The first promise.
Before the music turned cruel, the fair smelled of burnt sugar, rain on warm boards and apples bruised in the grass. A girl in a blue coat held two pennies in her palm. Beside her, a boy pointed to a white horse with daisies painted around its neck. His voice shook a little when he said, “We can ride together.”
Above the ticket booth, a French sign read TOURNEZ, TOURNEZ—turn, turn. The girl remembered her grandmother's warning about the each-uisge, the beautiful water-horse that invited you close and did not always bring you home. But this horse was only wood. Even its tears had been painted on.
They climbed aboard. The organ opened like a door into summer. Somewhere high above the bells, a flute played five small notes. They promised to meet at the gate when the ride stopped. The boy reached for her hand; for the length of a breath, they held the same warm air.
Then the gate went past twice. On the third turn, the crowd stood still as photographs. A ticket moved along the floor without any wind: ADMIT TWO. Beneath the wooden horses came a sound like water moving in its sleep.
“Promise you won't get off without me.”
She reached toward him. He reached back. The music lifted just enough to swallow the distance between them.
