The end of this story has been an incredibly long time coming. I think it's been about 10 years since I first posted this! I can't believe it's actually got an ending now. (It does, I promise!) An ending that I'd always planned for it to have, but never quite had all the pieces lined up for back in the day. For anyone reading this now, if you've stuck around for 10 years, my hat's off to you! And if you're just now finding this for the first time, greetings. ;)
Chapter Twenty
Bay
That evening, I try not to think about Sean Kendrick going to dinner at Puck Connolly's house. Instead, I ask Dad if I can investigate my grandparents' house. He hands me a key ring, rusted with sea water and disuse and declines when I ask if he wants to join. I don't press him. He is in one of his melancholy moods tonight. So I saddle Tempest and ride over to the house alone.
I arrive as the sun drops behind the trees, bleeding orange. Dad said there wasn't electricity in the house, so I brought a flashlight. I dismount and tie Tempest to a hitching post off the front porch. I leave him with an extra cut of meat from Gratton's to keep him satisfied and head up the front steps. The porch creaks under my weight, each step a different sound, but the boards hold and I walk up to the blue front door. There's a window in the door, about head height, but it's so dusty I can't see through it.
I pull the keys out of my pocket. There are five on the ring and I realize Dad didn't tell me which one goes to the house. I fit keys to the lock and find the right one on the third try. The key turns and the door gives way after a slight shove. I find myself in a short entryway, a small table on my right. Directly in front of me is a staircase leading to the second floor, and to my right and left, doors lead into what look like a parlor and dining room.
The house is dark, even with the late evening sun shining through the chinks in the shutters. Most of the furniture is covered in dropcloths, giving everything an eerie quality. I flick on my flashlight and walk around downstairs. Everything in the house seems frozen in time, all the more so because the clock on the parlor mantel is stopped. There are doilies on the end tables and dishes in the cupboards, as if the house expects someone to come home. I half-expect to find food in the kitchen, but here at least, the house shows signs of emptiness – the shelves of the pantry are bare, not a can or jar in sight.
After investigating downstairs, I make my way upstairs, leaving footprints on the dusty wood floors. At the top of the staircase is an end table covered in family photographs. A smiling couple that must be my grandparents holding a baby girl wrapped in a pink blanket. A girl with sandy pigtails and a gap-toothed grin beside a cake with six glowing candles. A teenager standing with a pony and her parents, proudly holding a blue ribbon. I watch my mom grow up in faded photographs. I pick up the last photo on the table – my parents' wedding picture. Mom is beaming in a simple white dress, holding a bouquet of daisies. Dad's in a grey suit with a smart red vest and they're standing in a field under the bright summer sun, both smiling. They look so happy, so...perfect. I put the photo back, feeling a tight knot in my chest.
I walk through the bedrooms on the second floor. These too are frozen, sheets and blankets tucked into dusty beds, faded pillows waiting for heads to rest on them again. I find my grandparents' room, and a plain room that was probably a guest room. Maybe where a scruffy teenage mainlander fresh out of a job found refuge for the night. But there's nothing of note in the guest room, nothing that would prove my dad was here.
I pause outside the last room upstairs. This must be my mom's room. My heart speeds up in my chest. Are her things still here? Or has the room been cleared? Would grief make my grandparents erase mom, the same way they left the island?
I put my hand on the knob, take a deep breath, and open the door.
My flashlight beam picks up a faded blue quilt on the bed. Hanging above the headboard are a plethora of ribbons, most of them blue, a few red, yellow, or white. Hand-drawn horses are painted across the top of the pale blue walls, running in a spray of sea foam. A desk stands in one corner under the window, with a bookshelf beside it. Nothing in this room has been touched. Everything's here.
My mom is here.
I take two steps into the room and freeze. I don't know what to look at first. The journal on the beside table? The sketchbook lying open on the desk with a half-drawn horse? The bookshelf packed with tattered edges and dog-eared pages?
I take two more steps and open the closet. A few old clothes hang in it, moth-eaten sweaters, a couple pairs of jeans, some button-up shirts. There are blankets stacked in the top of the closet, along with an old feed carton and a couple of candles. I pull the candles out of the closet and set them up on the desk and bedside table. A quick search of the kitchen yields a box of matches and I light the candles as daylight fades outside.
I sit down on the bed, pick up the journal, and begin to read.
It's full dark by the time I find myself in front of the closet again, staring up at the feed carton. Mom's journal is tucked under my arm. My eyes are blurred by unexpected tears. Tears brought on by stories of a dark-haired mainlander and a young romance between my mom and Malvern's foreman. A foreman who cared enough about the horses to walk away when Malvern demanded the unreasonable from him. Who felt lost without those same horses. Who found himself again in the arms of an island Queen.
Who stayed in the room next to mom's for a few weeks while he tried to get his feet under him.
Who moved into the old foreman's cottage on the property at her parents' suggestion.
I read stories of dancing under the stars and stolen kisses and a night of love in the old stable, mom and dad breathless and giddy with the excitement of it all.
