sean x puck


“…tomorrow we’ll rule the Scorpio Races as king and queen of Skarmouth and I’ll save the house and you’ll have your stallion. Dove will eat golden oats for the rest of her days and you will terrorize the races each year and people will come from every island in the world to find out how it is you get horses to listen to you.“


“That’s a poor match, Sean Kendrick,“ says a voice at my elbow. It’s the other sister from Fathom & Sons, and she follows my gaze to Puck. "Neither of you are a housewife.”
I don’t look away from Puck. I think you assume too much, Dory Maud.”
“You leave nothing to assumption,” Dory Maud says. “You swallow her with your eyes. I’m surprised there’s any of her left for the rest of us to see.”


Books I’ve Read in 2017: The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater

“It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die.”

“That night, instead of dreaming, I lie in my bed and stare at the small square of black sky that I can see out the window of my flat.” … "I can’t stay in bed any longer. I roll to my feet. My jacket is still wet and gritty where I hung it over the iron curl of the radiator.”

Ok, first of all, Sean, do you ever do laundry? Smh. Now what this post was really about:

"So I set my alarm for 5 o'clock and saddle Dove before she’s properly awake.” … "For endless minutes Dove and I exercise like this, trotting one way and then the other, then cantering one way, and then the other.” … “I think I see someone standing up at the top of the cliffs, watching us, but when I look again, there’s no one.”

Sean are you spying? You literally just met – not even met really, you both saved each other’s lives and then you yelled at her – this girl, and now you’re watching her alone in the dark? Boy, you had it bad from the start! But thats also really creepy, why you gotta be so Extra™ Edgelord Equestrian?

Ok, ok, maybe it’s not Sean. Maybe it’s Brian Carroll no one. I just noticed it for the first time in the audiobook, and I thought it was hilarious and definitely plausible. Also excellent fan fiction material. Have at it!

The First of November

The Scorpio Races Fanfic – @welcometothisby


It is the first of November and so, today, someone will die.

I don’t open my eyes immediately. Images from races past wash over me like the bloody tide, pulling at my hands like they want to pull me down. A phantom breeze washes over my face and a phantom surf washes against my calves and my hands curve over phantom reins. My hand rests on a warm body and, for a moment, I can believe I’m touching Corr. Then she speaks to me.

“You aren’t getting up already, are you?” Puck murmurs sleepily. She gathers a handful of our blankets and pulls, giving my feet a cool kiss of morning air as the blanket goes over our heads. “Oof. That was a mistake,” she says, tucking her knees to her chest. She sounds indefinitely more awake now.

“I’m heading to the beach,” I say. I’m going through my morning list for Corr—change his wraps, muck out his stable, take him for a swim to rebuild his strength—and I can do it, if only just, if I start now.

Puck props herself up on an elbow and fixes me with an incredulous stare. Her hair is twisted into fantastic shapes, like those of clouds, and I swear there’s a running horse lurking just behind her ear. Strands of it are attached to our blanket tent. “You can’t,” she says simply. I reach out for her hand and she gives it to me, a smile flitting across her lips.

“Why not?” I press my lips to the inside of her wrist. I speak now with her skin against my mouth. “I have to start now. If I start now, I’ll be finished by the time the races begin.”

Puck frees her hand and runs it through my hair, resting her palm by my temple. “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she says. “Besides, it’s not even light out. It must be only four, Sean Kendrick, and you remember what you promised me, surely.”

I do. “Stay in bed until six,” I say, and am rewarded with a smile. I smile myself. It’s only the shorter races in the morning. Surely I can sleep for a few more hours. I adjust so my feet are back under the blankets, and close my eyes.

It is the first of November and so, today, someone will die.

But it is not going to be either of us.


Reporters flock the beach today, their camera bulbs flashing as they spot promising capaill uisce. They swarm to the rich and powerful and take pictures of them doing rich and powerful things, like frowning dramatically at the rolling clouds, or scratching their bums.

Sean and I separate quietly at Dory Maud’s stand with a simple squeezing of each other’s hand. Dory Maud clucks at me as I approach, which immediately puts a scowl on my face.

“What?” I ask abruptly. I rearrange my teapots on her table, moving the more lopsided ones to the back.

“You and that young man,” she replies, and to my surprise she cackles “I never thought.”

“Never thought what?” I’m rather pleased that I manage to stop my reply here.

Dory Maud follows Sean with an amused eye. “I never thought you two would come true,” she says. “You two are a wish I never thought to hope for.”

I open my mouth, certain that there’s something I can say to this proclamation, but nothing comes. I give myself a few moments before closing my mouth in defeat.

