This chapter was a lot of fun to write, and it's one of my favorites so far...enjoy! And thank you to all who've left such encouraging reviews. This is for you guys/gals!

Chapter Seven

Bay

Tonight is the night of the Scorpio Festival. It's been a week since Peg wrote my name in the butcher's shop, but tonight is the night I confirm my decisions forever. After the ceremony tonight, there's no turning back. I've been to the Scorpio Festival before, but never as a rider, and I'm nervous. I comb my hair out and leave it loose tonight. I think it makes me look older, more serious. Dad, despite his warning otherwise, hasn't said a word about the races to me since the morning after he found Tempest. I don't know if that is a good or a bad thing, but I haven't brought up the subject either. We both skirt around each other like we're walking on nails and the atmosphere in the house has been brittle since that morning. Because of that, I spent quite a lot of the past week out of the house getting Tempest fully accustomed to a saddle and bridle or working with Sean. Yesterday morning, he asked me to go with him to show a bay capall uisce mare to Puck Connolly. I wasn't sure why Sean wanted me there. He said it was to handle the horses, but I almost think it was because he wanted a third party present. But maybe I just flatter myself. If there is anyone who can take care of himself and keep his cool in any situation, it's Sean Kendrick. I still can't believe Puck beat him on her little island horse. For Sean to lose control of a capaill uisce is rare and I can only wonder if he was distracted. But that short race boosted Puck's confidence and I have no doubt that I'll see her tonight at the rider's parade.

Shaking my head, I pull on a sweater and reach into my closet for a coat. My hand brushes cool black leather - my mom's jacket. I pause for second then pull it out of the closet. I've never worn the jacket before. Somehow it's always felt too sacred. But tonight? Tonight is sacred too. Tonight I feel like my mom would be proud of me. Tonight it feels right. I pull the leather jacket out and slide it on, admiring the way it fits like a glove. There's something almost alive about the way it feels, like maybe the jacket is infused with my mom. I feel invincible.

Dad hasn't been home since he left for work this morning, but with the Festival, he's probably already at the pub with his buddies. In a way I'm glad, because that means he won't see me wearing mom's jacket yet. I don't even know if he knows I have it. He got rid of a lot of her stuff after she died, like the memories of her were too painful. She used to love the Festival. Which, naturally, means Dad doesn't, and he'll spend the night drinking to forget about her. If I see him at all tonight it will be a miracle.

The sun is setting in a brilliant display of reds and golds as I make my way to Skarmouth. When I reach town, I stop for a minute to take in the sights and sounds before I plunge into the middle of the Festival. Tonight is the liveliest, darkest, and most magical night on all of Thisby. The town is transformed, lit by paper lanterns strung across building fronts and between street lamps. The stores are all brightly lit and, despite the cold, their doors are wide open, spilling excited hordes into the streets. The bakery is chock full and I can smell the aroma of freshly baked November cakes hot out of the oven and sticky with glaze. I know I'll have a cake or two before the night is over. There are several stalls set out in the streets advertising everything from hand made shawls and models of capaill uisce, to spicy sausages and rice, to racing trinkets and betting odds. It's a tourist trap of the worst kind and it is crammed full of gullible tourists from the mainland. Despite all that I can't help but catch the fever of excitement that permeates the air. Groups of men and boys participating in the races gather on the streets bragging about their mounts and buying each other drinks. The hotel is crowded with mainlanders drinking and smoking and discussing their favorite racers. The Black-Eyed Girl is crowded with locals doing the same. There are gambling games and betting going on on every street corner and the very air smells of November cakes and beer.

I let the crowds sweep me aimlessly through town as I try to decide whether to head to the bonfires or to indulge in November cakes first. A dark shadow suddenly materializes at my elbow. It's Sean looking black and out of place, yet strangely at home, in the bright-lit streets. He smiles at me but there's something unsettling lurking in his smile. Something feral and sharp.

"You look...fierce" he says, and I think I detect admiration in his tone.

