Ta da dum, ta da dum, ta da dum, a slow three part set of hoofbeats is heard, thudding into the soft sand of the training track at Avril Burke's racing stable. The aforementioned owner/trainer leans against the rail, watching a black horse performing a collected canter on the diagonal down the homestretch of the track. The rider is an auburn-haired woman, dressed in denim breeches tucked into tall leather boots, wearing a heavy woolen sweater against the damp morning. Her heels are dropped, toes pointing straight forward, and
her hands rest low, gently grasping a round braided leather line which loops around the neck of the black horse, just above his withers. As the horse reaches one side of the track, he does a flying change of leads and begins the diagonal canter back across the track towards the other rail. Avril, hearing footsteps behind her, straightens and turns in time to see a tall blonde man, dressed in black, as he also approaches and then leans against the rail.

"Taking a break from all your duties, then, Father?" Avril asks as she also turns back to the track.

"Yeah, this runnin' the whole parish is keepin' me racin', betcha!" Vincent Sheehan knows that part of the reason the Bishop has assigned him to run the parish formerly held by Frank MacAnnally, then by Peter Clifford, is that it keeps him further away from Avril Burke's training stable, but, refusing to totally surrender the innocent pleasure of contact time with horses, he deliberately makes time to visit. "I never thought the Bishop would tap me, after near skinnin' me alive over marryin' ma best mate at the Mass Rock, but I guess he figgers he can keep a closer eye on me in Cilldargan than he can when I'm in BallyK."

"The more fool he!" Avril Burke mutters under her breath, her eyes never leaving the horse and rider, now doing an extended trot down the backstretch.

"What?" Vincent thinks he must have heard wrong.

"Here, watch Maggie and Iblis as she brings him back around the final curve and into the home stretch, Father, she's been working him up to some haute ecole moves, and told me she was going to try a few today." Avril is still focussed on the team as they move around the turn, doing a relaxed canter, then collecting back up again as they near the pair of people observing them. The black horse slows further, into a collected trot, then into what amounts to a trot in place, nearly in front of the trainer and priest. His hooves move up and down, stepping repeatedly into his own hoofprints, as his haunches bunch and pull under his center of gravity, his hind hooves stilling, and then the front hooves, until the horse lifts his entire front end into the air, moving in what seems a slow-motion rear. The rider is completely still, balancing her weight over her mount so as not to disturb his action. Slowly, the horse stretches upward until he is standing fully vertical, then lowers himself until all four hooves are again on the ground.

"That was a move called the levade." Avril comments, as the horse again begins a collected trot, moving forward and gathering himself for the next maneuver. "Gonna go for it, Maggie?" Avril asks distinctly as the pair moves directly in front of the two observers.

Maggie nods and smiles, as her horse begins a tightly collected canter almost in place, and then suddenly launches himself directly upwards, front hooves tightly tucked, but the hind legs kicking backwards, then pulled back under himself as he drops downwards to land, moving forward in a canter again.

"What was THAT?" Vincent is clearly suprised and impressed, never having seen such an action in his years of either pleasure riding or horse racing. Avril answers him. "It's called the capriole, and it's one of the three hardest of the haute ecole moves a horse can be trained to perform."

"What's that phrase you're usin', 'hot-e-cold'?" Avril laughs, "no, no, haute ecole, it's French for 'high school', the most technically demanding of all the dressage work a horse performs. They don't even test those moves in formal dressage competition these days, only the Spanish Riding School in Vienna still trains them routinely, for their performing horses, the Lippizanners, but any properly conformed horse can do them if the trainer is willing to work that long." Avril watches the horse and rider doing a relaxed canter down the backstretch again, and wonders what else Maggie and Iblis will attempt.

"You ever do any of that?" Vincent turns his attention to the slim woman at his side, noticing against his will how even the winter sun makes her soft brown curls glow gently.

