scorpiobird | We'll take a long walk, down the alleys of these houses [Ronan Lynch, Sept. 4]

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We'll take a long walk, down the alleys of these houses [Ronan Lynch, Sept. 4]

It's September now. On Thisby, that means the weather would be going cold but today the sun beats down on us, bright and hot. Dove seems happy, so I roll up my sleeves and take through the countryside in widening circles, working her up to an easy canter. Her continued pampering seems to have done her good here in Darrow; her coat is bright and shiny and her gait is perky, playful even.

Her health is good and I don't care that I'm having to work hard to make ends meet to keep us both in grain because she's getting better care than I could ever have given her.

There's not much countryside within Darrow's invisible boundaries and I don't think I can take her through the city without consequences for everyone involved. So today I'm winding her over to the forested parts of Darrow. The paths there are intermittent but I'm sure she's up to the challenge.

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Ronan's out working on the new barn which, at the moment, mostly means moving extremely heavy packed bags of shingles into more convenient areas. With the walls nearly done, it's the next step and, despite the heat, Ronan's eager to get something more done.

He has a radio with him, plugged into nothing because it doesn't need to be, the music blasting. He has his tank top tucked into the back pocket of his shorts, mostly using it as an overlarge handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his face. After dragging over the tenth or twelfth bag, he stretches his back, wiping his face yet again when the trees start murmuring. It's a low rustle at first, a shiver and shutter through the leaves that calls for Ronan to listen.

And he does, brow furrowed as he squints through the trees, trying to make out what it is they've seen as he turns the music off with a snap of his fingers.

"Hey!" he calls out when finally spots some movement through the trees. "Whoever you are, you're trespassing!"

They're not. But they don't know that.

Generally, when muscular men with shaved heads start yelling, it seems like a good indication to leave except that I've also trespassed enough times and in enough odd places to know the signs of actual private property. So I elect to ignore him, letting Dove's canter swing wider again so that we appear to ride away only to circle a little closer to his copse of trees.

Except that when Dove's about twenty feet from the closest tree, she stops right in her tracks. I start to worry except that she looks perfectly calm, isn't tossing her head or rearing. Her ears–still upright–swivel from side to side, at attention.

I can't think of any time she's done that, so I regard the other boy with faint suspicion but say nothing just yet.

It takes a moment for Ronan to work out it's a girl on a horse. A girl with long red hair and a dun horse that circles wide for a moment before trotting closer despite his warning.

Ronan frowns at them both, though his eyes catch on the horse for the most part as the horse stares right back.

He's still sweating and he wipes the sweat off the back of his neck with his shirt yet again before tucking it back into his pocket. "You lost? Pretty sure the stables are back that way," he says with a jerk of his head.

"I know where they are. I just don't expect Dove to stay in them every hour of the day without a run," I say mildly. Everything about him is muscular and harsh, like a mainland city's idea of Sean Kendrick. And he must be a mainlander to think a horse doesn't need her exercise.

Dove keeps her ears pricked the whole time, looking at the boy and just beyond him into the woods. Something about those woods gives me an odd feeling, of the same species but without the same dread as looking into the eyes of a capall uisce. I wonder if this man feels it too. If he's the source of it.

She isn't being a dick about it, but Ronan's still wary, squinting against the sun streaming through the trees as he looks up at her. He's not close enough to touch the horse, not by a long shot, but he can feel those dark eyes on him and he glances at her then back up at the girl with the long red hair.

"You're not from here," he says, stating the obvious with a gruff tone. "First time out this way?"

I shake my head and–since it appears we're having a conversation–I dismount so we can talk eye to eye. Keeping Dove's reins in hand, I walk toward him. Dove takes some nudging but she finally stops staring into the woods and crosses a few more feet with me.

"We've been riding out here, but this is the first time we've come so close to this part of the forest." I nod towards it and then back to him. "I'm Kate."

