The Scorpio Races

by Maggie Stiefvater

It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die.

She is my mare and my best friend, and I keep waiting for something bad to happen to her, because I love her too much.

Neatness makes me feel like I have to be on my best behavior. Clutter is my natural habitat.

“Boys,” she says, “just aren’t very good at being afraid.”

“You look in fine spirits.” “Do I?” “Well, your face looks like it remembers a smile,”

“I believe in the same thing they believe in,” I say, with a jerk of my chin toward town and St. Columba’s. “I just don’t believe you can find it in a building.”

“Why is it that going away is the standard? Does anyone ask you why you stay, Sean Kendrick?” “They do.” “And why do you?” “The sky and the sand and the sea and Corr.”

“It’s easy to convince men to love you, Puck. All you have to do is be a mountain they have to climb or a poem they don’t understand. Something that makes them feel strong or clever. It’s why they love the ocean.”

This is about as comforting as a cold brick when you’re lonely.

I’m careful to close the gate as I found it, because I’m aware it’s the worst crime on a farm to do otherwise.

You're right, good girl Puck

“Something tells me my spit wouldn’t mean as much to Corr as yours would.” There’s a long pause before Sean speaks. He says, “Maybe not yet.” Yet! I don’t think I’ve heard such a fine word before.

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.

I let his compliment slip down nice and easy. It’s quite agreeable and I’d be happy enough with another.

I’m quite happy for the smile, because Dad told me once you should be grateful for the gifts that are the rarest.

I say, “I will not be your weakness, Sean Kendrick.” Now he looks at me. He says, very softly, “It’s late for that, Puck.”

“You leave nothing to assumption,” Dory Maud says. “You swallow her with your eyes. I’m surprised there’s any of her left for the rest of us to see.”

Just a wild black horse in a deep blue sea full of the ashes of other dead boys.

The evening sun loves her throat and her cheekbones.

“I didn’t say I would start a yard.” “You didn’t have to. I’ll come back next year and you’ll have a nest of horses outside your window and Puck Connolly in your bed and I’ll buy from you instead of Malvern. That’s your future for you.”

“What I need is for your mother to have thought a little harder nine months before your birthday.”

Damn Puck

He is slow, and the sea sings to us both, but he returns to me.