"Thanks," I say. "It's my mom's." I hold out my arms to better show off the jacket.

"I think she likes it on you," he says softly. "You're glowing."

My heart fills near to bursting. That's the kindest, most vulnerable thing I think I've ever heard Sean Kendrick say.

Before I can think of an answer, he grins and the softer expression disappears and two November cakes materialize from his jacket as if by magic. He holds one out to me.

I grab it and pull the paper wrapper from the sticky cake then stuff a full bite in my mouth.

Sean leans against the back of a nearby bench, crossing his legs in front of him, and begins to eat his own cake. We stand together, watching the crowds mill around us as we eat. In the distance I hear the beat of the Scorpio Drummers as they wind their way through town, coming ever closer. The drums beat a ragged rhythm, matching the pounding heart of Thisby herself. I can feel the beat in my feet as the drummers get closer, rounding the corner of the street Sean and I are on.

Behind them, following with her handfuls of sand, is the horse-goddess, Epona. Somewhere along the night, she will drop a single, delicate seashell along with her customary handful of pebbles, grit, and sand. Whoever finds the shell will be granted a wish. The tourists clamor around her to try and catch the shell, while the islanders stand back and watch with patient smirks. They know Epona won't drop her shell before she's ready and that only the person that she chooses will find it. Even so, we all entertain the fancy of getting the wish. Sean has gotten the shell before and I often wonder what he wished for and if it came true. I know what I will wish if I find the shell tonight.

The drummers draw even with us and then pass us, their beat drowning out the noises of the crowds. My ears ring and my breath catches with the stirring excitement their rhythm induces. Just then, I catch a glimpse of Epona in her blood-stained tunic. Even though I know she's just a Thisby woman in costume, a woman I would recognize under that horse head mask and flowing tunic, I still feel my heartbeat spike. Her dead obsidian eyes survey the crowds with a haughty, prideful air as she sways to the beat of the Scorpio Drummers. Sean's attention is locked on his November cake as the horse goddess draws closer. It's almost as if he's trying to avoid her. But instead of passing us like everyone else on the streets so far, she stops right in front of Sean. She looms over us, silent and weighty and stifling. Sean looks up and meets that dead, black gaze.

"Did you get your wish, Sean Kendrick?" she asks.

"Yes," he answers so quietly it's a wonder Epona can hear him through that heavy horse head.

"And you are happy." It is not a question.

"Of course," Sean answers, but his words sound strangely empty and hollow.

Epona nods sagely then cups Sean's face in her hands, smearing blood across his cheeks. She whispers something to him so low that even I can't hear it. Then she releases Sean and turns away in a swirl of skirts. She takes her place behind the drummers once more. As she walks away she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of sand, letting it trickle between her fingers onto the road beneath her.

Sean watches her go with a strange look on his face that I can't identify. He looks unbalanced, like the ground has been pulled from under his feet. And deep down, so hidden I can barely tell it's there, is fear. It's an expression I don't think I've ever seen on Sean Kendrick's face. Not even when his father died.

"So," I say quietly, "Does that mean you get the wish?"

Sean shrugs, half-turning towards me, but his focus is still on the receding form of the horse goddess. When he does finally look at me his gaze is miles away. He looks dark in the flickering glow of the festival, the blood glistening in crimson trails on his face. I shudder.

"You look—" I falter, at a sudden loss to describe how he looks.

"I know," he says, reaching up and running his thumbs across his cheeks, leaving pale streaks in the red blood. Unexpectedly, he reaches out and traces my cheekbones with his blood-stained fingers, leaving two dark stains of war paint on my face.

"Now you look it too," he murmurs, a strange tone of satisfaction in his voice.

I frown. I don't think I want to look like Sean Kendrick right now. I reach up to wipe the blood from my face, but Sean grabs my wrist and stops me. For a moment we stand still, oblivious to the crowds around us, focused on each other. I hold Sean's gaze for as long as I am able but it's like trying to hold fire. I look away. He drops my wrist and laughs softly. There's something wild in the laugh. Wild but alive. So alive.

