20. Georgina
— ? —
Georgina
Max has measured the distance between the poles twice, and I am about to make him do it a third time.
“The middle one needs to come toward me a little.” I halt Sovrano near the rail, keeping my reins in one hand while I point. “He’s having to reach for it.”
Max looks from the pole to the shallow prints in the sand. “He lengthened on the approach.”
“And I brought him back before the turn.” I stroke Sovrano’s neck, waiting while Max follows the line of hoofprints. “You’re allowed to agree with me. No one will take your trophies away.”
“I’m considering the evidence.” He crouches and shifts the pole toward us. “You could try allowing me to finish.”
“I’ve been very patient.”
“You’ve been counting under your breath.” He straightens and looks up at me, his grin entirely unrepentant. “It’s distracting.”
“That’s nothing. Wait until I start giving marks.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. This is what the last ten days have given us: mornings that begin with coffee at nine and arguments that lead somewhere useful.
We began that first morning on foot, as promised, and worked out the week together.
Then came mounted walks over poles while Max adjusted distances and I remembered how to trust the rhythm beneath me.
By the end of that week, we had added short trots.
Now, with just over four weeks until the season finale, I can feel my body settling back into something that used to be automatic.
The flutter is still there when I ask for more than a walk.
It rises before I close my legs, and I have to resist shortening my reins until there is nowhere for Sovrano to go.
Today, I notice myself doing it before Max has to say anything.
I ease my fingers, breathe out, and feel my horse soften beneath me.
“Try that.” Max steps well clear of the line. “Unless you’d like me to bring out the tape again.”
“I’ll reserve that for when you disagree with me.” I turn Sovrano toward the long side so we have room to establish our rhythm.
“Naturally.” He folds his arms at the rail, watching me with the sort of attention that makes it difficult to keep a straight face. “Whenever you’re ready, principessa.”
“Watch the horse, Costanzo.”
“I am watching the horse.” His smile widens. “There happens to be someone very distracting sitting on him.”
I look ahead before he can see how much that pleases me. There is nothing solemn in his face, no careful encouragement I have to be grateful for. He’s flirting with me while I argue about a pole, and I want to give him something else to admire.
I ask Sovrano for trot as we approach the poles. The flutter rises, and I let it, keeping my hands soft and my seat quiet. Sovrano’s ears flick forward. He knows this exercise. He had done it a hundred times before I ever fell, and his body remembers even when mine forgets.
We meet the first pole in rhythm. The second follows, then the third, each stride landing where it should. I feel the balance shift as we clear the line, and something in my chest loosens. Not triumph, exactly. Just the quiet satisfaction of having done something properly.
“Better.” Max has moved to the side of the arena, watching. “You’re still bracing before the first one.”
“I know.” I bring Sovrano back to walk and pat his neck. “It’s getting smaller.”
“It is.” He nods toward the long side. “Give yourself another few strides before you turn. You don’t need to rush to it.”
I make a wider circuit and try again, feeling the difference before we reach the first pole. When I look over, he is smiling. I don’t need to ask whether he saw it.
The groom brings the steady gray from the yard, already tacked, and holds him while Max fastens his helmet and mounts. I walk Sovrano around the far end to give them room, letting him stretch while Max settles his stirrups.
We work for another fifteen minutes, alternating between walk and trot, taking turns through the poles so each horse has room to work. Max takes the gray through the same exercises, and I catch myself watching his position, looking for something to correct.
“You’re dropping your shoulder.” I call it out as he comes through the line. “The left one. Before the turn.”
He brings the gray around and halts near me, one eyebrow raised. “Am I?”
“You were.” I gesture toward his left side. “It’s pulling him off the line.”
For a moment I think he’s going to argue. Then he nods, adjusting his position in the saddle. “Let me see you take that turn.”
I ask Sovrano for trot and take him through the line again, keeping my shoulders level as we come around the turn.
It’s a small thing, the kind of adjustment that disappears into muscle memory once you’ve done it enough times.
But I can feel the difference in Sovrano’s balance, and I know Max can see it.
“There.” I bring Sovrano back to walk before halting a few feet from him. “See the difference?”
“I saw you showing off.” But he’s smiling. “Do it again. I want to watch the turn.”
