Demon nodded, his gaze locked on the rider atop The Mighty Flynn. "Indeed."

With Carruthers, he strolled in the wake of The Flynn, the last of his horses to go out on the Heath.

In silence, Demon watched his horses go through their paces. The Mighty Flynn was given a light workout, walking, trotting, then walking again. Although he noted how his other horses performed, Demon's attention never strayed far from The Flynn.

Beside him, Carruthers was watching his charges avidly. Demon glanced his way, noting his old face, much lined, weathered like well-worn leather, faded brown eyes wide as he weighed every stride, considered every turn. Carruthers never took notes, never needed any reminder of which horse had done what. When his charges came in, he would know precisely how each was faring, and what more was needed to bring them to their best. The most experienced trainer in Newmarket, Carruthers knew his horses better than his children, which was why Demon had pestered and persevered until he'd agreed to train for him, to devote his time exclusively to training Demon's string.

His gaze fastening once more on the big bay, Demon murmured, "The lad on The Flynn-he's new, isn't he?"

"Aye," Carruthers replied, his gaze never leaving the horses. "Lad from down Lidgate way. Ickley did a runner-leastways, I assume he did. He didn't turn up one morning and we haven't seen him since. 'Bout a week later, young Flick turned up, looking for a ride, so I had him up on one of the tetchy ones." Carruthers nodded to where The Flynn was trotting along, pacing neatly with the rest of the string, the small figure on his back managing him with startling ease. "Rode the brute easily. So I put him up on The Flynn. Never seen the horse give his heart so willingly. The lad's got the touch, no doubt about that. Excellent hands, and good bottom."