Magdalen Nabb - The Enchanted Horse

First published in Great Britain by Collins in 1992

This edition published by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2014

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd,

77-85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Text copyright © Magdalen Nabb 1992

Illustrations copyright © Julek Heller 1992

Why You’ll Love This Book copyright © Michael Morpurgo 2009

Cover illustration © Susan Hellard

Magdalen Nabb asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007580293

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780008104863

Version: 2014-11-19

This book is dedicated to Maestro Nino di Fazio with admiration for his boundless knowledge of horses

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Copyright Copyright Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Keep Reading … Why You will Love this Book Also by Magdalen Nabb About the Publisher First published in Great Britain by Collins in 1992 This edition published by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2014 HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, 77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.harpercollins.co.uk Text copyright © Magdalen Nabb 1992 Illustrations copyright © Julek Heller 1992 Why You’ll Love This Book copyright © Michael Morpurgo 2009 Cover illustration © Susan Hellard Magdalen Nabb asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780007580293 Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780008104863 Version: 2014-11-19

Dedication This book is dedicated to Maestro Nino di Fazio with admiration for his boundless knowledge of horses

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Keep Reading …

Why You will Love this Book

Also by Magdalen Nabb

About the Publisher

It was Christmas Eve, and the afternoon had frozen as hard and milky as a pearl. The sun was as thin and pale as a disc of ice in a sky as white as the snowy ground.

Irina walked in front of her mother and father along the lane that led across the fields to the village. She was dressed in a sheepskin coat and boots and mittens and a sheepskin hat. Her long fair plait hung down beside her. The cold pinched her thin cheeks, and the trees that grew on each side of the lane poked their black fingers through the freezing fog as if they were trying to clutch at her as she went by.

Even before they reached the first houses at the edge of the village, Irina heard the faint sound of a band playing Christmas carols. But she didn’t look up and smile or turn to say “Listen!” to her mother and father. She only walked quietly on, looking down at her thick boots as they trod the hardened snow. Irina didn’t like Christmas.

When they reached the village, all the shop windows were already lit, making haloes of light in the fog. The snow-covered square where the band was playing round the Christmas tree was hung around with coloured bulbs. But Irina and her parents didn’t stop to listen to the carols because they had so much to do. They lived on a farm and at Christmas everyone wants more cream and eggs and milk, and besides, they had to be back home in time to feed the animals. So her father stopped to talk to the dairyman at the corner and Irina went ahead with her mother to help with the shopping.

They went to the baker’s to buy bread and flour and had to wait in a long queue. At the front of the queue a girl who was smaller than Irina reached up and pointed at the cakes and little pies sprinkled with icing sugar.

“And some of those,” she shouted, “for Grandma! And the big cake! Grandpa likes cakes! The big cake!”

Irina watched her and listened to every word, but when it was her mother’s turn she didn’t ask for anything. She was thin and never had much appetite and there was no Grandpa or Grandma coming for Christmas dinner.

They went to the greengrocer’s and waited in the long queue. A fat little boy with a red scarf wound round and round his neck was quarrelling with his older sister.

“I like dates best!” he protested.

“No you don’t,” his sister said, “you only like the box with the picture on it, and we’re going to buy figs and nuts and tangerines, so there.” And their mother winked at the greengrocer’s wife and bought figs and nuts and tangerines and dates.

Irina watched them and listened to every word, but when it was her mother’s turn she didn’t ask for anything. She had no brothers or sisters to quarrel with.

The band in the square began to play “O Come, All Ye Faithful” and the fat little boy in the red scarf and his sister joined in the singing as they went out.

It was getting dark, and the coloured lights twinkled brighter now against the shadowy snow. On the corner outside the greengrocer’s shop a fat lady with a long apron and thick gloves was selling Christmas trees. A thin boy, taller than Irina, was choosing one with his father. “This one! No, this one, no, that one, that one, it’s the biggest!” and his father laughed and said, “And how do you think we’ll get it home?” But he bought it, even so, and the fat lady wound some thick string round it to help them carry it. Irina watched and listened but she didn’t ask for anything. Years ago her mother had said, “You’re too old now to be bothering about a Christmas tree. It’s a waste of money. You can choose a nice present instead.”

So they walked past the Christmas trees and crossed to the other side of the square. There was a toy shop there, and next to that a gloomy junk shop with a bunch of dusty mistletoe hanging in the window, and next to that a shop that sold pretty frocks with full velvet skirts. Irina stood beside her mother and stared at the shop windows with bright eyes but she didn’t ask for anything. What was the use of a party frock when she lived so far from the village that she never went to a party? And what was the use of toys when there were no children near enough to play with?