Devils And Unicorns

Chapter 8

"Well?" Charlie asked eagerly. Florence's eyes moved between his, and those of the horse running loose around the ménage for her perusal.

"He's not bad," she said surreptitiously, afraid to plunge both feet into the pool of enthusiasm and instead electing to dip in a single toe. She was not exactly sure what she had been expecting when she gave Charlie the green light to track her down a new champion-in-the-making just two days earlier, but this horse was nothing like Jersey Devil. He was much taller and thicker set, and his muscles bulged beneath a dark grey coat, its steely colour interrupted only by a few pale dapples along his neck and shoulders. The hairs of his tail were black at the root, silver at the end. On some parts of his body, such as the back of his haunches and just below his ears, he even had a few brown smudges in the mix; but his head was patchy white, like a ghost's. His dark eyes stood out even more against the pallor of his face.

Ghost-face.

This handsome apparition was trotting the perimeter of the school, his skin already damp from the journey over the desert to Marsh Crossing, flashing his two-tone tail around his hocks.

"Where did you get him from?" she asked.

"If I tell you that, you might not want him," he replied frivolously, his eyes alight as he kept them transfixed on the horse.

"Come on, Charlie, where from?"

"Hold on, hold on."

"Charlie..."

Charlie climbed over the fence and landed heavily in the sand on the other side. As he approached, the horse stopped and shook his mane once. Then he began to lick at his lips and chew emptily, a sign of relaxation. He seemed to have a nice nature, in any case. Charlie looped his fingers through the horse's headcollar and led him over to where Florence was standing on the other side of the fence.

"He's run twenty-two times, and he's won thirteen. Did I mention that this horse finished fifth in the Gold Cup last year?" he announced.

Florence took a moment to take in this information, and was, by her own admission, impressed. Yet a hint of suspicion was chewing at the edges of her sense of wonder. The most she could pay towards this animal was eight thousand; Charlie knew that. How much of his own money had he sunk into the purchase? Or was the horse a lot cheaper than his physique and race record would suggest?

"Come on, he's bred for the race. He's one of the last Concert Pianists. Do you know what they pay for some of those?"

"For the last time, where did you get this remarkable creature?" she demanded, sensing that a lecture originally born out of enthusiasm had now descended into a stalling attempt. There was a short pause while he gathered the courage to tell her.

"Carver." He cringed.

"Errol Carver? Charlie, you do realise this poor beast is probably mentally scarred?"

"I know, I know. But honestly, he's alright. You can handle him."

"How much was he?"

"Don't worry about that. What do you say?"

"I don't know. I wasn't expecting a Quartet cast-off."

"Come on, he's race fit and he has Gold Cup form."

Florence sighed heavily. She must be a sucker for punishment to say yes to something like this. But, difficult as it was, she was the one who had invited it in.