Before the rider's parade and ceremony, Sean and I head to the butcher's shop. Sean needs to order meat for Malvern's capaill uisce and I need to do the same for Tempest. I finger the money in my pocket that I've brought for that purpose. When we get to the yard behind the shop, Beech Gratton is butchering meat with a vengeance. He's probably ticked off at having to stay at work while the rest of Thisby is playing at the Festival. He looks up as Sean and I approach and wipes his hands on the already bloody apron tied around his waist.

"You look like the devil," he says to Sean. Sean doesn't answer, but I think he takes the statement as a compliment. Then Beech notices me. "So do you." He says, raising an eyebrow in surprise. I feel my face redden beneath the blood. I don't wear the dark as naturally as Sean.

"How's the Festival?" Beech asks casually, but I know he's itching to get away from his work. I can tell by the careless way he slashes the meat. His dad won't be thrilled with the cuts Beech lays out. They aren't half as nice as they should be and won't fetch a fair price.

"As always," Sean replies. Beech takes that to mean infinitely more exciting than what he's doing right now.

"I'll be out there in ten minutes," he tells us as he makes a particularly jagged cut with his knife.

"You'll be out there when you're done!" Peg Gratton's voice cuts across the yard from the open back door of the butcher's shop. I could swear Sean pales and looks perfectly ghastly. Peg's voice sends a thrill up my spine because I had assumed she was in Epona's costume. Hearing her voice now here robs the horse-goddess of familiarity and casts her in an inhuman light once more. Coupled with whatever Epona whispered in Sean's ear earlier, I can only imagine how that makes Sean feel.

Beech groans and rolls his eyes. "Fifteen minutes," he mutters under his breath as Sean and I make our way past him into the shop to place our orders.

After business is taken care of, we wander back outside and stroll the streets for a little while, working our way toward the cliffs and the bonfires. I'm glad to reach one of the two towering bonfires burning and licking greedy tongues of flame at the sky. It provides welcome warmth from the cold Thisby night. The stars above are nearly obliterated by the fire's massive glow. Islanders and tourists alike stare at Sean and I. In the firelight I'm sure Beech's assessment of our faces is particularly accurate.

As Sean and I stand as close to the fire as possible, soaking up the warmth, we come across Thisby's most unpleasant resident and the last person I want to meet tonight—Mutt Malvern. I know he sees us because he strides across the grass toward us with purpose and a malicious sneer pasted on his face. I don't know which of us the sneer is directed toward, but I have a feeling it's Sean. This is the first time I've seen Mutt up close since the night I punched him and I'm pleased to note that his nose is not as straight as it once was. It gives his face an even crueler quirk. As Mutt walks, he pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket. Stopping just in front of us, he tilts the paper so that we can both see what's written on it.

"I've waited a long time for this, Kendrick," he hisses. Then he laughs and crumples the paper, throwing it into the wind, where it sails off the cliff and slowly falls into the sea below. Sean watches it dispassionately, but I feel anger rise in my chest like boiling water. Looking around me, I spy a box filled with scraps of paper and I walk over to it. Pulling a pencil and a bit of paper from the box, I hastily scribble a name on the wrinkled paper. Written forwards, these little scraps of paper are sea wishes, akin to Epona's shell. They're supposed to grant the wishes of whoever tosses them into the sea. Written backwards, they are said to be curses of the worst kind, seized and executed by the sea, the cruelest of oath keepers. I stand up, admiring Mutt's name the way it was meant to be written—backwards. It looks like a curse all in itself. I crumple the paper into my fist and turn to throw it over the cliff, only to be stopped by Sean. He effortlessly wrests the paper from my grip and unfolds it. He knows what's on the paper before he even reads it. A frown darkens his face as he looks back up at me. With the slightest shake of his head he turns and casually tosses the crumpled sheet into the fire. I don't know if that nulls the curse or makes it all the more effective, but I get the strange feeling Sean was displeased with what I wrote. Of the object of my resentment, there is no longer any sign.

