The stable walls were hung with old harnesses which rattled musically, and the mangers were dusted with chaff that smelt good. Inside large bins with flat metal lids were troves of grain into which the girls plunged their arms to the elbows. Hunks of wood were piled in the lumber-house, packed into every corner and stacked up to the roof, waiting their turn for the fire. The sight of the severed limbs lumped one upon the other, their very deadness and splintered silence made Cecily sigh, “Poor trees.” They explored the knife-house and the kennels, places they’d investigated countless times already; nothing had changed. They clumped about on the cobbles, leaping heavily in their boots. They took turns hanging on the gate and being propelled through the deep arc of its swing. Byron became bored, and slouched back to the house. Finally the girls grew still. “What shall we do?” “We shall . . . we shall . . . we shall go to the henhouse?” “Cook got angry last time we did that.
What do You think about The Children Of The King (2014)?