“Ah, a silent Puck. There’s a strange sight,” Dory Maud quips. “What on earth are you doing to those teapots?”

“Some of them came out wonky,” I reply, glad to have something to say. “And before you say something about wonky and people being wonky—”

She interrupts with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “I wasn’t going to,” she says. “I was going to let your future babies do that for me.”

“Dory Maud!” My ears are utterly flaming, I can tell.

Dory Maud just shrugs, pleased with herself.

“I must say, I’d be intrigued to see those children myself,” a familiar voice says in a familiar broad accent. I look up and am unsurprised to see George Holly standing arm in arm with Annie, Dory Maud’s blind sister. He’s wearing a pressed green sweater and about half of Annie’s lipstick.

He’s also holding a gigantic paper bag from Palsson’s, which undoubtedly holds at least a dozen November cakes. Seeing them makes me think of Finn, who likely carefully selected each cake as if his life depended on it. That’s one of the things I’m most grateful for, that my winning the races meant Finn doesn’t have to apprentice with Thomas Gratton. Aside from being able to keep the house, and Sean keeping Corr, the fact that Finn doesn’t have to deal with blood every day means the world.

“Are those to share?” I ask, ignoring Dory Maud’s pointed look and Annie’s unfocused glare. Years of trying to survive on the kindness of others doesn’t go away that quickly. George Holly smiles widely at me pulls out three individually wrapped cakes.

“One for the both of you and one for Mr. Kendrick,” he says, which is strange, because I know he calls Sean ‘Sean’ and he knows I know he calls Sean ‘Sean’. I don’t worry on it, though; tourists never made much sense to me.

I thank him, hand one to Dory Maud, and head off to find Sean.

The crowd parts around me much easier this year. It’s a strange thing, this awareness. We acknowledge you, the movement seems to say. Curious eyes meet my gaze so frequently that I instinctively jut my chin and glare back.

It takes a little while to find Sean. There’s so much movement on the cliffs that I step back and let my eyes relax, the better to find a small corner of stillness. After three minutes I find him standing just off to the side, hands in his pockets, his face the same sharpness as the cliff face. He’s watching the short distance races with a politely distanced expression on his face, and I know it’s not just for show. Sean raced because he loved Corr. He doesn’t now because he still does.

I go up to him from the side, as I would with Dove if she was stressed. I’m not sure why. He doesn’t comment, instead taking my hand as he had this morning. His fingers play with the red ribbon bracelet he’d given me before we raced together.

I miss it sometimes. The exhilaration, the speed. But standing here with him, it’s enough.


I’m not watching the races after Puck takes my hand. I accept her November cake, leaving the box in my coat pocket. I think she can tell how nervous I am, because she looks at me from the corner of her eye as the short distance races finish.

They’re calling all those entered for the real race to the starting line and I feel everyone’s attention taughten. Some look at the lineup and then at me and I can tell they’re wondering why I’m not racing. I tighten my grip on Puck’s hand. She runs her thumb across my knuckles.

I breathe in the sea, in the smell of Puck’s hair, in the sensation of her hand in mine, and I am so, so alive.

Then the riders are off.

It’s a bloodbath. The capaill uisce in the middle are the ones I noted early in October, the ones whose riders are lazy or cruel or indulgent, the ones whose reins are just too loose and whose manes are covered in flowers and chains and bells. The ones who are hungriest, the most determined to return to the sea.

It’s over in minutes. It’s an eternity on the beach, but it’s over before I finish my November cake.

“Strange,” Puck murmurs. Her voice is like the sea, and it calls me back to myself. Her eyes mirror the color of the waves. “It seemed so much longer, when it was us.”

And I know at her words that I’m right. It couldn’t have been anyone else. I smile at her faintly.

She narrows her eyes curiously. “What?” I shrug, my usual response. She turns to face me fully, free hand on her hip. “No, what? What’s that face?”

“Will you marry me?”

I’m immediately horrified. This isn’t at all what I planned. She doesn’t reply right away, staring with her mouth slightly open at me. I’m holding a half eaten November cake, my jacket’s streaked with salt from this morning’s swim with Corr, there’s blood on the beach below, and this isn’t what I planned. I have no bread to give her.

She’s still not saying anything. I take my hand back and twist around to reach into the pocket on the other side, and pull out the little box. Puck’s eyes widen as I one-handedly open the box and sink to my knee.

The people around us have noticed now. Reporters point their cameras at us, and I hear excited whispers and our names echo around us as I say, “Puck Connolly. Will you marry me?”

Puck gives me a blazing look that’s belied by the tears streaming down her face and nods. She runs into my arms and knocks me over, laughing through her tears.

