Golden Box Book Publishing One Picture: Thousands of Words - Page 79

She needed to come back inside. Now. So she did. *** Taking off her wellingtons she noticed that the soles of her feet were wet and had left damp marks on the old tiled floor that led into their kitchen. The big stove was on. Pushing heat into the room. But no further. Vicarages made for people a long time ago, were always very cold. This one had 3 floors, an attic and a cellar. And vicars, as Mummy always said, were poor. Very. And tutted. And wished they could have a sensible house with proper insulation like Auntie Marge and Uncle Bill in Cottingley. Over breakfast, which today was a porridge that her mother made from a Scottish recipe (which didn’t include sugar only salt and was rather horrid,) she decided not to tell them about the thread. Her father would doubtless say it was a prank or something, and change the subject. Usually to the contents of his weekly sermon, or one of his parishioners who was ill. Or dead. She’d read that fairies were the dead- with unfinished lives. Which was silly. Because fairies were nice. And anything dead, wasn’t. This book in the study was one that Mummy had when she was a little girl. It wasn’t really a proper study, just piles of books belonging to her parents. Most of which were difficult to understand. It was a book about folklore and legends. Ghosts and fairies, and other wee folk, and had pretty pictures in it. In between the pictures and the print were fine gossamer sheets that were see through. Mummy said they were to protect the pictures, which had real silver filigree around the edges. But she thought it was because the fairies