sweater weather!
Scorpio Races fluff below the cut, please beware
Thisby women have a long history of battling the elements with handicrafts. Though not as famous as Fair Isle sweaters, Harris tweed, or even Irish mohair, Thisby wool is known for being so durable it can be worn for years and passed down through families; from jumpers to scarves and hats without the dyes fading or the threads fraying.
Even if Puck had the skill for the spindle and knitting needles, there was no one to teach her after her mother passed. The Maud women ran a crash course in pottery painting for the Connolly youngsters when it became clear that they needed the cash, but the sisters didn’t have time for the feminine arts (unless you counted flirting). They had sight enough for two out of three, and patience enough only for one.
But needs must. Tradition demanded tiny booties and hats and blankets, as baby Kendrick was well on its way already.
Puck rests her work on her belly, which has a healthy swell to it. The biggest hardship of pregnancy so far has been giving up riding, but trying to cast on is a close second. Her fingers are still strong and calloused from Dove's reins, but knitting is less about strength and more about witchcraft it seems.
Finn had found her a knitting primer in Fathom & Sons years back and given it to her as a joke, because Puck knitting was like seeing a barn cat walk on hind legs. Less funny now that she’s actually trying to make a go of it, however.
Her patience runs out. She’s made stitches so tight she can barely get the needles out of the loops, so she decides to get some air.
Corr and Dove are happy to see her as she approaches the paddock Sean fashioned on the old Kendrick farm.
Dove nudges her shoulder with her nose and Puck feels a deep pang. “Sorry, I miss our rides too.”
Her horse snorts back, Corr clucks. Then the baby kicks and Puck feels ganged up on.
“I know, I said I’m sorry!”
Dove is placated by Puck’s hands stroking her withers, but Corr has other ideas and makes to sniff at her coat pockets.
“I don’t have any scraps to spare, I’m afraid.”
Corr thumps a hoof on the ground and turns to smell the sea, always nearby on misty days. It’s not quite mid-October but the capaill uisce have already been spotted in the currents, hunting.
Dove rests her nose on Puck’s belly, seemingly to investigate.
“The doctor says it’ll be a while before I can ride again even after the baby comes, because my womb may wander. Which sounds like utter nonsense to me.”
The horses don’t disagree, but then again they don’t have the power of words either way.
Puck feels the baby again— a flip near Dove’s nose. This child already loves horses and it hasn’t even been born yet.
Dove accepts a cheek pat in lieu of a mount, but Corr gives her a look.
“Next time I’ll bring something for you, I promise.”
“You already have.”
Puck whirls around, nearly stepping on a deposit left by Dove. “You dirty sneak!"
Sean Kendrick has a gift for approaching quietly and scaring the daylights out of his wife. He must have walked Dove and Corr’s yearling to the far barn already, quieted by the foggy weather. Sure enough, Sunrise’s tail is twitching at the water trough.
“I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Oh, you would never,” Puck smiles.
He hugs her and rests his hand where everything is happening-- where their future is percolating.
“How is our family today?”
“Annoyed, mostly. Malvern kicked me off duty, and Holly agreed. Just because I can’t ride, doesn’t mean I can’t still be useful. Apparently it’s unseemly for a woman in the family way to be seen mucking out stalls. I’ve also given up on knitting, and this one won’t stop kicking.”
Sean kisses her cheek, thinking. Always thinking.
His eyes twinkle. “You can muck out the stalls here as long as you like. We can wipe down the baby with fresh hay when she’s born, just like with the foals.”
Puck mocks disgust, but can’t keep up the ruse and laughs. Sean making a joke needs to be cherished and savored always. “What makes you so sure she’s a girl?”
“Just a notion.”
They walk back to the gate of the paddock, holding hands.
“Peg Gratton’s pendant says it’s a boy.”
“She finally cornered you?”
“We were out of Corr’s meat, and I needed a walk. I had to sit down to catch my breath--”
Sean’s hackles raise. “What do you mean, catch your breath?”
“Calm yourself, we’re fine. It’s just quite a walk up the hill from Malvern’s yard, you know. And I’m no longer fighting fit.”
He answers by sliding a protective arm around her shoulder, as if he might carry her across the threshold, or anywhere else she needs to go.
“You worry too much.”
He blinks at her like Finn's trusting cat Puffin. “I just love you, that’s all."
After three years married, surely she should be used to it. But her throat still bobbles at his earnestness, his troth to her for the race and at the church: that he would always be at her side.
“I love you, I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”
He looks like he’s formulating a reply when they hear a distant honk. Finn’s dusty truck is pulling up the drive, a gift from George Holly a few Novembers back when Finn fixed it for him.
Sean waves and turns back to the paddock to put Dove and Corr through their paces, probably also to give the siblings privacy.
Finn climbs out of the front seat, an old box in his hands.
“Puck!”
"Hello! You can join us for supper if you don’t mind cooking.”
He’s a scurry of excitement, barely listening. "I was in the cellar, trying to find some twine to fix a window sash and I found this.”
A flurry of dust is disturbed by him pushing the box’s lid aside to reveal— impossibly—tiny homespun wool garments, baby and toddler-sized and dyed a simple gray.
“Oh, Finn!"
He smiles, proud of himself. “I found it in a crate of Fathom & Sons catalogs and fabric scraps."
Puck is completely overcome— she has no memory of baby Finn, because she too was small. But of course these would have been saved. Only Gabe would have known these existed, and he’s not here to testify.
She can’t help herself, she begins to cry. Curse these weaker pregnancy moments.
Finn looks panicked, at sea in any kind of display of emotion. “Oh dear! What’s wrong?”
Through tears, Puck says. “Nothing’s wrong, everything’s perfect.”
Finn visibly relaxes as Puck picks up the tiniest bootie, somehow preserved in the cellar for all of those years. Thisby wool knitted by her ancestors, and saved by her mother in hope for the future with all of the sacrifice that entails.
Sean looks over to them from across the yard, and she has everything she needs to move forward.