"Nah, I never wanted to try three day eventing, so I only learned the most basic dressage, I always wanted to train racehorses, both flat and steeplechase, so I didn't go into the slow stuff." Avril's attention is still focussed on horse and rider as they move back into the homestretch, and begin an extended trot, Iblis' front legs stretched tightly, the toes of his hooves noticeably pointing in the direction of his travel, as he begins to trot diagonally across the track. "That's the passage." Avril states, and Vincent forces his attention back to the horse.

Maggie says one word as she comes up towards her observers again, and collects Iblis into a tightly controlled canter. "Ballotade." Iblis again leaps into the air, but this time his hind legs are also tucked under him, Maggie still and perfectly vertical in the saddle as the horse executes the powerful leap. They land again, and Iblis steps into a slow canter, then stretches into the extended trot, and moves again towards the backstretch. The trot slows into a walk, and Maggie bends forward, reaching for her stirrup leathers on first one side, then the other, of her saddle. It is soon evident that she has shortened both leathers considerably, and just as Vincent turns to ask Avril what Maggie is doing, Iblis breaks into a free, swinging trot, and Maggie stands in the stirrups, her knees flexing. A few strides later, the black breaks into a lope, then his pace increases, until, by the final turn, he is in a full gallop.

"I can't believe she's going to breeze him after he's already worked so hard!" Avril's near shock is clear on her face, and even Vincent knows enough to be suprised. Maggie is leaning forward over the black horse's neck, her hands tightly grasping the prayer rein, her fingers intertwined in the long black mane. Vincent squints as the pair flies past him, and then gasps as he realizes something he had not noticed, Iblis is not wearing either a halter nor a bridle! "He doesn't have a bridle, how can she control him like that?" Vincent shakes his head.

"She says he's been with her so long she doesn't need need a bit and bridle anymore, he knows all his cues from her legs and her hands on his neck alone. Really, I shouldn't be suprised, he's an Arabian, after all, but I'd never try it, myself, no matter how long I'd been riding the horse." Avril's admiration is somewhat grudging, even though she tries to keep it out of her voice. Maggie isn't any sort of competition, after all, not training any horse but her own, and not giving riding lessons, either. The black has rounded the turn and is onto the backstretch, still going strong, his muscles flexing and extending as he runs, his ears laid back, nostrils flared.

"Drinkers of the wind......." Vincent's voice is quiet, and Avril turns to him.

"What?" she asks.

"Heard that's what they were called, in Arabia, by the Bedouins who bred 'em." Vincent's voice is still quiet, watching the black approach them on the homestretch, slowing now in response to Maggie's pressure on the prayer rein and her straighened posture in the saddle. By the time he passes them again and then rounds the turn, he is in a slow canter, and breaks down to a loose walk in the backstretch, cooling out, his neck outstretched and relaxed, and Maggie lengthens her stirrup leathers again, until they again approach the two observers. Avril watches the horse, and Vincent, despite an exercise of will, watches Avril. Maggie's eyes do not miss this silent interaction, and she wonders if Avril returns Vincent's fascination. Nothing she has ever heard from the young trainer leads her to believe Avril does, but Maggie resolves to observe more carefully in the rare instances when she sees the two together.

"So, Father, how about you walk him and finish cooling him out for me while Avril and I talk shop?" Maggie drops her right stirrup, sliding the leg over the pommel of the saddle, and, turning, drops the left stirrup as well, and slides off, landing on both feet with her back to her horse, then walking towards the man and woman leaning on the rail.

"Fair enough," the priest answers her, ducking under the rail to move to the black's head. Maggie loosens the girth, then removes the saddle and throws a blanket over the black horse's back, buckling the front of the loose cloth, and Vincent, patting the sweaty neck lightly, says, "Here, mate, let's have a chat, you an me, right?" The horse follows the tall man willingly, with no line or lead, the strides of both matching well, a tall man and a not-so-tall horse, quietly strolling down the soft sand of the training track. Maggie ducks under the rail, then turns and leans on it, standing next to the young racing trainer.

"That's one handsome fella, there, Maggie." Avril comments.