“Is that a yes?” I say, laughing slightly myself. I take the ring out of the box.

“Of course that’s a yes,” Puck replies. She wipes her eyes fiercely with her sleeve and I take her hand and slide the ring on.

I sit up, heedless of the reporters taking photos, and kiss her. My arms are full of Puck and my stomach is full of November cake and I’m getting her hair sticky with the honey and icing. And I hear someone that sounds suspiciously like George Holly call out, “What did I tell you? It’s a good thing you aren’t a gambling man, Mr. Kendrick, or you’d be out a lot of money.”

But I wouldn’t have cared.

Puck kisses me back, hard, and our spectators cheer. We ignore them. She smiles underneath my mouth.

It’s the first of November and so, today, our lives will begin anew.


Books Meme: Twenty OTPs (1/20)

                                     Sean Kendrick & Kate ‘Puck’ Connolly (The Scorpio Races)

“You swallow her with your eyes. I’m surprised there’s any of her left for the rest of us to see.” 

Sean reaches between us and slides a thin bracelet of red ribbons over my free hand. Lifting my arm, he presses his lips against the inside of my wrist. I’m utterly still; I feel my pulse tap several times against his lips, and then he releases my hand.

“For luck,” he says. He takes Dove’s lead from me.

“Sean,” I say, and he turns. I take his chin and kiss his lips, hard. I’m reminded, all of a sudden, of that first day on the beach, when I pulled his head from the water.

“For luck,” I say to his startled face.

11 Questions


1. Always post the rules
2. Answer the questions given by the person who tagged you
3. Write 11 questions of your own
4. Tag 11 people (or however many you want).

I was tagged by the lovely @brightbeautifulthings, thank you!

The questions given to me:

1. What’s the best gift you’ve ever received? Any time I receive books, I’m always happy. 
2. Which five songs do you listen to most right now? Naturally by Selena Gomez (nostalgia…), No Promises by Cheat Codes and Demi Lovato, Thunder by Imagine Dragons, Team by Lorde and There’s nothing holdin’ me back by Shawn Mendes. 
3. What’s your favorite cartoon? It’s Doraemon XD
4. Who are your top three OTP’s? That’s hard! Sean x Puck (The Scorpio Races), Warner x Juliette (Shatter me), Rose x Dimitri (Vampire Academy).
5. What’s your favorite dessert? I love cakes.
6. Which authors do you trust enough to read anything by them? Cecelia Ahern, Maggie Stiefvater, J.K. Rowling and Elisabetta Gnone.
7. Do you like having background noise/music when you’re working? Yes!
8. If you could learn any new skill, what would it be? Writing or playing piano.
9. Which books made you love reading when you were a kid? Fairy Oak series by Elisabetta Gnone and The Neverending story by Michael Ende. 
10. What languages do you speak? I speak Italian (my first language), English, Spanish and German. 
11. What’s your favorite fairytale? Beauty and the Beast. 

My questions for you:

  1.  Have you ever been abroad? If yes, where? If not, where would you want to travel to?
  2. One thing to do before you die?
  3. Top 3 stand-alones?
  4.  What book series/ stand-alone have you re-read more than 2 times?
  5.  A TV Show you always recommend?
  6. Top 3 pet peeves?
  7. Do you judge a book by its cover?
  8. Favourite fictional characters?
  9. What do you do when you’re sad?
  10. If you could ask your favourite author 2 questions what would they be?
  11. Which book was the last one you really, really loved?

Tagging: @i-breathe-therefore-i-read, @murvu, @thebooknookreviews, @whattheb00k, @tessalivesandbreathesbooks, @live-and-breathe-fantasy, @flamingmirror, @marie-curie and @fangirl-alsomaybeahipster.

The Night Before

A little fic about the night before the wedding - @welcometothisby
The Scorpio Races Fanfic



I always thought our parents would be here. For some reason, even after they died, I always figured somehow they’d come back for my wedding day. It doesn’t feel the same, without them.

“They’re still here” is what Finn says when I tell him this. He’s standing before the stove wearing an old, paper thin sweater and his bony arms poke through ragged holes in the elbow. He still looks like an orphan even with all the food and money I’ve earned at Malvern’s yard and I don’t know if that will ever change. Maybe looking like an orphan is inevitable when you’re an orphan.

“How do you know?” I ask, curious to know both what he’s thinking and what he’s making on the stove. Finns don’t usually go near the stove, unless it’s to prod hopelessly at a pot of broth until I come home from the stables.

That, or to make his salty hot chocolate, which is in a pot on the burner when he moves to the side. I should’ve guessed. Hot chocolate is the beverage he goes to when he’s stressed or trying to be calm, and the wedding preparations haven’t been easy on him.