I can hardly believe they were ever that happy.
It makes my chest tight. I ache for the memories they must have made. For the life they had. For what should have been.
I look up at the carton and take a deep breath. The last few weeks and the last few pages of mom's journal taught me there's very little about my parents I actually knew.
Like how my dad once rode in the Scorpio races. Callum Fisher, the man who hates the sea and the things that come from it.
My fingers brush the edge of the carton as I stretch up on tiptoe to pull it down. It almost falls, then I get a better grip and balance it against my shoulder. I set it gently on the floor and pull open the flaps.
I reach into the box and pull out a set of bottle green race colors. Hand-stitched.
My mom made his colors.
The colors slide across my hands and pool in my lap, soft, clean, alive. Like the sea. Like hope. I spread them out on the floor, imagining the shape of a uisce filling them out. I look back into the carton. There's a photograph inside, and a rope with bells attached, like they sometimes hang off the capaill uisce's bridles. There's also a November bell and a hand-carved little statuette. I pull it out and gasp. The features are rough, but it's Dad! Wearing his colors. Someone painted them green, to match the colors on the floor beside me. Mom must have had this commissioned. They wouldn't've carved a rookie, not like this, not on his first year racing. With my stomach doing flips, I pull out the photograph.
Dad stands beside a storm-dark capall uisce, looking proud. Mom stands beside him, leaning forward to plant a kiss on his cheek. A race official, probably the real owner of the capall stands nearby. Dad is proud and fierce and looks straight at the camera with a come-and-get-me smile.
I feel my heart pound my chest.
My dad raced.
My dad rode the capaill uisce.
He rode in the Scorpio Races.
And he survived.
A million questions burst on my lips, but there's no one here in the silence to ask them to.
I look up and realize just how dark it is outside. I've been here for hours.
I feel a sudden need to be with another living person. The house is too quiet, too still. The memories too oppressive. I understand why Dad said he couldn't live here. How mom's handprints are too obvious.
I quickly fold the colors back into their box and put the photograph and the figurine on top. I close the carton and put it back in the closet. Other than mom's journal now tucked into my sweatshirt pocket and my footprints in the dust, there's no indication I was even here. I blow out the candles and flick on my flashlight to make my way back downstairs.
The house sighs around me, as if it knows I'm leaving.
I pause at the door and look back up the stairs, half-expecting to see someone descending them behind me, but there's nothing. Just empty space where laughter and life and love once lived.
"I'll be back," I whisper.
The house is silent.
I mount Tempest and ride away across the field.
But I don't go home. Not yet. I need to think everything through first.
I find myself at the Yard without thinking about it.
Did I guide Tempest here? Or did he know where to bring me on his own? I'm not sure. The ride over is misty, hazy, covered in dark clouds and the scent of rain on the wind. I dismount in the Yard and tether Tempest. He dances restlessly, eyes on the barn.
"You smell the other capaill uisce?" I whisper.
He snorts and stamps the ground. I stroke his neck a few times. It's odd for him to be this restless, but perhaps I'm more wound up than I realized and he's feeding off my mood. I rub a circle on his cheek, then I walk toward the barn.
I start to head for the stairs to Sean's flat when I hear it. Something furtive, further in the stable.
A footstep.
A hiss, a rasp, the sound of metal on wood.
I pause.
It could just be the horses settling for the night. But something has the hair on the back of my neck on edge. A cool breeze play across my skin, shifting my braid over one shoulder, and I shiver.
A light blinks on down in the stables, muted. It blinks off a moment later. I swallow hard. That's near Corr's stable.
Is it Sean?
I glance up the stairs toward his flat, but his closed door tells me nothing.
I look around for a weapon and come up with a pitchfork leaning against a nearby wall. Better than nothing, I suppose. I grab it and walk slowly down the long, dark aisle, ears perked for strange sounds. My breath comes quick and sharp. I try to calm my thudding heart.
I hear a whimper from one of the stalls. The door stands open and blood-red trails of footprints stagger out.
Corr's stall!
I race forward, stopping at the edge of the enclosure.
A horse lies awkwardly against the wall, head craned by the gate, back legs splayed. I swallow hard and look again. It's not Corr. I take a step into the stall. It's Edana, I think. I see white points glow in the dim stable.
Blood flows sticky red across the straw on the floor.
I feel sick.
Why is Edana in Corr's stall?
Why would someone hurt her?
Unless they meant…
I hear a scuffle deeper in the stable. There's a thrum, like the surf on the sand. Edana tries to call back, her cry broken, pain-filled. I hear a shout. I race down the aisle to find Sean and Mutt facing off outside another stall.
This time, I know it's Corr in the stall.
Good God! Is Mutt trying to kill Corr?
Mutt holds a fishing spear in one hand, a blood-red blade in the other. He looks wicked and wild. Sean stands a few steps away, a switchblade flashing bright and dangerous in one hand.
