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PROLOGUE:

NINE YEARS EARLIER

SEAN

It is the first day of Novehtest sun, the frigid autuht: dark blue and black and brown I watch the ever-changing patterns in the sand as it’s pummeled by countless hooves

They run the horses on the beach, a pale road between the black water and the chalk cliffs It is never safe, but it’s never so dangerous as today, race day

This time of year, I live and breathe the beach My cheeks feel raith the wind throwing sand against the fro up two thousand pounds of horse I have forgotten what it is like to be warht’s sleep feels like and what my name sounds like spoken instead of shouted across yards of sand

I am so, so alive

As I head down to the cliffs with my father, one of the race officials stops me He says, "Sean Kendrick, you are ten years old You haven’t discovered it yet, but there areways to die than on this beach"

My father doubles back and takes the official’s upper arm as if the e about age restrictions during the race My father wins

"If your son is killed," the official says, "the only fault is yours"

My father doesn’t even answer him, just leads his uisce stallion away

On the way down to the water, we’re jostled and pushed by men and by horses I slide beneath one horse as it rears up, its rider jerked at the end of the lead Unhar the sea, surrounded on all sides by the capaill uisce -- the water horses They are every color of the pebbles on the beach: black, red, golden, white, ivory, gray, blue Men hang the bridles with red tassels and daisies to lessen the danger of the dark November sea, but I wouldn’t trust a handful of petals to saveflowers and bells tore a man’s arm half from his body

These are not ordinary horses Drape them with charms, hide them from the sea, but today, on the beach: Do not turn your back

Some of the horses have lathered Froth drips down their lips and chests, looking like sea foa the teeth that will tear intous and hating us

My father sends et his saddlecloth and armband from another set of officials The color of the cloth is meant to allow the spectators far up on the cliffs to identify my father, but in his case, they won’t need it, not with his stallion’s brilliant red coat

"Ah, Kendrick," the officials say, which is both my father’s name and mine "It’ll be a red cloth for him"

As I return to my father, I am hailed by a rider: "Ho, Sean Kendrick" He’s diminutive and wiry, his face carved out of rock "Fine day for it" I a here We nod to each other before he turns back to his horse to finish saddling up His s saddle is hand-tooled, and as he lifts the flap to give the girth a final tug, I see words burned into the leather: Our dead drink the sea

My heart is jerking in my chest as I hand the cloth to , not him

Myself I a, ears pricked, eager He is very hot today He will be fast Fast and difficult to hold

My father gives me the reins so that he can saddle the water horse with the red cloth I lick my teeth -- they taste like salt -- and watcharmband around his upper arm Every year I have watched him, and every year he has tied it with a steady hand, but not this year His fingers are clumsy, and I know he is afraid of the red stallion

I have ridden hiround jarring s, we never tire

I lean close to the stallion’s ear and trace a counterclockwise circle above his eye as I whisper into his soft ear