Billy peered at the stove curiously as he knocked. It was the first stove he’d ever seen up close: a big metal box. A giant pot bubbled on top. ‘Tip the water in the barrel, there’s a love.’ Her voice came from what must have been the pantry. It was low and husky, and sounded posh, like the way he was trying to speak. ‘I’m not the water boy.’ Her head poked round the larder door. Her hair was plaited this morning, and bound up on top of her head. It still looked beautiful. ‘What are you selling then?’ ‘Nothing.’ She walked out into the kitchen, holding up her apron full of purple plums. She poured them into a bowl on the table, next to a row of empty jars, and looked at him. ‘I’m sorry, the master and mistress are away in Sydney. If you’d like to leave a message…’ He was glad he looked—and sounded—like someone who might want to speak to the master, not the servant. ‘I came to speak to you,’ he said simply, and held out the bunch of flowers. To his surprise she didn’t seem to find that strange.
What do You think about The Horse Who Bit A Bushranger?
