There were half a dozen horses being walked and assessed and argued over, the crowd three deep at the rail, the smell of grass and animals and something frying somewhere behind the rows of tents, and over all of it a continuous bright sound composed of shouts and laughter. It was the particular note of human excitement that Genevieve had always found, to her own slight surprise, quite irresistible.
A groom cut directly across their path leading a gray stallion that had strong opinions about its direction of travel. Thomas had to pull Genevieve back so the animal did not step on her boots.
“And this is the practice day?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” Thomas nodded. “It will be much more lively in the summer.”
“More!” she exclaimed. “How is that possible?”
“Well there are only six horses practicing here, there will be two dozen in the summer, at least, and people much more eager to place larger bets,” Thomas chuckled. “There will be a handful of races today.”
"How many are entered in the first race?" she asked.
"Four, I believe. Possibly five, if Danforth's chestnut has recovered and he arrives on time."
"Has it?"
"I have no idea," Thomas said. "I know very little about Danforth's chestnut."
She looked at him sideways.
"Then what do you know about?"
"I know that you have already identified a favorite and have not told me which one it is."
Her mouth curved.
"The bay mare," she said. "Third from the left."
Thomas followed her gaze. The mare in question was demonstrating her feelings about the proceedings with considerable energy.
"She looks as though she may have identified a favorite human and it is not her groom."
"She's bored," Genevieve said with authority. "She wants to run. I like her."
"She will probably throw her rider."
"I like her even more."
"You would get along terribly well," Thomas said. "You could both ignore instructions and go whichever direction seemed most interesting."
"I consider that a recommendation."
"I suspect the mare does as well."
He did laugh at that, a proper laugh—unhurried, the kind that arrived before the more considered version of himself could arrange it into something more restrained. Genevieve turned at the sound of it with an expression that was briefly, unguardedly pleased, and then turned back to the horses as though she had not been watching him.
The first race was announced and the crowd pressed forward. Genevieve caught his arm without appearing to notice that she had done it, which was not entirely true. She noticed, and chose to continue not appearing to notice, which was a different thing entirely.
She leaned slightly toward the rail to see more of the track.
“There is your bay mare,” Thomas said, pointing toward the horse. Genevieve beamed.
“I do believe she will be extraordinary,” she giggled.
“Would you bet five shillings on it?” Thomas grinned.
“When have you ever known me to take a bet?” she laughed.