The first part of this chapter, from Sean's perspective, has been written for quite a few years (probably because its more directly from the book). Bay's part took me quite some time to puzzle out, and the conversation between her and her dad in this chapter was quite some time in the making. But I'm pleased to share it with you now :)

Sean

They ask me to release Tommy's mare back to the sea. I say yes.

Sunday evening is cold and clear. Good funeral weather. But when is a funeral ever good?

The first few stars wink high overhead. The same stars that have watched Thisby since time began. As if nothing has changed. Yet no one on Thisby can ignore that everything has changed. November is almost here and the wind cuts Thisby to the core, working its way into everything it touches, eating the heart.

I dress in black. Not because I am going to a funeral. Because Tommy's mare is black. Death is black. My jacket is black.

I wasn't friends with Tommy by any stretch, but I knew him. He was a good uisce handler, if a bit light-hearted for my taste.

I walk to the beach. To ride Corr would be to fling an insult at Tommy's memory. Tommy's funeral is on one of the smaller beaches, rockier and more sheltered than the race beach.

Tommy's family are the only people on the sand when I arrive. I feel out of place, like an intruder. Mr. Falk looks up as I walk toward the funeral pyre that already lights the sand, fingers of flame licking the sky.

"You're a good man, Kendrick," he says in hoarse introduction. I only wish his words were true. "Thank you for honoring Tommy."

I tip my head. I don't have words. There are no words for a time like this.

Mr. Falk turns and walks away, gesturing for me to follow. Mrs. Falk gives me a sad smile as I pass her. One of Tommy's brothers clings to her hand, unshed tears shining in his eyes. Mr. Falk leads me to a small alcove in the cliff wall, sheltered from view of the beach. I've tethered Malvern horses here before. Tonight, Tommy's mare dances restlessly in the cove, calling softly. Singing the lament of a uisce for a lost mate. I've only heard the sound once or twice before and it sends chills up my spine.

"I don't blame her, you know," Mr. Falk breaks the song, his eyes fixed on the horse. "I know you'll treat her right, Kendrick. That's why I asked you to let her go."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll send someone up to let you know when to bring her down. You don't mind waiting up here do you?"

"I don't mind." I'd rather be up here than at the pyre.

Mr. Falk strokes the mare's nose once then heads back down the sand, a lone figure among the rocks. It makes me realize how small and fragile we are compared to Thisby, compared to the sea, compared to the capaill uisce. Absentmindedly, I turn and rub Tommy's mare like I do Corr. She shifts beneath my fingers. I am not her master. I am not Tommy. Now that he's gone, the sea calls to her more than ever. I realize I don't know her name, so I whisper of the sea to her.

"Tonight you go home," I tell her.

Home. Where is that for me?

"To the sea," I whisper. I don't know if I'm talking to the mare or myself. The wind whips across the beach, swirling and eddying around me. I tilt my head back, letting it tug at my jacket, my shirt, my hair. Tommy's mare shifts beside me. We are alive. So alive.

Just then, a slight sound reaches my ears. A footstep on loose sand. I look down to see a boy come up the beach, probably another of Tommy's brothers. He doesn't come all the way up to me — just close enough for me to see his silhouette. He waves a hand. I raise my hand in response. He turns back to the glow of the funeral pyre.

I can't see them, but I hear the soft hush of voices and people on the beach now. The black mare senses them too and her nostrils flare. Her ears prick forward, tilting toward the murmur of the crowd. She keens, low and soft. Keens for blood. The sound cuts me like a knife, calling to some wild part of me. Some part of me that is more capaill uisce than man.

I sit down on a rock near her and tug off my boots. Shoes are a decidedly human thing. The capaill uisce are never shod. Tonight, like them, neither am I. I stand, feeling the rough sand beneath my feet. I take a deep breath, listening to the waves roll onto the beach. Listening to Thisby's heartbeat. It's peaceful here, with Tommy's mare. Reluctantly, I turn my attention back toward the pyre. I tug the black's halter and we begin walking. She prances eagerly; she knows she's going home.