Just then, we hear the call of "Riders! Riders, this way! To the rock!" and we join the crowds that wind their way toward the riders' rock. As always, the riders' parade is a disorderly mass of people, all shoving and seething towards the rock. The riders are in a ragged line in front, and this year, I take my place among them. I scan the crowds briefly for Puck, but see no sign of her. The crowd eventually reaches the rock, with stragglers constantly trickling in from the streets until I think that every person on Thisby must be packed around the rock tonight. The riders are still arranged, loosely, in a half-circle closest to the rock, broken by the more eager of the tourists in the crowd.

A man gets up on the rock, Eaton, I think, to make the traditional blood sacrifice to the man who won't ride. I shiver as he declares, "Rider without a name! Horse without a name! By his blood!" I've heard the older folks on the island whisper about how they used to kill a man on that rock every year. The man who wouldn't ride. I wonder if they forced him not to ride so that they'd have a sacrifice or if he knew the consequences and refused to ride anyway. I don't want to imagine a Thisby who kills the ones who don't ride.

Eaton steps down as Peg Gratton ascends the rock and takes her place as the Spirit of Thisby in a feathered robe and headdress. A gleaming knife is in her right hand, the knife that will spill rider blood and seal our oaths tonight.

"Riders, to me!" she calls and instantly there is a small crowd of men gathered at the base of the rock, willing, ready, and eager to spill their blood and bind their ties to their horses, to the race, to the island. The first up is Ian Privett. He walks coolly onto the rock and holds his hand out to Peg.

"I will ride," he announces in a strong clear voice. Peg draws her knife across his finger and a drop of crimson splashes the rock beneath them. "Ian Privett. Penda. By my blood." And then he's off the rock and the next rider is up. It's Mutt Malvern. He swaggers across the rock and holds out his hand as if he's already won the races. I scowl.

"I will ride," he declares loudly. "Matthew Malvern. Skata. By my blood," he affirms as the blade traces his fingertips.

Skata? I steal a glance at Sean. That's not the horse he told me Mutt would ride. Sean is stiff and there's a frown in his eyes, but he's not looking at me. His focus is on Mutt as Mutt turns off of the rock and meets Sean's gaze with a nasty smirk. I don't think Mutt is capable of smiling without cruelty.

Several more men and a few boys step up and declare their intentions to ride. Tommy Falk steps off the rock just as Sean moves forward to take his place. Sean steps up on the rock and the crowd immediately goes quiet, all holding a collective breath. Sean's lithe figure is sharply outlined against the lighter gray of the rock and the bright orange of the bonfire in the background. The fire suddenly flares, sending sparks dancing into the air around Peg and Sean. Their shadows leap and dance as their outlines bleed into Thisby herself. They are spirits, frozen for a moment in fire and I feel like Sean might melt into the night. But then he speaks and his form is solid again, solid as the rock under his feet.

"Sean Kendrick. Corr. By my blood," he says in a voice like the sea before a storm, low and restless. The crowd breaks into wild cheers as Peg draws her knife and Sean's blood mixes with that of the riders before him. He turns back toward the crowds and his face is startlingly lit by the firelight. He doesn't smile, making his eyes the brightest thing in his blood-streaked face. I feel like his gaze could penetrate my soul. I feel my breath catch in my throat as I realize that right now my best friend is terrifying. He takes his place at my side again and gives me a little shove. "It's now or never," he whispers in my ear. His breath rolls over me like distant thunder, a harbinger of danger. This isn't a side of Sean I see often, but it's my least favorite side of him. When he gets like this, it's like handling lightning and I'm just a conduit for the power rolling off him.

