Read Online The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater - Free Book Online
Authors: Maggie Stiefvater
Tags: Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Survival Stories, Sports & Recreation, equestrian
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looking at him.
I try to think of something catchy to say, but there’s nothing but irritation that something that was funny to an eleven-year-old boy is still funny to a seventeen-year-old one. So I just say ferociously, “I don’t have time for you tonight, Joseph Beringer!”
This is true always, but truer tonight. I’m supposed to sign up as a race participant today, I think. Because of my hurry, Finn graciously offered to feed Dove for me. When I left, he was looking at a bucket as if it was the most complicated invention he had ever seen.
Beside me, Joseph is going on about my bedtime again — he likes to just take a topic and worry it to death, never a danger of missing anything subtle with him — and I simply ignore him as I hurry down the walk to Gratton’s, the butcher shop. As I look at all the people, some of them tourists already, I think about how Mum used to say that we needed the races, that this would be a dead island without them.
Well, the island’s alive tonight.
Gratton’s is a riot of sound, with people spilling out onto the walk. I have to push my way through the door. I wouldn’t say people in Skarmouth are rude as a rule, but beer makes people deaf. Inside, the place is abuzz with noise and a crooked line leads around the walls. The ceiling feels low and crowded with its exposed timbers close overhead. I’ve never seen so many people in here before. In a terrible way, though, it makes sense that the butcher’s should be the unofficial center for the races, on account of this is where all the riders get their meat from.
Except me.
I see Thomas Gratton straightaway, shouting directly into someone’s ear by the opposite wall. His wife, Peg, is behind the counter, smiling and chatting, a piece of chalk in her hand. Thomas may own the place, but Dad said that Peg ruled it. Every man in Skarmouth is in love with Peg. Dad said this was because they knew that Peg could cut their heart out neat and they loved her for it. Certainly isn’t for her looks. I heard Gabe say once that Mutt Malvern had bigger tits than Peg. Which I suppose is probably true but I remember being very shocked at my brother saying something so crass and unfair, because what say does a girl have in how big her chest gets?
I edge into the single line of people that leads to where Peg writes names up on the chalkboard. I am standing behind a man in a dull blue jacket and a hat, and his back is so high he blocks my view of everything. I feel like I’ve become a toddler in a room that dangles with meat hooks. Thomas Gratton roars to the crowd to stop smoking in the shop and men roar laughingly back at him about Thomas not being able to stand any heat near his meat.
I begin to feel uncertain, like I’m not sure I’m even supposed to be standing in the line. I think people are looking at me. I hear people at the counter placing bets. Maybe I’m wrong and this has nothing to do with signing up for the races. Maybe they won’t even let me sign up with Dove. The only positive thing is that I’ve lost Joseph Beringer in the process.
I step to the side of the giant in front of me to read the chalkboard again. At the top it says J OCKEYS and then, to its right, C APAILL . Someone has written meat in small letters next to J OCKEYS . And then, beneath all of that, there is a gap, and then the names begin. There are more names under J OCKEYS than there are under C APAILL . I feel like asking the mountain of a man in front of me why that is. I wonder if Joseph knows. I also wonder if Gabe has gotten home. And I wonder, too, if Finn has managed to work out how a bucket works yet. Mostly I can’t think about any one thing for too long.
And then I see him. A dark-haired boy who is made of all corners. He is standing next in line by the counter, silent and still in his blue-black jacket, his arms folded across his chest. He looks out of place and wild in here: expression sharp, collar turned up against the back of his neck,
I try to think of something catchy to say, but there’s nothing but irritation that something that was funny to an eleven-year-old boy is still funny to a seventeen-year-old one. So I just say ferociously, “I don’t have time for you tonight, Joseph Beringer!”
This is true always, but truer tonight. I’m supposed to sign up as a race participant today, I think. Because of my hurry, Finn graciously offered to feed Dove for me. When I left, he was looking at a bucket as if it was the most complicated invention he had ever seen.
Beside me, Joseph is going on about my bedtime again — he likes to just take a topic and worry it to death, never a danger of missing anything subtle with him — and I simply ignore him as I hurry down the walk to Gratton’s, the butcher shop. As I look at all the people, some of them tourists already, I think about how Mum used to say that we needed the races, that this would be a dead island without them.
Well, the island’s alive tonight.
Gratton’s is a riot of sound, with people spilling out onto the walk. I have to push my way through the door. I wouldn’t say people in Skarmouth are rude as a rule, but beer makes people deaf. Inside, the place is abuzz with noise and a crooked line leads around the walls. The ceiling feels low and crowded with its exposed timbers close overhead. I’ve never seen so many people in here before. In a terrible way, though, it makes sense that the butcher’s should be the unofficial center for the races, on account of this is where all the riders get their meat from.
Except me.
I see Thomas Gratton straightaway, shouting directly into someone’s ear by the opposite wall. His wife, Peg, is behind the counter, smiling and chatting, a piece of chalk in her hand. Thomas may own the place, but Dad said that Peg ruled it. Every man in Skarmouth is in love with Peg. Dad said this was because they knew that Peg could cut their heart out neat and they loved her for it. Certainly isn’t for her looks. I heard Gabe say once that Mutt Malvern had bigger tits than Peg. Which I suppose is probably true but I remember being very shocked at my brother saying something so crass and unfair, because what say does a girl have in how big her chest gets?
I edge into the single line of people that leads to where Peg writes names up on the chalkboard. I am standing behind a man in a dull blue jacket and a hat, and his back is so high he blocks my view of everything. I feel like I’ve become a toddler in a room that dangles with meat hooks. Thomas Gratton roars to the crowd to stop smoking in the shop and men roar laughingly back at him about Thomas not being able to stand any heat near his meat.
I begin to feel uncertain, like I’m not sure I’m even supposed to be standing in the line. I think people are looking at me. I hear people at the counter placing bets. Maybe I’m wrong and this has nothing to do with signing up for the races. Maybe they won’t even let me sign up with Dove. The only positive thing is that I’ve lost Joseph Beringer in the process.
I step to the side of the giant in front of me to read the chalkboard again. At the top it says J OCKEYS and then, to its right, C APAILL . Someone has written meat in small letters next to J OCKEYS . And then, beneath all of that, there is a gap, and then the names begin. There are more names under J OCKEYS than there are under C APAILL . I feel like asking the mountain of a man in front of me why that is. I wonder if Joseph knows. I also wonder if Gabe has gotten home. And I wonder, too, if Finn has managed to work out how a bucket works yet. Mostly I can’t think about any one thing for too long.
And then I see him. A dark-haired boy who is made of all corners. He is standing next in line by the counter, silent and still in his blue-black jacket, his arms folded across his chest. He looks out of place and wild in here: expression sharp, collar turned up against the back of his neck,
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