Finn clanks a spoon around the pot and says in a measured voice, “I know everything.”


“They’re everywhere,” Finn says, turning off the heat. He pours some hot chocolate into two mugs and hands me one silently. “I don’t know how you can miss them. I see them every day.” He pauses and looks at his hands. “They’re everywhere in this house.”

He murmurs something about needing to go to Palsson’s to learn about cinnamon twists and finishes off his hot chocolate in one fluid motion. I get to my feet and pull him close in a hug, and I’m surprised by the muscles I feel through his sweater. Finn’s grown up quite a bit in the months I haven’t been looking. Guilt creeps into my bones and rests there with a sad sort of familiarity as he closes the door.

I carry my mug with me as I wander back to my room. Little things jump out at me on the way, like the bookshelf Mum would cover in flowers during the spring, or Dad’s chess set still in place in the living room. There’s a pulled-up bit of carpet in the corner just inside the hallway and I remember the time Finn tried to bury a toy soldier there, and the subsequent aid he got from Dad. And I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and see my mother in my freckles and hair and I believe Finn. This house has so many of their memories we may as well be haunted by their ghosts.

I go into my room and the dress hanging on my closet doorknob gives me pause.

This dress. I touch it lightly, as if it were something soft, as if it were a knife. This was my mother’s.

I hurriedly drink the rest of my hot chocolate and set the mug down on my bedside table. Knowing my luck, I’d spill the entire contents down the front of the gown, and then the first five years of our marriage would be spent paying off loans taken out to buy a replacement. And after the work Dory Maud and Elizabeth put in to alter it, I think I’d die then and there from their scolding more than anything else.

I hold it up against myself and look into the full length mirror I’m borrowing from Elizabeth and I wonder when I’ll be able to look at myself and not see my mother.

I think about Sean, about whether he sent his mother the invitation, about whether he tracked her down. About the kind of person who’d leave their son when they didn’t have to, and I think fiercely that I won’t leave him like that.

The dress casts a pale glow into the room and makes my face more shadowed in comparison. It’s completely out of place here surrounded by my childhood things. It seems strange that I’m getting married when it seems like only yesterday that I was scowling at my parents, or that Gabe pulled my braids, or that Finn sold the Morris. I hug myself tightly. It seems strange. The thought of it exerts a strong pressure on my chest with strong hands and suddenly it hurts to breathe.

“Are you okay?”

I turn sharply to face the doorway and nearly fall over. Gabe’s leaning against the doorframe, concern etched between his brows, and for a moment I can believe that this is normal, that he’s back. That he’s staying.

“I’m nervous,” I confess. I hang the dress back on the closet doorknob. “I trust Sean. I love him. But I feel so young, Gabe, and lost, and I wish they were here. I want to know—” that I’ve chosen right. That they approve.

Gabe, to his credit, doesn’t offer me any empty promises of our parents looking down on us from Up There. He simply walks to me and opens his arms and I fall into them, the way I did when I was younger and when it seemed like a greater age difference between us than six years.

“It’ll be okay,” Gabe says. He doesn’t say that he’ll be here; I know he’s taken a week of vacation time to have come over and helped Sean fix up his parents’ house, but he’s going back to the mainland the day after the ceremony. I only have him for two more days.

There was a time when I thought I had him for forever, but I try not to dwell on that.

“You can write to me,” he continues. I hold him tighter. “I’ll do my best to write back quickly. You haven’t lost me as a brother, Kate.”

I nod against his chest. There was a point, when he was leaving the first time and I entered the races, when I would have yelled and screamed at him that of course I was, that he can’t just leave like this, that him leaving changed everything. But now, being in his shoes, about to leave Finn, I understand.

We stay like that for a long, long time.


The house is clean and the windows have been replaced and the door hinges are greased and I’m restless with nothing to do.

I’m thinking about going to check on Corr, but with how agitated and fidgety I am, chances are good that his progress will instead regress and I’ll have another thing to worry about. I ball my hands into fists and rub them against my eyes, sinking to the floor of the kitchen.

It’s late. The sea is already singing to the capaill uisce in the stables at Malvern’s yard, pulling them deeper under its spell. I had been there for so long that just thinking about the whinnies of the tense horses immediately calls forth several memories. I cannot tell if I miss it.

Corr whinnies from his makeshift stable and the sound reminds me that there’s another thing I should do before Puck and Dove move in tomorrow. Right now his stall is very similar to the one he had at Malvern’s, nice and secure, but the rest of the structure is not my proudest piece of work. I sigh. There will be time. After the wedding.

