The Girl Who Rode the Wind. Stacy Gregg
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу The Girl Who Rode the Wind - Stacy Gregg страница
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2015
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is
Text copyright © Stacy Gregg, 2015
Covert art © Shutterstock
Stacy Gregg 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: 9780008124304
Ebook Edition © ISBN: 9780008124328
Version: 2015-06-19
For Hilda, the budding equestrienne. May your future be full of excitement, adventure and wonderful horses …
Contents
Midnight in the Via di Vallerozzi
Riding the Wind: The True Story of the Palio
It was almost midnight when I turned down the steep cobbled streets into the Via di Vallerozzi. I walked alone except for my shadow, a black companion in the lamplight.
At the entrance to the Contrada of the Wolf I raised my eyes to the bell tower and felt the knot in my belly tighten. I stepped up to the door and knocked, rapping four times then four again. Then I waited, counting my heartbeats. I was about to try once more when I heard footsteps and then the creak of ancient hinges as the heavy oak door opened.
The guardsman, thin and sallow-skinned, shoulders hunched with age, poked his head out. He looked at me warily.
“Hello, signor …” My accent gave me away straight off. I didn’t have the chance to say anything more.
“No tourists, Americano!” the guardsman grunted dismissively. “Not on the night before the Palio.”
He began to close the door and I had to thrust my arm out to stop it shutting in my face.
“I’m not a tourist!” I insisted. “I’m Lola. Lola Campione.”
I had expected my name to mean something to him, but there was no flicker of recognition on his stony face.
“Go find the