“I say, what’s the hold-up?” he demanded abruptly to no one in particular. “Most peculiar! And inconvenient!” He looked to those in our vicinity for support.
Sissy exploded. “Oh, Henry, do shut up!”
He gaped at her and his mouth fell open in astonishment. Before he could say anything more, the crowd parted as Charles pressed his way to us, his expression grave.
Sissy wilted beside me. I met Charles’ gaze dully.
Lord Churchill mounted his platform once again. “There has been one minor change in the race line-up,” he informed the crowd. Sissy lifted her head, her eyes infused with fear. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Norway’s Golden Tooth has been removed, having unfortunately gone lame.”
The crowd oohed in surprise and mock sympathy. My heart beat wildly. One change? What was this? “Her Grace offers apologies to all who might have placed bets on her mount,” Lord Churchill continued. “Her steed has been replaced with Lord Truscott’s Trafalgar’s Victory. The race will proceed in one quarter of an hour, assuming spectators wish to change their bets or make additional ones in the meantime.”
He stepped from his stoop and nodded in Charles’ direction. Charles tipped his hat and remained beside me, as silent as my Sphinx.
I stared at him, burning with questions, but dared not ask them of him. What did it all mean? Was I not to become Sissy’s sacrificial lamb? Perhaps Charles would divulge what he had determined when the moment was convenient. He gave Sissy a look I could only take as reproach. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears. I do believe it was the only time I have ever seen her so full of remorse. Even the ballerinas on her hat were drooping as if in a drunken parody of a Degas. Her contrition seemed to satisfy Charles, and his severity lost its edge. He glanced at me and smiled blandly. My ankles threatened to collapse. I felt as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud.
He had to have discovered Sissy’s tampering with Dainty Dancer, but for some reason, he had refrained from exposing her. I doubted if he knew what his clemency also meant for me. Dainty Dancer hadn’t been struck from the roster; she was still in the race. As for the duchess and her Golden ‘Toof’—the sudden departure of both duchess and horse remained a mystery, something the crowd whispered about.
The herald announced the start of the race. As one, we all moved to the rail. The horses pranced at the gate, ready to run. The crowd held its collective breath, binoculars at the steady, postures tense. And then, the gates were opened and the horses were off.
They rounded the first curve, then thundered past us, hooves digging and sod flying. I felt as if my breath were snatched away in that charge. Sissy, caught up in the race and quick to forget her own wrong-doing, urged Dainty Dancer on. I remained mute, still dazed by how close my own ruination had come.
In the end, the last minute substitution, Lord Truscott’s Trafalgar’s Victory, came in first. Some American’s horse, with the ridiculous name of Scarlet Garters, came in second. No one was more pleased than Sissy, when her Dainty Dancer came in third.
“Damn!” Henry swung a fist at the sky. Lord Truscott glared at him as those ladies nearby gasped at his profanity. “I wasted good money on your Dancer to place first!” He frowned at Sissy as if the loss were all her fault.
Sissy lifted her chin. “Then pray, do not waste any more of your precious money on me a moment longer.” She turned her back on him in the perfect snub. I could see she was still shaken by her close call with scandal, but Henry’s rudeness was not to be endured.
“Dainty Dancer ran a good race,” Charles said, speaking up and surprising us all. “She earned her third fair and square.”
“What do you know about horses, old bean?” Henry demanded, still out of sorts.
“Far more than you might expect, old bean,” Charles countered, which for some reason, made me rather proud.
“Sissy, my girl! Well done!” boomed a deep baritone. Lord Sutherland, Sissy’s father, approached us like a battleship in full regalia on Empire Day. “You’ve won your papa a pretty purse! Good for you. I expected nothing less!”
“How so, Father? Dainty Dancer didn’t win—”
“And I didn’t wager she would. I bet on her to show.” He caught Sissy in the crook of his arm. “It doesn’t take a genius to know how to manage the odds. Come along now, and help your papa collect his prize money—which was never in any doubt!” He cast a scathing look at Henry. “You still here, Dinglecrumb? I could have sworn you were dismissed.”