“I’m sorry, Corr,” I whisper into the night air.

“What do you have to be sorry for?” a voice says from the doorway.

I jump so high that I nearly hit my head on the countertop. Heart pounding like Corr’s hooves at a gallop, I get to my feet, searching around for something with weight. This reminds me too much of when Mutt nearly killed Corr. My hand closes around the handle of a long knife.

“You aren’t going to use that on me, I hope,” the voice continues. I pause, thinking. The accent is not one that you’d run into often on Thisby. I let out a deep breath and put the knife down.

“Holly,” I say neutrally, as if he hadn’t just scared me more than anything.

George Holly asks, “May I come in?”

I nod. He comes in, casting a critical eye around the kitchen, and I see the room through his eyes. There’s a wire uncovered by the pantry, a tear in the couch you can see through the archway to the living room, and blue paint spilled from the walls. In this light, the paint looks like blood.

It strikes me that perhaps I’m too familiar with blood.

“Looks nice,” Holly comments finally. He takes a seat at the small kitchen table. “I especially like the spilled paint. Nice artistic touch.”

I smile slightly at this and join him at the table. He steeples his fingers and observes me over them.

I say, “What brings you by?”

“Dory Maud and Annie, actually,” he replies, leaning back in his chair.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. And good thing, too,” Holly says. “You look very, very pale, Sean Kendrick.”

I don’t reply. Odds are very good that there’s something he wants to say, and I’m willing to wait until he wants to speak. We spend some minutes in silence before he laughs.

“I see, I see.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I give in. I’ll ask. How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I answer. My tone is terse, which isn’t what I was intending. Holly raises his eyebrows.

“Fine? Because you look like you’re on a horse that’s barrelling out of control and you can’t turn it uphill to slow down.”

His words are a little too insightful for my liking. “I’m fine,” I say, nicer this time but still unmistakably broaching no questions. “Why are you here, again?”

“I was told it’s Thisby tradition for the best man to stay with the groom the night before the big day,” Holly replies with a grin. “Isn’t that true?”

“I think so,” I say, honestly unsure. “Most of my time after my father died was spent learning Thisby’s traditions about horses, but I believe that’s true.”

Holly nods indulgently. “Then what kind of best man would I be if I had let you spend this night alone?”

I consider this while he examines the grain of the table. “I suppose it depends on who you’re asking,” I say slowly. “If you were to ask the mainlanders, a normal one. If you were to ask me…” I pause. He looks at me with an earnest expression. “If you were to ask me, a poor one. Thank you,” I whisper, “for coming.”

“You’re nervous,” he says, and it’s less of an observation and more of a fact. I nod. “Don’t be.” I glance up at him now, my eyes narrowed in confusion. “Puck Connolly loves you, Sean. Don’t worry about her feelings.”

I whisper, “Myself I am sure of.”

“Then don’t operate on surety. Trust her,” Holly replies. “Trust doesn’t have to be founded on anything rational, though in your case I’m happy to say it certainly is.”

My mouth had gone dry somewhere in the middle of his comments and my words stick in my throat, but I think he knows what I want to say. He walks around the table to clap me gently on the shoulder.

“Is there anything you need tonight?” Holly asks.

“Can you…can you sit with me?” I reply, wincing at the neediness in my voice. “I need someone to sit with me tonight. I don’t know if I’ll fall asleep, but it would be nice to know that you’re here.”

“Of course,” Holly says easily. He launches into a story about America and about a stallion who’s been giving him trouble, about a mare that he’s named Puck because when she gets hungry she rams headfirst into her stable door. I smile at that.

Suddenly a new fear grips my heart. “Holly,” I interrupt frantically. “Puck. What do I call her tomorrow? What am I supposed to say?”

He frowns, thinking. “You mean, during your vows?”

“Yes. I’ve always called her ‘Puck’, but—”

“But it isn’t her real name,” he says thoughtfully. “I see. Have you asked her?”

I shake my head, tracing a circle on my knee in the hopes that I can steady myself. “No. I haven’t seen her in three days,” I say. “Another Thisby tradition.”

“What a strangely wonderful place this is,” Holly says with a smile. “Well. Which is she to you? Puck or Kate?”

Puck is the answer that immediately comes to my tongue. She’s bold, brash, and loving. Her words are alternatingly biting and soothing. She’s a mess of everything, of all the ocean’s moods. She’s Puck to me. Puck is who I proposed to. Puck is who I’ll marry. Yes. This name feels right on my lips.

George Holly smiles like he knows what I’ve decided. “I think you’ve got your answer, then,” he says.

And for tonight, I believe it can be this simple. If only for tonight.