"Vincent?" Maggie replies, only gentle curiosity in her tone.

"No, no, your Iblis! Looks pretty good for a twenty year old, too, there's no sag to his spine, his legs are clean, and is wind is still sound and clear as a bell!" Avril's admiration for fine horseflesh obviously overrides all other concerns, and Maggie inwardly heaves a sigh of relief, hoping that Avril has not fallen prey to the frighteningly common curse of loving a priest.

"Yeah, he is in good shape, although that's common for his breed, they see their mid-twenties routinely, and a fair number of them make thirty. If we were still in America I'd still be standing him at stud, but there aren't many breeders of purebred Arabians in Ireland, and I have no idea if any of the Irish registries would allow crossbred foals out of Irish mares to be registered. I don't think Iblis has forgiven me yet for taking him away from any potential love affairs, poor old guy, though he never bred more than a couple of mares a year, even in his prime, as I didn't keep mares for him, they were all 'outside' mares." Maggie smiles, remembering snapshots of adorable foals sent with Christmas cards, and some few show photos, sent a month or two after the Nationals, with close-ups of Top Ten rosettes as well.

"Let me look into that, Maggie, at least for the Thoroughbreds, okay?" Avril has a look of interest on her face. "I've been doin' some thinkin', you see, an if I can register the foal, I think I'd like to see what The Cat can produce by him. He's got the stable temperament she needs, and the stamina as well, and I've seen the speed he can muster, too, so I don't think I'll lose much of that in the cross. I haven't seen a Thoroughbred stallion in all of Ireland I like half as well as your lad there, and none of them is going to give The Cat what she needs most, so I'd like to try a crossbreeding an' see what I get."

"Well, I must say, Avril, I'm flattered indeed, but I'll lay odds the Jockey Club won't go for it. And what good would it do for you to have a foal you couldn't race and couldn't breed for racing offspring, either one?" Maggie remembers how restrictive the American Jockey Club was.

"We'll just have to see, but I wanted to run it by ya first, to see if you'd be agreeable, before I wrote to the Club about it." Avril watches the man and the stallion rounding the turn and approaching them down the homestretch. "Your Iblis is just simply a fine, fine horse, and I might just do the cross whether I could race the foal or not, simply to have a fabulous riding horse and hunter for my own use." Visions of a grey horse flying over fields and jumps are running across the backs of Avril's eyeballs, she can easily imagine how the increased stamina of the Arabian cross would give The Cat's foal a fabulous advantage in the field.

"Well, I agree, I am very sure that Iblis would sire a gorgeous baby out of your girl. Why don't you drop by the pub some time and I can show you photos of his purebred foals in America, so you can see what he is consistent in siring." Maggie finds herself looking forward to the Spring for a new reason. Man and horse come to a stop beside the rail, and Vincent again strokes the black neck, finding the coat dry, and the skin beneath it warm but no longer hot.

"Think he's cooled, Maggie, but that's pretty fast, want me to take him around again?" Most horses would have needed much more walking to cool adequately, Vincent knows that much from his youth and the brief times he has associated with horses since his graduation from seminary.

"No, Vincent, I am sure he's fine, he always has cooled out quickly. Avril, let me know what you hear from the Club, okay, and come in to see those pictures some time?" Maggie has ducked under the rail, carrying a bucket which she had sitting by one post with her. She pulls off the sheet, and begins to brush the residual sweat off the black coat with a soft brush. "And thank you, once again, for letting me use your track, I can't risk those moves on wet grass, which is all there is up at the Byrne farm this time of year!"

"You're welcome, Maggie, I enjoy getting to see a bit of how the other half rides, so to speak!" Avril also slips under the rail, running her hand down the sleek neck and sloping shoulder, across the strong back and over the nearly level hip and croup, finishing with a gentle pat on the firm muscles. Her hand confirms what her eye has seen, this is a marvelously conformed stallion, with exactly what The Cat needs most to have the best chance of producing a great foal.