My heart leaps to my throat.
They could easily kill each other.
They could kill Corr.
Corr might kill one of them.
I don't want to watch either of them die, despite my feelings about Mutt. But I feel frozen, useless. What am I supposed to do? I don't want to shout, to distract Sean and give Mutt an opening to slash Sean's throat like he must've done Edana's hamstrings.
Both boys are tense, eyes locked on each other. They've obviously been here for a bit. I wonder what they've said to each other.
Mutt's eyes flick briefly towards me at the same time Sean lunges. Sean is quick and smooth, a deadly shadow suddenly in Mutt's space, his knife resting on pale skin at Mutt's throat.
I gasp. The pitchfork slips from my numb fingers and clatters on the floor.
Sean looks back for a fraction of a second, eyes widening.
"Bay," he hisses. I've never heard Sean sound like this, seen him look like this. "Get out of here."
"Sean."
"Get out!" It's not a shout, but his tone lances me anyway. Sean's never told me to leave before.
Something flickers in Mutt's expression then. Fear?
"You said to beat you on the sand, Kendrick," Mutt says.
"I said ten drops of your blood for every one of his," Sean snarls, jerking a head towards Corr. The red capaill uisce stamps restlessly, eyes rolling, head tossing.
Sean's hand shifts, the blade tilts. I squeeze my eyes shut. I know what's coming.
"Sean Kendrick!" a voice snaps across the stable.
I open my eyes and turn to see Malvern standing at the top of the aisle. Someone stands half-behind him and it takes me a moment to recognize Daly, looking uncertain and uneasy. Malvern's eyes flick to me for only a moment and he dismisses me as so much scenery. Right now I wish nothing more than for the darkness to swallow me up. Anywhere but here.
Sean doesn't move.
Mutt looks at his father with something pleading in his expression.
Malvern takes in the spear and knife in Mutt's hands with a look of displeasure.
"It's late," he says. I feel the implications like a weight on my shoulders.
Sean reluctantly removes his knife from Mutt's throat and closes the blade.
"I don't know what you're doing down here, but I believe you should be in bed." Malvern looks at Mutt, but his words are directed at Sean. At all of us. As if we're all stupid, he clarifies, "All of you." He looks at me.
I swallow hard.
Mutt makes the first move, shoving past Sean and walking stiffly out of the stable, past his father, past Daly. Malvern watches him go, every line of his body like stone. Unforgiving. Unyielding.
Somewhere in the dark, Edana cries again.
Malvern scowls.
Sean shivers.
Daly jumps.
I fight the urge to clamp my hands over my ears.
Sean looks like he's fighting something inside himself. It wins. He opens his mouth, staring straight at Malvern. "I would not have been sorry."
Silence descends on us. Malvern works his jaw, as if he's thinking of saying something, but I'm pretty sure what comes out isn't what he was thinking. "Take care of her, Kendrick."
For a split second, I think he's referring to me, but then I realize he means Edana.
Malvern spins smoothly on one heel and walks out of the stable, Daly in his wake.
Sean's lips are a tight line, his face pale and drawn. He snaps his head over at me, eyes flashing. "What are you doing here?"
I cross my arms. I don't like the tone of Sean's voice. All the things I came here to say suddenly die in my throat. "Not important."
Something in Sean's face falls. "Bay, I -"
"Don't."
He scowls and something in his expression hardens again. "I need to take care of Edana." His words are clipped as he starts to walk past me.
I grab his arm and stop him. "I'll do it."
Sean spins, looking dark as a thundercloud. "Bay, you need to -"
"I'll do it," I cut him off, daring him to argue. Sean doesn't need to be in the stable right now. He doesn't need blood on his hands. Not after…tonight.
He looks at me with shaded, hollow eyes. His gaze flickers towards Edana's stall. I know he feels like the mare's his responsibility. His gaze lingers on Corr and for once he doesn't hide his pained expression. He's torn between leaving the scene of his murderous anger and protecting the blood-red stallion.
"He'll be fine," I say. "I'm here."
He looks back at me, as if sizing me up. As if deciding whether I'd be enough against Matthew Malvern.
I feel my cheeks heat with anger. "Mutt's not coming back," I say. "Malvern will make sure of that."
Sean flinches and I realize my words came out more harsh than I intended. I don't apologize.
Edana screams again and we both wince. I need to take care of her quickly. Sean motions for me to follow and walks upstairs to his flat. When we get there, he pulls a rifle out from under his bed and hands it to me. It's a sleek thing, smooth and oiled – walnut stock and a black steel barrel. I didn't even know Sean owned a gun.
"It's loaded," he says.
I frown. The fact that he keeps a loaded gun in his apartment doesn't settle well. Is it for the horses? Or someone else?
He catches my frown and starts to ask, "Do you – "
"I know how to use it." And I do. It's one other thing my dad taught me. I heft the weight of the gun in my hand, then walk over to the door and head downstairs, leaving a cold, silent Sean standing by his bed.