SEAN: It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die.
Even under the brightest sun, the frigid autumn sea is all the colors of the night: dark blue and black and brown. I watch the ever-changing patterns in the sand, the beach pummeled by countless hooves.
They run the horses on the beach, a pale road between the black ocean and the dark cliffs, because the sand is a better surface for the horses' legs. 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 raw with the wind throwing sand against them. My thighs sting from the friction of the saddle. My arms ache from holding up two thousand pounds of horse. I have forgotten what it is like to be warm and what a full night's sleep feels like and what my name sounds like spoken instead of shouted across yards of sand.
I am so, so alive.
Excerpted from The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater
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