Stars Don't Cry (The Silver Bridle Book 2) by Caroline Akrill

Author:Caroline Akrill [Akrill, Caroline]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2015-07-25T16:00:00+00:00

“Angel,” I said, “when was the last time the Aga was lit?”

She thought about it. “Last winter. No, later than that because it was such a cold spring. May, I think.”

“Could we light it now?”

The cobalt eyes widened. “What on earth for?”

“I just thought… if it was lit, we might have more constant hot water – we could also cook.”

“Cook?” Angel’s eyebrows rose. “We?”

“Well,” I remembered the streptococci casserole. “I could. I’m not fantastic, but I could do better than the Hare and Hounds. If I have to face another slimy chip, I think I shall die.”

Angel looked at me. She looked at the Aga. Cookery was something she had never suggested. I had half expected it; the mixture of hope and speculation on her face, the hesitant way she would begin “I don’t suppose… if I found you a saucepan – in your spare time…?” It had never happened. But now I had suggested it, she warmed to the idea at once.

“There is some fuel in the outhouse…”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I went ahead?”

“It isn’t all that easy to light. You need kindling – paper and sticks for a start. You will have to nurse it. Someone will have to keep it fed.”

“I shall nurse it. I shall keep it fed. There are plenty of old Horse and Hounds lying about. I can collect sticks from the wood.”

“I wouldn’t go into the wood,” Angel said hastily. “It might not be safe. Undesirable types from the village tend to lurk. You know, poachers and people like that.”

I was not intimidated by the thought of a poacher or two, not after the undesirables one encountered in Soho, but I was touched by her unexpected regard for my personal safety. “All right,” I agreed, “I’ll collect sticks from the edge of the wood.”

“You will need something to cook with.”

“There are saucepans and things in the bottom of the dresser. I’ve looked.”

“Not saucepans. Food. Ingredients.”

“We could go to the supermarket in the village. We could call there during our ride.” Now into my second week at Moat Farm I was having a lunge lesson early in the morning, a school lesson at noon, and a hack in the afternoon. “I want to call at the Post Office anyway, to ask about my script.”

“I thought you had given up worrying about the script,” Angel said crossly. “There’s no point in badgering the Post Office. We keep telling you all sorts of things can go wrong with scripts. People have died waiting for scripts to arrive.”

“Well I’m not going to die waiting for mine to arrive,” I snapped. “If it isn’t here by the beginning of next week I’m going to ring my agent and find out what has happened.” As a matter of fact I had already tried to ring Ziggy several times, but the telephone at the Café Marengo seemed to be permanently engaged.

“There’s no point in ringing your agent,” Angel insisted, “he won’t be able to tell you anything. You heard

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