Henry’s nostrils flared. He tossed his hair, turned on his heel, and stomped off. One did not argue with Lord Sutherland.
Which left me alone with Charles.
“Would you like a glass of champagne?” Charles asked abruptly. I nodded, and he steered me away from the crowd to hail a waiter with a tray. I took a sip of the said apéritif, thankful for the bubbles. Under normal circumstances, they would stimulate, but this time, they soothed.
“Why did you—?”
“I suppose you’re wondering—”
We both began talking at the same time. I paused, as Charles grinned. Once again, I was struck with how handsome he was. Such a shame, really. Oxford’s gain was my loss. Dons tended not to marry, although since the late 1870s, there had been exceptions.
“Please, do continue,” I offered.
“I expect you want to know about Dainty Dancer.”
“Indeed. And Golden ‘Toof’ as well,” I added.
“Of course. Well, it’s quite simple, really. Henry mentioned my area of expertise was ancient curses?”
I nodded.
“That’s not quite the extent of it. My study encompasses all areas of magical ‘extensions’ if you will. That means any kind of magic that has been added onto something. Curses, glamouries, enhancements, and what-have-you. It took me no time at all to see—” he dropped his voice, “that Lady Cecilia had enhanced Dainty Dancer’s ability to run. When I went to check the mare in the stable, she was glowing like a small sun. All I did was to take the enhancement off. So Dainty Dancer ran a fair race and won her third.”
“That was a very gallant thing for you to do.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I could have let the chips fall where they may, but I overheard the two of you. The fact that Sissy couldn’t undo the enhancement but wanted to, was what tipped the balance for me. She wasn’t able to, but I could. So I did.”
“That was most kind. You have no idea what a relief that is for me.”
He pinked beneath my praise. “As for Golden Tooth…” He changed the subject and his lips twitched in a smirk.
“Yes?”
He leaned in quite close, his grey eyes dancing. “Golden Tooth isn’t a horse at all.”
I stared up at him in amazement. “He isn’t?”
“Indeed, not.”
“What is he then?”
He considered me carefully, and I had the oddest feeling I was being tested. “Have you ever heard of Tanngrisnir? It’s Old Norse and translates to Tooth Barer.”
I searched my memory. Out of interest, I had read the Prose Edda a year ago. Tanngrisnir was the name of one of Thor’s goats. It, and Tanngnjóstr, or Tooth Grinder, pulled the god’s war chariot. Every night, Thor sacrificed his beasts, only to have them come back to life in the morning. The duchess had said we ‘Englishers’ wouldn’t be able to pronounce her horse’s name. I choked on my amazement. “Golden Tooth is a goat?”
“Yes! Well done!” He seemed pleased I should know that.
I was flattered by his enthusiasm, but I hid it, not wanting to look like a school girl. “So the excuse that Golden Tooth had gone lame was only a fiction,” I replied.
“Actually, no. The goat really was lame, just like in the tale. A peasant boy eats the marrow from one of the goat’s leg bones, which made it lame. Even so, it still runs bloody fast. Which was what the duchess was counting upon.” He coloured, realizing he had sworn in my presence.
I ignored it. “No wonder she left in such
a hurry!” I laughed, unable to help myself. I suppose the sudden release from impending doom also affected me. “To be associated with a goat! How banal! The cheating was bad enough.” I glanced back at him. “You didn’t expose her.”
“No. One does not expose a duchess, even if she is Norwegian.”
We shared another chuckle—really, the most enjoyable joke I had heard in a long time. Whereupon, I felt an immediate regret. There were so few men I found attractive, and this one, being a don and married to his work, was unavailable. The waiter came by and raised a snooty eyebrow—a silent query as to whether we might like seconds of the champs. Charles reached for a glass, but I waved the man off. “I suppose I should go find Sissy,” I said regretfully. There was no point in pining for someone who would never be. Best to nip this attraction in the bud. And if I had anything more to drink, I would say too much.