"Why are ya trainin' him so hard, Maggie, an at this time of year, too?" Vincent asks, as the auburn-haired woman slips the prayer rein off the horse's neck, and ducks under the rail again, sheet folded into the bucket, and saddle picked up and slung over the other arm.

"We were losing our discipline, Vincent, with me spending so much time at the pub this past year. I didn't want our bond to weaken, not if I could help it. I love this horse like he was my brother!" Maggie's eyes follow the stallion as he walks along beside the three humans, inside the rail while they are outside it. They come to the gate in the railing, and Maggie opens the gate, and the horse walks through it, then across the field towards the yard. The humans follow him, and see him stop at the stone trough to drink then walk down the lane and through the open gate, breaking into a swinging trot as he goes.

"And he'll go all the way back to the Byrne farm that way, all by himself?" Avril's voice holds some disbelief, even though she has seen this with her own eyes in the past few weeks.

"Yes, he will, he knows where home is, bless him. I wish he could live in town with me, but he can't, and that farm with all the open grassland and the cob for company suits him well, and Danny keeps him warm and well-fed. He'd hate to spend 23 hours a day in a stall, I fear he'd worry himself to an early death if I asked it of him." Maggie opens the back of the blue van, and puts her equipment in. "Vincent, I've been meaning to ask you if you'd show me where that Mass Rock is, would now be a good time?" Maggie leans against the truck, noting the red Granada parked across the yard in front of the house.

"No, 'fraid not, Maggie, gotta run, or I'll miss confessions, an' the Bishop is just lookin' for an excuse to bust my chops over somethin' else this week. I wish he'd find somebody else to give this parish to, and I'd be happy back at St. Joseph's, in that little curate's house. Not a single pub in Cilldargan ever has iced tea, ya know?" Vincent laughs, and turns to walk towards his car.

"Father, would you like to wash up before you go?" Avril is walking beside the priest, both heading towards the house.

Vincent Sheehan looks at his hands, noting the dirt and horsehair. "Yeah, thanks, Avril, that'd be nice. Guess I am kinda dirty."

Avril turns. "Maggie, I'll call you as soon as I hear from the Jockey Club, okay?"

"Great, Avril, thanks. 'Bye, Father, let me know when you have a chance to show me where that rock is, okay?" Maggie opens the door of her van.

"Yeah, Maggie, I'll call ya as soon as I can." Vincent and Avril enter Avril's house, the tall man holding the door open as the slender woman ducks under his arm. Maggie watches, then shakes her head, and, sighing, starts her car's engine, pulling out of the yard and driving down the lane, heading back to town.

On the drive, Maggie thinks back to the Friday nearly three weeks gone, when Peter and Assumpta and she discussed wedding plans as they waited for the snow to melt enough for the couple to drive back to Dublin, the day after Niamh had young Brian. "I think we'd better forget that Mass Rock, it's too public anyway." she mutters to herself as she drives.

Arriving back at Fitzgerald's, Maggie phones Dublin, seeing that Orla has the three customers completely in hand in the front of the pub. She uses her mobile phone and calls from inside the kitchen, after washing her own hands and pouring a cup of coffee.

"Hey, Sis, I think we need to go with Plan B, and skip that Mass Rock location next week, okay? Father Vincent keeps putting me off every time I ask him to show me where the thing is. I know Brendan and Siobhan can show us the location, but I sense some resistance from Vincent, and I'd rather let it lie. Will Peter be too disappointed, do you think?" Maggie sips coffee.

"I don't know, Maggie, let me put him on." Assumpta answers, handing the phone to her fiance. Maggie explains again to Peter, and, while his shoulders sag a little, he agrees it would be better to hold the ceremony in a more private place, anyway.

"We've gotten the civil license paperwork started, but since I'm English it's going to take a few more weeks. I thought there'd be more trouble with my former occupation, but all I had to do was show the signed paperwork that shows I've applied for release from my vows, and the clerk said there'd be no problem there. Guess this happens more often than I thought!"

