’s getting chilly. “You got away from the yard.”
“Is it still all right?”
“It’s all right. It’s me and Gabe and Finn and Tommy Falk.”
“I’ve brought this.” He holds up the bread, which is clearly a Palsson’s loaf, and it’s still so fresh that I can smell the warmth of it. He must’ve come straight from there. “Is that what’s done?”
“Well, you’ve done it, so it must be.”
Gabe asks, “Puck, who is it?”
I open the door wide to reveal the answer. They all look at Sean standing there with his hand in his pocket and the other hand around a loaf of bread and it occurs to me all in a rush as they stare at him that Sean looks a little, just a little, like he’s courting. I don’t have time to explain the truth of it before Tommy laughs and jumps to his feet. “Sean Kendrick, the devil. How are you?”