The mare stares past Ronan's shoulder, like she sees something beyond the trees. Ronan glances back, half expecting to see Verity wandering close by, or Chainsaw swooping around like a lunatic. But it's nothing but trees. Nothing but Cabeswater.

"Ronan," he replies with slight hesitation, brow still furrowed as he looks at her. He crosses his arms over his chest, expression unwavering. "Should be careful out here."

"Why, are there capaill uisce in the forest?" It's both unnecessarily rude and cryptic, since I doubt that this man has ever encountered anything as dangerous as the water horses. Someday, I'll learn my manners. Someday.

"Are you living out here or something?" Certainly, he looks as if he's been here a while.

That's not a thing Ronan's thought of in a very long time. Not in years, at least. Not since before... everything, back when his mother was still awake, when she could smile at him and sing and weave mythical stories for him and his brothers.

"Why the fuck would there be a water horse in the middle of a forest?" he asks, brow furrowed.

He doesn't bother answering her question, if only because he isn't certain how. No, he doesn't live here, hasn't in awhile. But he might soon. Maybe.

Either way, Cabeswater is something like the closest thing to home he has in this entire fucked up town. Even if it's not the same as back in Henrietta and never will be. It's close.

That catches me by surprise and I have to look at him anew, wondering what kind of man he is then that he's heard of the capaill uisce when almost everyone that I've encountered hasn't.

I'm gobsmacked enough that I speak plainly, glancing back in the direction of the stables. "There's an uisce stallion there, named Corr. He belongs to my...boyfriend." It shouldn't be an odd thing to call Sean, only I've never really thought about it until now.

For a moment, she only stares at him, clearly surprised that he has any idea what she's talking about. It nearly makes him smug, a little like the few times he's reminded Gansey that he's not a fucking idiot and a slow smile curves his lips, still sharp. A snare.

He follows her gaze the east, eyebrow arched when she hesitates on that one word. "There's one here?" he asks because that's the first he's heard of it. It'd be less surprising if he hadn't already met a unicorn. "And you think he wandered here?"

Now it's my turn to come over all withering as I shake my head. If capall's loose, we'll know it and I won't be riding Dove so casually. "He was in his stall, last I looked," I say. "But if you see a red stallion, you'd better flee."

Dove blinks her eyes at me and gives me a look that's almost reproachful, as if I shouldn't joke about such things. If anyone would know, it's Dove and I pat her neck in apology.

"I'll keep that in mind," Ronan replies with a single arched brow, still regarding her carefully.

He steps back then, back toward the roofing tiles he's still dragging into place but nods over towards Cabeswater's edge as he does. "You'll probably see some pretty strange shit if you keep heading that way," he tells her, as much a threat as it is a warning. "No red stallions, though. Unless you want to."

"Why, has the forest got its own wealth of water horses already?" I wrinkle my brow and try to understand what he means.

And, because I'm curious as I puzzle out his words, I look over to his project. "What are you building, then? You must be very brave to want a house where strange things happen."

Ronan arches an eyebrow, both at her calling him brave as well as her obvious sarcasm. "I'm used to strange," he tells her, considering how much he wants to share before adding, "It's a barn. Or will be."

He isn't about to tell her how deeply he's linked to this forest, how all the strange things that happen within its branches are because of him. It's not something he's shared with anyone in this strange city, much less someone he's just met.

"You speak Latin?" he asks her then, lips quirking into a near grin.

I wonder if it makes me odd that, now, I crane my neck to get a better look at his project with more interest. "What will you keep in it?" I ask. If he wants a shed for his tools, I suppose he'd build it closer to a house and not to a slightly spooky forest.

Maybe he's going to sacrifice someone.

"Only what I need to get through church," I say. "And I'm not convinced it's real Latin."

He arches an eyebrow then, oddly surprised. Maybe he shouldn't be; it's not as though Ronan's the only person who goes to church, even here in Darrow. But it's still interesting.

"So what's real Latin then?" he asks, his smirk unwavering.