I take a deep breath and a step forward, but, once again, Puck Connolly beats me to it. I stop and watch as she crosses the grassy slope in front of the rock. She reminds me of a leaf in autumn wind. If Sean were to whisper to her I think she'd blow away. As it is, Sean watches her intently, a strange expression on his face. He's rarely this interested in any rider, but I can't tell if he's interested because he's displeased with Puck or because he wants to see her ride. Puck climbs the rock and stands in front of Peg.

"I will ride," she says in an unwavering voice. Something within me silently cheers her on, while some other part of me watches her skeptically. She holds out her hand and Peg lifts her knife, but before the blade touches Puck, a voice interrupts. "Wait!"

I scan the crowd to see who shouted just as Eaton and a couple of his buddies step forward looking stern and displeased. "She can't ride," Eaton declares solidly, leaving no room for argument.

"And why not?" I'm surprised to hear Puck answer Eaton. I thought Peg would have been more likely to challenge the men. It's another reminder of Puck's hidden courage. She may not look like she's got guts, but she stands up for herself when it really matters. And by the look on her face, I can see that this really matters to her right now.

"There's never been a woman in the Scorpio Races before, much less a girl," Eaton's lip draws up into a sneer on the word girl, "and I don't intend to let that change now."

"There is no rule against a woman racing," Puck reminds him quietly. I wonder how many times she's said that this week.

"There are rules to this race that go deeper than pen and ink, girl. Rules written in blood and kept by the sea," Eaton snarls.

"Then let the sea decide," a new voice breaks in like the tide crashing over the sand. It's Sean'. I realize that he no longer stands next to me but that he stepped out from the crowd and now stands, arms crossed, challenging Eaton. "There are more important things on Thisby than blood," Sean continues. "And one of them is courage." When he says that he looks straight at Puck.

Eaton looks disgruntled but he can tell that the crowds have licked up Sean's words and are leaning in favor of Puck. "So be it then. Let the sea decide," Eaton backs down reluctantly. His statement is a challenge and a warning to Puck all in itself, but Puck turns back to Peg and holds out her hand regardless.

"Kate Connolly. Dove. By my blood."

The knife flashes briefly in the firelight and for the first time ever, a woman's blood mingles with that of countless men before her. After Puck, there are only a few riders left to declare themselves. I walk forward quickly. Like Sean said, it's now or never.

Puck

I step off the rock to see Bay Fisher brush past Sean and head for the rock. Her hair is down tonight, something unusual for Thisby women, who usually keep their hair up to keep it out of the wind. She wears a dark leather jacket that makes her look sophisticated and grown up and suddenly I feel like a child in my ragged green sweater. The firelight gives a wild cast to her face, which I'm surprised to see is streaked with two dark stripes that look suspiciously like blood. The dark streaks on her cheeks match two pale lines in the chaos of Sean Kendrick's face. It's as if they are mirror images of each other, one dark where the other is light, and vice versa. Bay strides up to the rock with purpose, her head held high. She thrusts her hand out like she's giving Peg a handshake. I envy how steady she is, how easy she's making this look. I wonder if maybe my declaration gave her that purpose.

"I will ride," she confirms in a strong voice, daring anyone to contradict her. Eaton looks dark as a thunderhead, but he doesn't argue. After all, he already let one girl into the race and he would just be making a scene if he denied Bay. Besides, I'm sure that Sean Kendrick is willing to do more than just say a few words in her defense. Those two have been friends for as long as they've been alive. In fact, I'm not at all sure why Sean stood up for me in the first place. I barely know him and I'm sure he's got better things to do than champion female rookies in the races. But something in me glows with pride - I caught Sean Kendrick's attention and he seems to like me.

Peg waits a heartbeat longer than usual, as if uncertain, before she draws her knife across Bay's finger. Bay clenches her fist, letting the blood well between her fingers before opening her hand, palm down, over the rock and splashing several drops of her blood on the stained surface.

"Bay Fisher. Tempest. By my blood." Her last words are almost a shout and when she turns around, her face is a mask of fierce determination.

Tonight we have sworn our intentions. In two weeks we ride.