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done. “Okay. That would be good.”
    Finn gets his hat. I get my hat. I knitted both of them myself, and mine is patterned in white and two different shades of brown. Finn’s is red and white. They’re lumpy, but they fit.
    In our hats, we stand among the wreckage of the kitchen. For a moment, I see the room like anyone else might see it. It looks like everything around Finn has crawled out of the mouth of the kitchen sink drain. It’s a mess, and we’re a mess, and no wonder Gabe wants to leave.
    “Let’s go,” I say.

SEAN
     
    That first day, Gorry has me come down to the beach before anyone else to try a piebald mare he has dredged from the ocean some indeterminate time before. He is so certain that I will want her for Malvern that he’s priced her high enough for two horses. Under the dark blue early morning sky, the tide just starting to pull back from the sand, my fingers frozen where they poke from my fingerless gloves, I watch him trot her back and forth for me. Her hoofprints are the first on the beach; the tide has wiped the sand clean, removing all traces of Mutt’s botched efforts the night before.
    She’s striking. Water horses come in every color that normal land horses do, but, like land horses, most are bay or chestnut. Less often dun or palomino or black or gray. It’s very rare to find a piebald water horse, equally black and white, sharp white clouds across a black field. But flashy color doesn’t win races.
    The piebald mare doesn’t move terribly. She has a good shoulder. Lots of capaill uisce have good shoulders. Unimpressed, I watch black cormorants spin through the sky above us, their silhouettes like small dragons.
    Gorry brings the mare to me. I hitch myself onto her back and look down at Gorry. “She’s the fastest capall uisce you’ll ever sit on,” he says in his grainy voice.
    Corr is the fastest capall uisce I’ve ever sat on.
    Beneath me, the piebald mare smells like copper and rotting seaweed. Her eye, turned toward me, weeps seawater. I don’t like the feel of her — sinuous and hard to hold — but then, I am used to Corr.
    “Take her out,” Gorry says. “Tell me you can find anything faster.”
    I let her trot; she minces through the packed sand toward the water, ears pinned to her mane. I thumb my iron pieces out from my sleeves and track them counterclockwise on her withers, right on a heart-shaped spot of white. She shudders and twists her body away from my touch. I don’t like the unhorse-like tilt to her head or the way that she never unpins her ears. None of the horses are to be trusted. But I trust her less than most.
    Gorry urges me to gallop her. Feel her speed for myself. I doubt that there is anything she can do at a gallop to convince me that what she is like at a trot is worth it. But I let out her reins and nudge her sides.
    She is down the beach like an osprey diving for a fish. Breathlessly fast. And always, always conscious of the water, angling toward the sea. And again, that sinuous, slippery movement. She seems far less horse than sea creature to me, even now, even in the deep of October, even on dry land. Even with me whispering in her ear.
    But she is fast. Her strides eat the sand, and we pass by the cove that marks the end of the good surface in only seconds. The rush of speed bursts through me, like bubbles popping on the surface of water. I don’t want to think of her as faster than Corr, but she must be close. Anyway, how can I know, without him there?
    It’s beginning to get rocky. When I move to slow her, the piebald courses upward in a rear, her teeth snapping, predatory.
    All of a sudden she smells overwhelmingly of the sea. Not of the beach, which is what most people think is the odor of the sea. Not of seaweed, or of salt, but of your head beneath the surface, breathing water, lungs full of the ocean. The iron has no effect as we pelt toward the water.
    My fingers work through her mane, tying knots in threes and sevens. I sing in