Devils And Unicorns

Chapter 2

It had been another hot afternoon in Marsh Crossing. It was a strange name for a place seemingly untouched by marshy terrain for at least twenty-eight years, which was the length of time Florence had existed on this planet and therefore in the small coastal settlement. Only twenty-two individual households made up the village, and the training centre occupied by Florence was its most noteworthy feature, to the extent that the name 'Marsh Crossing' had become synonymous with the stables as opposed to the settlement as a whole. The location and landscape of Marsh Crossing – beautiful, sandy beaches and an oasis of green at this hilly edge of the northern Driftland wastelands – made it a desirable place to live, and the vast majority of its inhabitants were affluent. The destitution that had ravaged the country in recent decades had barely touched Marsh Crossing, and its residents led comparatively sheltered lives compared to those who dwelt in the larger settlements further south. Up here, olive trees lined the cliff tops, and the tumbledown walls were covered with fruit-bearing vines and wallflowers in a thousand different colours. All of the buildings were constructed out of pale terracotta-coloured brick and warm grey stone. The local tavern, The Quill, was friendly and clean. The whole placed was an insulated haven in a wasteland of suffering.

In spite of her scenic surroundings, as she stood leaning over the door of the empty box once filled by the athletic outline of Ruse, Florence felt pessimistic. It had been two months since the Ramnock Stakes and the departure of her stable star, and her superstitious streak had traced a downward spiral ever since.

She turned around and leant back against the door, leaving the cold darkness of the stable so that she might regard the last brightness of the day.

The yard at Marsh Crossing had been handed down to her by her father upon his retirement four years ago. When Florence had been growing up, every one of the twenty boxes had been occupied and the winners came regularly, but now all but three stood vacant.

Terence 'Red' Acreman had been one of the best trainers of his generation. Seven individual winners of the Perchborn Gold Cup had been sent out from Marsh Crossing under his watch, and Florence had been old enough to remember five of them. Her favourite had been the grey Bashimori, who still grazed the fields of her parents' smallholding on the other side of the settlement. The best had been the formidable Jethro, a tremendous dark brown horse with a mean streak and a bad attitude. Red Acreman had done a marvellous job with him, sending him out to two consecutive victories in the Gold Cup. Florence had always been frightened of the colt and was relieved when he was passed on to stud elsewhere.

When Red passed stewardship of Marsh Crossing on to his daughter, most of the owners with horses in training there moved them elsewhere in protest. It was not accepted that a young woman should be training animals previously handled by a man considered the best in the business. Even most of the staff moved on to pastures new. While Florence struggled against this universal lack of faith and support, the world just laughed.

Her father had been such an important beacon of light in her life and career, so when he died just one year later she had felt like she was truly alone. Her only connections with Marsh Crossing's former days of glory were her friend Martha, who had worked on the yard since her teenage years, stable jockey Zachary O'Kane, and of course the old stalwart Dissent, who had belonged to Red himself and was gifted to Florence with the yard upon his retirement.

But Dissent was now in the twilight of his career and her other remaining horses – a scatty claimer named Nolsen and a capable but perpetually sidelined mare called Janeysheart – could not keep the yard going on their own. Ruse, from the moment he had stepped into Marsh Crossing eighteen months ago with a record of five wins from seven races, had been the yard's saving grace. It was clear from the start that he was a good thing, but Florence truly had no expectations that he would one day ascend to a status worthy of contesting the Gold Cup. That was the trouble: neither did Ruse's owner, wealthy local farmer Harry Fields. And now, once the horse had proven his worth, he had attracted attention from even more prosperous owners in the neighbouring Highland Province.