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