On the other side, Penny saw the stables, she saw the track.
There was the laneway behind the fence line, which turned by the edge of the house; Mrs. Chilman was the only neighbor. Then the grass and slanted building work, and the white obligatory sports fence; from there it looked made of toothpicks.
In the laneway there were grooms leading horses, track to stables, and most of them didn’t see her; some of them nodded on their way. A minute or two later, an old groom came leading the final horse by, and when its head leaned down, he shrugged it gruffly away. Just before he saw Penny he gave its mouth a gentle slap. “Go on,” he said, “get out.” Penny, of course, smiled, at all of it.
“Hallo?” She cleared her throat. “…Hello?”
The horse saw her instantly, but the groom was oblivious.
“What? Who’s there?”
“Up here.”
“Jesus, love, give a man a bloody heart attack!” He was a stocky build and curly hair, with moistened face and eyes, and the horse was tugging him over. It had a flash of white from ears to nose, but the rest was mahogany brown. The groom saw it was useless stopping him. “All right, here we go. Come on, love.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, give ’im a pat, he’s the biggest bloody sook here anyway.”
Before she did it, Penny checked that Michael was okay, and truth be told, she was light but not weightless, and his arms were starting to shake. She placed her hand on the horse’s blaze, the great white texture, and couldn’t hold back her delight. She looked in the prying eyes. Any sugar? You got some sugar?
“What’s his name?”
“Well, his race name’s City Special.” He gave the horse a pat himself now, on the chest. “Stable name’s Greedy, though, I wonder bloody why.”
“Is he fast?”
He scoffed. “You really are new around here, aren’t you? The horses in these stables are all bloody useless.”
But still, Penelope was charmed. When the horse bobbed upwards for a rougher pat, she laughed. “Hi, Greedy.”
“Here, give him these.” He passed her a few grubby sugar cubes. “Might as well. He’s a lost bloody cause, anyway.”
Beneath her, Michael Dunbar was thinking about his arms, and how long they could possibly hold her.
The agent was thinking SOLD.
Now it was Clay’s turn, to leave his father with the house and the Amahnu.
He stood above him by the couch, the morning still dark.
His hands were healed, from blisters to scars.
“I’ll be away awhile.”
The Murderer woke.
“I’ll be back, though.”
* * *
—
It was fortunate Silver was on a main line; trains came through twice a day in each direction. He caught the 8:07.
At the station, he remembered:
That first afternoon, when he came.