I take Sovrano through once more, giving him time to settle at the walk afterward. Max watches the turn, then nods. He asks the gray for trot and squares his shoulders before the turn, and I watch the gelding’s stride smooth out as they come through the line.
“Better.” I let myself sound pleased. “You’re a reasonably quick study.”
“High praise from you.” He brings the gray alongside Sovrano. “I’ll add it to my collection.”
“You have a collection?”
“I’m starting one.” He rests a hand against the gray’s neck, looking at me with exaggerated seriousness. “Every time you admit I’ve done something right, I’m writing it down.”
“That must be a very short list.”
“It’s growing.” His eyes hold mine. “Slowly.”
I feel the warmth of his attention settle over me, and for a moment I forget we’re in the middle of a training session. Then Sovrano shifts beneath me, reminding me that we’ve been standing still too long.
“That’s it for today.” I stroke Sovrano’s neck, feeling the warmth of his coat beneath my glove. “He’s done well.”
“So have you.” Max doesn’t make it sound like flattery. “Your position’s better than it was last week.”
“It should be.” I turn Sovrano toward the gate. “I’ve had very demanding instruction.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” He falls into step beside me on the gray. “I thought I was just carrying poles.”
“Among other things.” I glance at him sideways. “You’ve also been providing entertainment.”
“I live to serve.” He inclines his head with such solemnity that I laugh.
The groom opens the gate, and we take the short loop around the olive trees to cool the horses before returning to the yard.
The afternoon sun is warm on my shoulders, and I can feel the pleasant ache in my legs that means I’ve worked properly.
Sovrano walks with his head low, content and relaxed, and I let my reins lengthen to match his mood.
“I was thinking about the canter.” I say it without looking at Max, keeping my voice casual. “Maybe tomorrow. Just a few strides, to see how it feels.”
“If you’re ready.” He doesn’t push, doesn’t tell me I should have tried it days ago. “We can use the long side, without the poles. Get a good trot, then ask when it feels right.”
“That would help.” I feel the flutter stir at the thought, but it’s smaller than it was. “I want to know what it feels like before I have to do it in front of people.”
“We can take our time with it.” He brings the gray level with us where the lane widens. “You don’t have to turn the first attempt into a whole circuit.”
I nod, letting the words settle. The competition is four weeks and four days away.
I’ve been counting without meaning to, watching the date approach on my phone’s calendar.
The entry fee is still unpaid, the decision still officially unmade.
But I know I’m going to enter. I’ve known since the first morning I asked Sovrano to trot and felt my body remember what it used to do without thinking.
The lane curves around a stand of old olive trees, and I’m about to say something about the footing when I see the flowers.
They’re arranged in small containers along the fence line, spaced evenly between the posts that mark the final stretch before the yard.
Soft pink roses, dozens of them, their petals catching the afternoon light.
The containers are set well back from the track, leaving the path clear, but there’s no way to miss them.
They transform the ordinary fence into something from a garden I’ve only imagined.
I pull Sovrano to a halt, staring.
“Max.” My voice comes out strange. “What is this?”
He stops the gray beside me, and when I turn to look at him, he’s watching my face instead of the flowers.
“You like the pale pink ones.” He says it simply, as though it explains everything. “I asked Rosa where I could get them. Then I spent a surprising amount of time discussing shades of pink with a florist.”
“You chose correctly.” I can feel my throat tightening. “Did you show them a photograph?”
“Three.” He’s trying to sound casual, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “Apparently they all looked like the same rose. I disagreed.”
I look back at the roses. They’re exactly the shade I would have chosen, pale pink deepening to coral at the edges. I can smell them from here, sweet and familiar, and something in my chest aches with the beauty of it.
“When did you do this?”
“This morning.” He shifts in the saddle. “While you were with Rosa. I wanted you to find them on the way back.”
“You planned this.” I turn to face him fully. “The whole ride. You knew we’d come back this way.”
“I knew we’d take this loop to cool them off.” He glances along the fence. “I had rather a lot riding on your not changing your mind about the route.”
I don’t know what to say. It’s such a simple thing, flowers along a fence, but he did it without telling me. He found the roses I like and arranged them along the lane, all so I would find them when I wasn’t expecting anything.