Free Cora Ravenwing by Gina Wilson

Barb? Bit rude, though, sticking herself in a poetic trance your first visit.” She adopted an exaggerated pose, pretending to be lost in elevated thought, and then burst out giggling.
    I felt cross on Hermione’s behalf. “Oh, I’ve been before. I don’t mind going up and speaking to her first,” I said. “Actually, I write poems myself, and Hermione and I have read quite a lot of each other’s work.” I left them looking a bit pink-faced and walked over to Hermione. I sat down beside her on the bumper. “Hello, Hermione. It’s another super day, isn’t it?”
    “Mmm? … Oh, hello,” she said as if she hadn’t realized till then that Barbara and I had arrived. I thought that was a bit affected and silly, as she must have heard us and she must have been aware of Susan running over to greet us. But she carried it all off with such poise and style that I was still impressed. I could never have attempted a similar display. I was too ordinary; I should have looked ridiculous if I’d tried to seem vague or lost in a reverie. “Oh, hello, Becky,” she said mistily. “It is a super day, you’re right. I’ve been in Paradise all morning working on a new poem and I can hardly clear my mind of it.”
    “It seems a pity to try,” I said. “Would you like the three of us to have a walk round the garden and leave you alone for a bit?”
    “Oh no. That wouldn’t do at all. Mummy’d be awfully cross and say it was the height of bad manners.” She sighed and rose dutifully from the bumper. “No—I’m all right now. I want to come with you. It’s just difficult sometimes to switch moods, isn’t it? You’ll know that yourself …”
    “Oh, yes, I know exactly what you mean,” I said, delighted to be considered a soul-mate. We went over and joined the others. They were relieved to find Hermione coaxed out of her poetical mood so quickly.
    “I didn’t mean to be rude about poetry,” said Susan later, as we wandered across to the paddock to see the horses. Barbara and Hermione were some distance ahead and couldn’t hear us. “It’s just that it’s so embarrassing when Hermione turns herself off like that. I get all unnerved and giggly and that just makes her cross. Barb’s awfully good with her, actually—just carries on as usual right through all the ups and downs.”
    “Barbara says you’re artistic yourself,” I said.
    “Well, I suppose so,” she said modestly. “I’m not much good at anything else, anyway. Mummy and Daddy both paint, so it’s in the family. Hermione and Barb are both brainy though—you probably don’t know that. Hermione was top in English last term and Barb got ninety-eight per cent in the arithmetic exam. Are you frightfully clever too? It’d be nice to have someone in our gang who was just ordinary like me.”
    “I think I’m ordinary,” I said. “If I’m good at anything it’s English. But I don’t see how I could be as good as Hermione.”
    “No, I suppose she is rather special,” Susan agreed, andenvious feelings stirred inside me. I wanted to be as good as Hermione.
    This time, it turned out that Mr. and Mrs. Phillips were away for the afternoon and there was absolutely no sign of the boys. When we went in for tea we found the kitchen table laid for the four of us. It looked like a party table with flowery paper napkins and straws sticking up out of our tumblers and a white-iced cake and trifle. “Oh goody,” said Hermione. “Horti’s made us our tea. I’ll go and tell her we’re ready.”
    “Wait till you see Horti,” said Susan mischievously when Hermione was out of the room.
    “Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong with her?”
    “Ooh, là, là!” said Susan. “Nothing’s wrong, exactly. She’s just terribly French. She’s the au pair, you know. Very fancy set-up they have here.”
    Hermione came back and poured out orange juice and handed round egg sandwiches. They seemed to have some sort of herb flavouring, and at first I found it very