“Cassandra,” Charles said quickly, dropping the ‘miss’ in a very familiar way, and yet, in a manner I desired. “I wonder if I might call upon you tomorrow?”
I stared at him. “But I thought…”
“Oh, I see. You already have prior engagements.” He was so quick to dismiss himself, to think I might not want to entertain him.
“It isn’t that,” I replied quickly. “It’s just—” How very awkward. How does one explain to a man how much one would like to see him, but it’s impossible because he will never marry? It reeks of desperation.
“I misunderstood. You’re so lovely and clever, you must already have an understanding with some lucky gentleman.”
He thought I was lovely! And smart! “No! I—” and suddenly the grey overwhelmed me. I saw myself and Charles, working quite happily together on a dig in Egypt. We were waist deep in a square hole that had been sectioned off, and there were children—a boy and a girl of about five and six, sitting on the edge of the dig and kicking up the dirt with their plump little legs. Mummy, I’m thirsty, the little girl whined. And Wills has found a scarab. I want one, too!
Daddy has something even better for you, my darling, Charles told her.
What?
How about a nice lemon ice?
Oh, pooh! We had that yesterday.
As I came to, I found myself once again in his arms. I had fainted quite completely this time. This hadn’t been a terrible premonition as most were, but a wonderful one! Had he experienced the vision, too? His eyes were round—I wasn’t sure whether this was due to surprise or horror. Sweet heaven, what must he think? “I’m all right.” I pushed him aside.
“So…you are free for me to visit tomorrow?” he pressed.
Destiny is a funny thing. There is a point, very early on, where you can alter its course, despite what a vision of the future shows you. I didn’t want to change a thing.
I took a deep breath, still feeling a bit dizzy from it all. “I suppose I must be.”
Which was a most delightful outcome to the day, all things considered. Sissy had avoided scandal, Dainty Dancer had earned a third place, but the real winner of Ladies Day was me! Who could have foreseen it? I felt as if a wreath of flowers had been dropped about my neck and I had won the King’s Cup.
“Champs?” Charles waved the waiter back over, sensing I had changed my mind about seconds.
“Absolutely.” I was floating with excitement. Charles looked as if he were drifting about the aether, too.
I swear, I heard a goat bleat as we clinked glasses and toasted one another.
***
Susan MacGregor is the author of The Tattooed Witch trilogy, published through Five Rivers Publishing, the first book of which was short-listed for a Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy Association Aurora Award. Her story “Ladies Day” reflects a similar world in her current work-in-progress. Her short fiction has been featured in On Spec Magazine and other anthologies. A prior editor with On Spec, her book The ABC’s of How Not to Write Speculative Fiction is based on her 20+ years’ editorial experience. She has also edited two anthologies, Tesseracts Fifteen: A Case of Quite Curious Tales (Edge Books) and Divine Realms (Ravenstone Books). Susan lives and works in Edmonton.
The Boys from Witless Bay
Pat Flewwelling
Jimmie and I, well, we used to get in all sort of trouble down in Halifax when we were away at the university. The only way you were safe from his pranks was by holding his beer for him.
Like that time we tied up Berton Blake the night he got drunk and started pawin’ on my girl Millie while I was away to home one week. Soon as I had come back, we took him out for a good night’s drinking, and once he was about half-cut, we left him down on Barrington wearing a tutu and bra filled with about three bags of sparkles—you know the kind you get at what’s-it, Michael’s? Anyways, he comes to in the middle of Friday morning traffic, and he sees what ’e’s wearing, he screams blue bloody murder, and rips the two cups apart like he’s Hulk Hogan—sparkles everywhere, like friggin’ fireworks from his man-titties. I handy ‘bout died dat day, laughing so hard. Berton never laid another hand on Millie, but he sure laid a few on Jimmie and me.
Jimmie, he’s an engineer now, and I’m a financial advisor. That means he thinks up the pranks, and I’m the b’y who pays for it all. Five times now, I’ve had to cough up Jimmie’s bail, and it was worth every penny.