There are more people on the beach when I lead Tommy's mare from the alcove. I stay away from the people. Close enough that they know who I am and what I am doing, but far enough that I am not one of them. I'm tempted to look for Puck, but I keep my focus straight ahead, on the sea. I don't want to see the empty sorrow I saw on her face yesterday, when she found Tommy. I wonder if Bay came. She said she would. I don't look for her either. Because I don't want to see her cry. I don't want to see her guilt.

Tonight I am not one of the crowd. Tonight I am not from Thisby. Tonight I am not human.

Halfway down the beach the black rears and tosses, lifting me up on my toes. I murmur to her and she calms, coming back down on all fours. I pull her toward the sea. She keeps walking.

We reach the water and I feel it tug at my ankles, cold and illicit and beautiful. The mare steps higher, knees snapping. She bends her head and bites at me, but I step out of reach. "Only a little longer, girl," I whisper.

Her eyes flash.

I stare out at the water. "From the sea, to the sea." The wind carries a distant echo of my words down to me from the beach.

I turn back toward the people.

"The ashes," I say, raising my voice enough to be heard over the wind.

A boy — the same one who told me to release the horse, I think — comes toward me with a small container. He holds it out bravely. He doesn't even flinch when the mare tosses her head again. I give him a tight smile. I like his courage.

He grips the container a little tighter, but he draws himself up taller. Proud. Wind steals his black hair across his forehead. I notice that he, like me, wears no shoes.

I reach into his container and take a handful of ashes. Something catches in my throat. A feeling, heady and warm, rushes through me, and I hear a laugh on the wind before I raise my hand and toss the ashes into the air.

"May the ocean keep our brave," I say.

Beside me, Tommy's brother echoes the words, so quiet only I can hear him.

I nod at him and reach up. I slip the halter off Tommy's mare. She cries. She splashes into the surf, hooves flailing. I sway out of reach. Tommy's brother backs up a few more steps, but he doesn't run.

Then the capall uisce throws herself forward, into the waves, into the water. Her head bobs as her legs leave the sand and she kicks out, stroking for deeper water. I watch her disappear, the ocean swallowing her as if she was made of water itself.

Seawater tugs at the hem of my pants.

I stare out to sea, into the black, into the night. Into the future. Into the eyes of Thisby herself.

I almost throw myself into the sea after Tommy's mare.

Then his brother lays a hand on my arm.

I look down into his brave, dry eyes. There's something hopeful there. He clutches the container in one hand.

I nod at him and we walk back toward the funeral pyre together. Back toward Thisby. Back toward people.

Back toward a certain wild-eyed red-head in a faded green sweater standing in the flickering firelight, hugging her arms to herself.

Bay

I come to the funeral in time to watch Sean release Tommy's black uisce mare to the sea. But I don't linger to speak with anyone.

I don't want to hear Tommy's parents tell me that it wasn't my fault their son died. That I did all I could. That he would've been taken from them eventually. That Thisby is judge and Tommy's life is delivered back into her hands.

I sit on the rocks a little ways up the cliff path and watch people mingle at the pyre. I see a tall man that I think is Tommy's father. Lots of people walk up to him and say things. Nice things, I'm sure, that the wind whips away before they reach me.

I see Sean walk back to the beach with the boy who brought him the ashes and I wonder what Sean sees in him. Something, because they look downright amiable as they reach the fire. The boy says something. Sean nods and melts into the crowd. The boy stands at the edge of the gathering, watching the sea for a long time. Like it calls to him.

Like it calls to all of us who live here, no matter how much we try to deny it.

I look for Sean again, but I can't find him. Did he leave already? He's not the talkative sort. In my experience, he doesn't say much at funerals. Though I suppose that's no surprise, considering he doesn't say much most days, either.

But what do you tell a grieving family when their son, who was very much alive just a few hours ago, is gone?

What do you say when Tommy Falk is only ashes floating in the ocean?

