She wants that cliff edge. The ocean is thick in the wind and she can't think for it. I shuffle my iron out of my pocket, trace it along her veins, but - nothing. She rears, clawing at the air, and when that doesn't unseat me, she decides to take me with her. Her skin's hot and charged where my leg touches her. Nothing I do to her will turn her head.
Before us, I see cliff grass, and more cliff grass, and then, beyond it, nothing but sky. I pop one rein up, a dangerous way to stop a normal horse as you could pull it onto yourself, but it makes no difference to the bay mare. She has the bit solidly in her teeth and the sea in her lungs.
Twenty feet to the edge.
I have half a heartbeat to make a decision.
I throw myself off her, slamming my shoulder hard into the ground and rolling to diffuse the blow. I see chestnut-coloured grass, then blue sky, then chestnut-coloured grass again. Pushing myself up on my elbow, I catch sight of the mare just in time to watch her bunch her muscles and leap.
I scramble as close to the cliff's edge as I dare. I'm not sure if I can stand to see her dash herself on the rocks below, but I can't not look, either.
The bay mare looks fearless as she sails through the air, as if it's no more than a casual leap over a hurdle. Already she looks less horselike, her body streamlined.
I can't look.
I hear a terrific crash. She has disappeared into the surf, her tail the last thing I see.
I sigh and put my hands in my pockets. I can't tell if she's survived the dive or not. My saddle's gone, either way. I'm glad it wasn't my father's, back at the barn, though it was still dear; I'd had it made for me two years ago, a rare indulgence. I don't swear, but I consider the shape of the word in my mouth.
from The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater
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