So you’d think I’d have known better than to go out to his house, middle of October, dark as Satan’s arse, raining so hard you can’t tell sea from shore—the same night I’d forgotten it was Millie’s birthday—when he calls me up all out of breath and begs my help.
“What’s wrong for ya, b’y?” I ask.
“You remember Buddywhatshisname?” he pants.
“Oh, sure! Him! The one with the face and a couple of arms.”
“George MacCrae!” The name rings a dim bell from our boyhood days.
“He the one with the growth over his eye?” I ask.
“No.”
“The one who married his own sister by accident?”
“No.”
“The one—”
“The b’y who disappeared in ‘82, suspected drowned in Dunker’s Pond.”
“Oh, him,” I shout, and Millie turns up the TV. On the maps, it’s Dunkirk Pond, but it’s so deep and deadly that it’s been called Dunker’s since long before Georgie took his final dip. There’d been a hell of a hue and cry when he went missing. Nobody could ever explain why the ten-year-old had walked off in the middle of the stormy night, leaving one shoe on the banks of Dunker’s Pond, and the other under his bed.
“What about ‘im?” I ask.
“I think I know what got ‘im.”
“What?”
“Come over, and I’ll explain when you’re here.”
I laugh at that and lean into the phone with my hand around my mouth to tell him I’ve already got a pan-shaped face, thanks to me forgetting it was Millie’s birthday.
“Tell her you left her present here!” Jimmie says.
“I’m not coming over in falling weather like this just to hear another ghost tale about Georgie Frigging MacCrae!”
“No ghosts,” he says. “People. And they’re at it again.”
“Well, call up the cops!”
“They’re already on the job, and they’re lookin’ every way but directly under their noses.”
“You’re cracked, b’y. Remember the time in ‘86 when you called the police because you thought you saw a green horse on Cemetery Road? Or that time in ‘88, when you thought old Mrs. Pettigrew was skinny-dipping in—”
“Paulie, all you’ve got to do is bring your GoPro and a flashlight, and I’ll do all the rest.”
“The rest of what? Gettin’ us drowned alongside Georgie?”
He sighs and says, “All’s we gotta do is show the cops a sign I’m not off my rocker this time. I know what I saw, Paulie, and so do they.”
I wasn’t convinced, but there was something unnaturally serious in his tone.
“We won’t need to go near the water,” he promis
es. “And all’s we’ve gotta do is take pictures.”
“It’s a Tuesday night! I’ve got work in the morning.”
“It’s already stopped raining, though. And what else would you be doin’ at seven thirty?”
I look out the window to see whitecaps rolling up the bay. White horses, they used to call ‘em. Weather aside, I’ve now got a choice between misadventure and missus pissed-off.
Jimmie knows my silences too well. He laughs his triumph.
I groan and say, “All right. Stay where you’re to, ‘til I comes where you’re at.” He tells me he’ll see me in half an hour.
So, against my own sense of self-preservation, I sneak out the door, jump into my car, and drive from Goulds down the coast to his place in our old hometown of Witless Bay.
Before I can knock, Jimmie opens the door a crack and slithers out to meet me. “Got all the kids in bed and Janey’s off to church bingo,” he whispers as he closes the door. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
Half a-giggle, he says, “Get in the truck, I’ll explain on the way.” He’s got his truck with the four-wheeler already in the back, and I know I ought to get back in my own car with roses in one hand and whiskey in the other. But he’s got that friggin’ giggle that tells me somebody’s about to burst his titty-sprinkles on Barrington Street, and I’m aboard before you can fart. I know this is the night I’m bound to die, but at least this way I’ll die on friendly terms.
“Does your GoPro shoot in the dark?” he asks.
I take it out of the case and take a look. I haven’t used it since the last time I went diving. It still smells like sea water. “It shot pretty good in Conception Bay…”
“So it’s waterproof, too,” Jimmie says, as if checking it off his mental list.
“I’m not goin’ in any water,” I tell him.
Jimmie points at the sky and tells me he expects more weather, that’s all. I expect he means I’m goin’ in the water.
“So what’s all this about,” I ask him. “Somebody else’s gone missing?”
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