For now, he ignores her question, bites back the impulse to reply with a snide remark. It's not any of her business anyhow even if he can't exactly keep her from walking in.

"I don't know but it probably sounds better than what Father Mooneyham droned on in while covering everyone in incense smoke," I say. It pleases me to say it, even though I know it's a private joke. It's the closest Ill come to sounding cultured, I think.

He doesn't answer my question, which makes me think he's truly going to sacrifice someone.

He considers that for a moment, still smirking just a little. He can't help but think of Matthew, and Declan, too. The Latin phrases they'd all picked up on from Mass when they were little, the way the words felt long before they knew what any of it actually meant.

He takes another step back then, his smile a bit more enigmatic. "Not that kind of Latin then," he agrees, encouraging her to head on in with an enigmatic grin. "Just keep an eye on your mare."

Now I can't help but look at him with some alarm. His is the smile that comes ahead of troublemaking and I don't know what to make of it, especially with a cryptic phrase like that.

"Are you planning to sacrifice her in your forest shack?" I demand. "Because I'll be very cross if you do that."

Ronan's smile falters and fades then, brows furrowing as his lips twist into a scowl.

"The fuck? That's what you--" He cuts himself off with a huff of a sound that's almost a laugh as he runs a hand over his the strip of hair down the middle of his head. "Look, the forest speaks Latin, alright? The trees. And animals are more attuned than people so just watch her and make sure she doesn't get spooked. And it's not a fucking shack," he adds, tone more biting before he turns immediately away to head back to his packets of roofing tiles.

At first I think he really might chase me down now but he laughs, even if it's drenched in vinegar. I don't mind. If anything, it makes me think we're of a species.

"Well, you didn't say what your barn was for and then you were saying ominous things. How was I to know?" I ask, tossing my head a little.

"So you jump to animal sacrifice?" Ronan remarks, a sharp smile creeping to his lips despite himself. "It's a barn, not a slaughterhouse."

He nods again at the trees. "And sometimes it's pretty fucking ominous. Depends on if the forest decides it likes you or not. Feel free to give it a shot though, I won't stop you."

"I'm from a very small, peculiar island," I tell him, making my voice sound lofty to match his smirk. We're playing games now but I don't think he's truly offended, which is good because if I'm going to make an enemy of someone, I'd like to do it on purpose.

"You make it sound as if it's got a mind of its own. Does it?"

Ronan isn't sure what he's supposed to take from that bit of information. Do they not have barns on small, peculiar islands? Or is animal sacrifice just more prominent? Though the way she says it makes Ronan pretty sure she's just fucking with him.

Or trying.

He arches an eyebrow at the question, pausing for only a moment before replying honestly, "Yes."

He doesn't for a second think she'll believe him.

"They used to sacrifice a man on the island every year, before I was born. How am I to know?" I ask. It feels a bit like betraying Thisby by giving that away so easily but something about the superiority in his face makes me want to see if I can't frighten him a little.

"I'd had to see a capall uisce in woods like this, then. I'll make sure Sean keeps Corr well clear."

She says it easily. Casually. Ronan's frown deepens as he studies her closer, trying to determine if she is fucking with him. In the end, it's curiosity that wins out and he drapes his shirt over his shoulder as he crosses his arms.

"The fuck kind of place are you from?"

"A small, peculiar island," I say again. I don't think I've won his respect, though I do have his attention. It's not the same thing.

"Every year, they race the capaill uisce that they can capture and there's a lot of ceremony that goes with it."

Even her explanation is casual and Ronan's frown deepens as he considers it, brow furrowing.

"That's fucked up," he says eventually, eyeing her more carefully from head to toe. "You know there's none of that here, right? So don't get any fucking ideas."

"Of course it is," I say, a bit exasperated. I should think it's obvious that it is.

"I'm also not the one who was sacrificing anything. Men or sheep on the sea. As if the capaill don't get blood enough from our people every year."

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We'll take a long walk, down the alleys of these houses [Ronan Lynch, Sept. 4]

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