"Bay?" A woman's voice breaks into my thoughts.

I lift my head.

"Bay Fisher?"

"Yes," I answer slowly. A woman walks up the beach to me. She has brown hair, half-tugged out of its pin-up by the wind. She wears a dress and a jacket and she looks like she's been crying. A jolt runs through me. This is Tommy's mother! They have the same mouth.

She smiles softly. Sadly. "May I join you?"

"Yes, of course," I say, even as my brain screams No! Isn't this exactly what I came up here to avoid? But how can I refuse a dead boy's mother?

She sits on the rocks beside me and stares out to sea for a long time. Just about the moment I get comfortable with the silence between us, she turns to me.

"I heard you were on the beach. The day that Tommy…" she trails off, but she doesn't need to finish the sentence.

Died. The word floats between us, unspoken.

My stomach drops. My mind races. I can't think of a single suitable thing to say.

"It's ok." Mrs. Falk puts her hand over mine, which are knotted in my lap. I hardly even realize I'm wringing them until she presses gently to still me.

Tears spring up in my eyes.

"It's not your fault, dear," she says.

The tears slip down my cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

"He knew the risks."

"But I didn't —"

"Hush, dear." She wraps one arm around my shoulders. And somehow, it is comforting. "It's not your job to save the riders. They all know. It's in their blood."

I sniff.

"Yours, too," she says.

I think I understand what she's talking about. That wild call of the sea. The way Sean Kendrick looked when he released Tommy's mare. The way we feel when the capaill uisce burst from the sea, keening. The way Thisby dances on stiff autumn mornings, when the breeze brings with it the smell of salt.

"We who are born of Thisby must return to her in the end," Mrs. Falk says. "Some…" she takes a deep breath, "...sooner than others. But we all feel her call. It is why we live. It is why we breathe. It is why we race."

I don't answer. There's none needed. I sit with Mrs. Falk and watch the ocean, watch the waves swallow her son as they must have swallowed countless men before him. I don't know how long we sit there and look out to sea, but when she finally leaves, I feel strangely peaceful.

I stand to leave too. And that's when I see Sean Kendrick and Puck Connolly silhouetted against the cliff top, standing too close to be innocent.

I watch as Puck leans her head against Sean's. He tilts his and she whispers something in his ear. A part of me wishes I knew what they were saying. Just as the rest of me knows it's not my place.

I close my eyes. This is not my scene. The wind tugs my hair. I need to leave.

I open my eyes and leave Sean and Puck standing on the cliff. Leave the mourners on the beach. Leave the sea, the wind, the sand.

For once, I find myself glad to go home.

Dad is sitting at the kitchen table when I walk in, a book lying open in front of him, tear streaks on his face, sparkling in his beard. I recognize the faintly yellowed pages — it's mom's journal. Dad looks up at me and there's an expression on his face I've never seen before. Awe, maybe, tinged with sorrow. Regret. And something deeper than that I have no name for.

"Bay," he says quietly.

"Hi." I stuff my hands in my pockets, not entirely sure where this is going. Will he be angry? Will he mind? I never told him I had the journal after I returned from the house. He didn't ask.

He clears his throat. "Where did you find this?"

I feel empty and raw under Dad's gaze, like I know things I shouldn't. Like I intruded into someplace sacred. Like I interrupted his moment on the cliffs, like Sean and Puck.

"The house, of course," I finally say.

"I didn't know they'd kept it."

I guess he's referring to my grandparents. I shrug. "They kept…a lot." I keep it vague, feeling suddenly petulant, though I don't know why.

Dad smiles sadly. "I should have gone up there and looked. After your grandparents…left. But somehow I never could find the time."

I frown. "You mean you didn't want to."

He looks like the words sting, but he nods. Then he looks me in the eye. "Did you mean to leave this sitting out?" He points at the journal.

I don't answer immediately. Because I didn't, really. I'd been re-reading it before the funeral and I forgot to put it back in my room before I left. "No."

He nods again. "Were you going to tell me?"