"Hey!" Assumpta laughs in the background, continuing, "He was probably just glad I wasn't out to HERE (gesturing at an imaginary hugely pregnant abdomen) with a baby about to be born out of wedlock any minute!" Peter chuckles as well, and asks, "Didja hear that, Maggie?"

Yes, Peter, I heard, and I have to agree." Maggie chuckles as well. "Did you get my last e-mail with the latest version of the vows and ceremony we worked on?"

"Yeah, Assumpta did, here, let me put her on." Peter hands the phone back to Assumpta, just in time for her to hear, "Why don't you just pick up the other line, one of you?" from Maggie. Assumpta gestures to Peter, who rolls his eyes and steps to a second telephone, at the other end of the wine bar, and then back into the kitchen area of the bar, sitting next to his fiance at their table.

The couple discuss their handfasting ceremony more fully, deciding to take Sean and Niamh up on the offer to hold it at the Dillon farm, and whether the bridal outfits will be ready in time, and who to invite out of a very short list of friends who know Assumpta is not really dead. The ceremony is now less than a week away, set for the morning of December 21st, just after sunrise.

"I know that not everyone is going to want to get up at O-dark-thirty to come to a wedding out in the hills, but I hope the few who do will enjoy it, anyway!" Maggie tells her young friends. "At least the weather has shifted back to 'Irish normal', I don't think we could have been outside if it was still freezing and snowing like it was last month!"

"Yeah, I'd have insisted we be inside if it were, even if we held the reception at the pub and invited the whole town!" Assumpta laughs, imagining the shock on Kathleen Hendley's face at being invited to the pagan wedding of a dead publican and a priest.

"Assumpta!" Maggie laughingly admonishes her. "We might as well have lit a bonfire in the middle of the bar and burnt the place to the ground if we did that, not a soul would come in for a bag of chips, let alone a pint or a sandwich, as long as that story went around! We'd have had to sell Fitzgerald's back to the Church and let them use it as a golfing resort hotel!" Peter and Assumpta both laugh, remembering Fr. Mac's discomfiture over that incident, and trying not to remember Assumpta's more pronounced embarrassment at being caught nearly kissing Peter by said Fr. Mac, a bishop, and two other PP's.

"Well, I think that's all we needed to talk about, then, Assumpta, Peter, unless you can think of anything?" Maggie asks. "We can continue by e-mail later, if you think of anything. I need to get a shower and change, so Orla can go home for the evening."

"I called earlier, Maggie," Assumpta says, "and Orla said you were out training Iblis at Avril Burke's place. What kind of training are you doing, not racing, surely!"

"No, no, just regular dressage, we were getting rusty and sloppy, and I needed to make sure we were toned up and fit in case it turns out that we need to think fast and be ready to fight or run, one or the other, in case my past catches up with me!" Maggie's voice sounds confident, but Assumpta can hear the small inkling of concern behind the words as well. "Maggie, are you sure you want to handle this alone if it happens, don't you want back-up?" Assumpta's concern is clear.

"I'll be fine, dear, don't worry. It's been weeks and I haven't heard word one, and maybe I never will. Even if he showed up on my doorstep, I will be ready, even tomorrow morning! Now, I have to shower, and I presume you are going to get busy soon, so I had better go. Talk to you soon, Assumpta, Peter, let me know if you need anything done, and I'll see you next week, okay?" Maggie's voice is deliberately strong and assured, and Assumpta finds herself feeling the same, and the three friends say their goodbyes.

Maggie runs upstairs, telling Orla she's going to shower. As the hot water soothes aching bones, Maggie marshalls her mind and reinforces her shields, preparing herself for the battle she is more sure every day that she will need to fight. "Just so long as we can get past Mid-Winter and get the handfasting done, then I can take whatever outcome you decide, Lady!" Maggie steps out of the shower, towelling and wrapping her long auburn hair, and gets dressed in a skirt and blouse, ready to serve the regular customers Fitzgerald's will see, no matter the tourist season or the lack thereof.