Was I going to show him? Probably eventually. But it felt good to hold those secrets, for a moment, like I was privy to something Dad didn't know, even though he'd lived what was written on those pages. He'd once been wild and free and alive, racing across Thisby with the wind, learning the ropes at Malvern's Yard, taming the capaill uisce.

But that was long before I knew him. Before mom died. Before he became a shadow of himself.

The stuff written in those pages? Well, it was hard to believe that my dad had ever been that carefree, that bold, that eager.

"I don't know," I finally answer. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

He raises his eyebrows.

"All of this," I gesture around us. "About your job with Malvern. Or the fact that you raced. You raced! Or that mom made your colors. Dad. When were you going to tell me?"

He chokes up. "I always meant to."

I put my hands on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, feeling suddenly unsteady.

"I did, Bay, I meant to," he whispers.

"Like you meant to visit the house?"

He looks down, running a finger across the words on the page in front of him. "After Belle died, you were so young. I didn't want to make you relive those memories before you were ready. And then I…time…just slipped through my fingers. And suddenly you were all grown up and I realized I never said half the things I meant to and a whole lot I never intended."

Dad stops, takes a moment to gather himself.

I don't know what to say.

"The gap between us just seemed to get wider and wider the more I tried to close it," Dad continues. "So I stopped trying." He looks back at me then. "And I wish I could take back all those years and give you the childhood you deserved. I wish I could go back and be there for you all those times I wasn't. I wish I could change the past."

Tears unexpectedly prick my eyes.

"I'm only sorry it's taken me this long to figure it out," he whispers.

I feel anger and relief, regret and uncertainty, hope, fear. Everything feels surreal, like maybe I'll blink and wake up and this will just be a dream. "Thanks, Dad."

He gives me a sad smile.

"You know, there's a lot I…never said either," I say. "A lot I hid from you, words I didn't really mean. I, um. Dad. Can we start over? Me and you? Be a father and daughter again?" My request is open and honest and raw. I blink and something wet slips down my cheek.

Tears fall down dad's face again as well. "Of course we can, Bay."

My heart feels like it is about to burst. I'm excited and nervous, overjoyed and terrified. I don't know what to say. Neither, apparently, does Dad, because we both pretend we're not crying in silence for a while.

Then I sniff and wipe my eyes and clear my throat. "You know, I, uh, probably need to get to bed. Race day is, um…" I trail off. Because ending this moment by reminding Dad I'm about to ride probably isn't the best thing to do.

"Tomorrow," Dad finishes for me. "I know."

"Right."

"And you're still racing?"

"Not like I can back out now."

"Good. I hope you win down there tomorrow, you know."

"What? You mean you're not — ?" I trail off, not sure what to say.

Dad nods. "Going to stop you? No. I can't stop you now, I know that. And I wouldn't expect you to back down this late in the game. We Fishers are nothing if not stubborn."

I smile. Because we certainly are that.

"Just don't do anything…dangerous." He looks at me and some of his usual stern manner comes back.

"Too late for that."

Dad laughs, though it sounds nervous.

I swallow. This is a new side of my father. Or rather, a very old side I haven't seen in a long time. The races suddenly weigh heavy on my shoulders. What if I don't make it out? What if I don't come back? What if I don't get to know Dad better? What if I never ask him about his first race or how he wooed mom or why he ended up fishing when his passion was horses?

Dad watches me carefully and his face seems to say the same thing I'm thinking.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Bay?"

"I'm making you a promise."

"A promise?"

"Yes. That I'm going to ask you about all of this when the race is over."

Dad gives me a wry smile, but I know he catches my hidden meaning. That I'll survive the races.

"I'll hold you to that," he says.

I walk over and give him a kiss. He bows his head. I haven't done that in…well over ten years. Silver tears splash mom's journal as I leave the kitchen.

Dad comes to my room late that night, after he thinks I'm asleep, and kisses my forehead and tucks the blanket around my shoulders, like he used to do when I was little.

I don't let him know I am awake.