as the colt swept past again, once more managing to avoid her hand as she reached out to touch him.
They had played this game of tig many times, but Issie never got tired of it. She loved to watch Nightstorm move. His body still hadn’t grown into those long, lanky legs–it was as if he were teetering about on stilts–and yet there was something so graceful about him.
Nightstorm was hardly recognisable as the tiny bay foal with the white blaze that had been born that stormy night in the stables here at Winterflood Farm. It was Issie who had named the colt Nightstorm as they sheltered together in the stables while the lightning flashed above their heads. Lately, though, she had taken to calling him by his nickname–Storm.
Storm was just three months old, but already Issie could see that he was the best possible combination of both of his magnificent bloodlines. His elegant head carriage and beautiful, dished Arabian face were derived from his Anglo-Arab dam, Blaze. Physically, though, the colt was much more solid than his mother. He bore a powerful resemblance to his sire, the great grey stallion Marius. You could see it in his well-rounded haunches, classical topline and strong, solid hocks, all true signs of the Lipizzaner breed.
As the colt cantered back once more, Issie leapt down off the rails, a signal that the game was over. Storm understood this. He trotted towards her and didn’t try to swerve away this time. Instead, he came to a halt right next to her so that Issie could reach out and stroke his velvety muzzle. She ran her hand down the colt’s neck. Storm was already moulting, losing the soft, downy layer of fur that all foals are born with, to reveal the shiny, smooth grown-up coat underneath. Issie could see bits of deep russet bay, the colour of warm mahogany, emerging from underneath the baby-fluff.
Storm was growing fast. Sometimes Issie felt it was too quick–she wanted him to be a foal forever. At other times, she felt it still wasn’t fast enough. Horses take a long time to mature–and horses with Lipizzaner blood take longer than most. It would be three years before Storm was ready to be ridden. Such a long time! Issie had bitten her lip and tried not to say anything childish when Avery told her how long she must wait to ride the colt, but inside she felt bitterly disappointed. She didn’t want to wait. She wanted to ride Storm now!
It had never occurred to Issie that when her beloved mare Blaze had a foal it would mean she would be left without a horse to ride for the whole of the summer holidays. She couldn’t ride Storm–and Blaze couldn’t be ridden yet either, not until the colt was weaned at six months. And that was ages away!
Never mind, Issie thought. She might not be able to ride, but she loved just being with her new baby. She was amazed at how quickly Storm seemed to put his trust in her. Perhaps it was because he had watched Issie and Blaze together and he was simply following his mother’s cues. His mother was the centre of his universe and if his mum loved this girl with the long dark hair, well, then Storm loved her too. Issie could have happily spent her summer goofing around with the colt, playing silly games like the one they were playing today–if it weren’t for Avery getting all serious on her.
“He’s just a cute baby now,” Avery pointed out. “But that foal of yours will be a sixteen-two hands high stallion one day. He’s getting stronger every day, bigger too. That’s why it’s important to start his schooling now, while he’s still small enough for you to be able to handle him. It’s important to teach Nightstorm good manners and respect right from the start.”
And so, under Avery’s expert tuition, Issie began learning how to “imprint” her foal. She followed her instructor’s advice to the letter, being firm but gentle with Storm as she taught him to accept a head collar and then a foal halter, how to walk politely beside her on a lead rein and how to stand perfectly still while she picked up his feet.
Issie would arrive at Winterflood Farm at dawn most mornings so she could spend time with the colt before school. She would bring Storm and Blaze into the stable block and spend the next hour grooming the colt while the mare ate her hard feed. The grooming sessions were a gradual process, part of the colt’s training, teaching him to accept her touch as she ran the brushes over his body. The whole time she worked, Issie would talk softly to Storm, and he would occasionally nicker back to her, turning around to snuffle her softly with his velvety muzzle when she was brushing him, or closing his eyes in pleasure as she scratched him on that sweet spot on his rump.
The weekends were the best. Then she would cycle down to Winterflood Farm at dawn and wouldn’t return home until dinner time. Issie couldn’t really say exactly what she did at the farm all day. Sometimes she just lay in the long grass under the magnolia tree and watched Storm. She especially loved the way he would snort and quiver each time something new crossed his path. She could hardly wait until next week when the school holidays would finally be starting and she could spend all her time with the young horse.
Today, Issie had another new surprise for the colt. As she reached into her pocket and produced a carrot, she watched Storm boggle at it with wide eyes. He hadn’t learnt to eat carrots yet–and he was uncertain what to do next.
“Here you go, Storm,” Issie said softly, extending her hand, the carrot in her palm. Storm had watched his mother eat carrots before, but he’d never been offered one to try himself. He gave it a sniff and his ears pricked forward. It smelt good! He gave Issie’s palm a snuffle, taking a tiny little bite, then he held the chunk of carrot in his mouth, unsure of what to do next. Issie giggled again at the expression on his face, those wide dark brown eyes filled with wonder.
“Here, Blaze, you show him how it’s done!” Issie grinned, giving one to the colt’s mother as well. The mare took the carrot eagerly, crunching it down. Issie was about to dig another carrot out of her jacket pocket and try to feed Storm again when she heard her name being called.
“Issie!” She turned around to see Tom Avery standing on the back porch of the cottage. “Your mum is on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”
Issie sighed. “She probably wants me to come home and tidy my room. She’s been on at me about getting it done before the holidays begin.”
Avery smiled at her. “It is possible that your mother just wants to lay eyes on you for five minutes to make sure you actually exist. You’ve been spending all your time here with Storm.”
Issie paused on the back porch to yank off her boots before padding along the hallway to pick up the phone. “Hi, Mum,” she said brightly. “Listen, if it’s about my room, I know I said I’d tidy it, but I couldn’t find the vacuum cleaner nozzle and…”
Her mother interrupted her. “I’ve just had a phone call from Aidan.” Mrs Brown’s voice was taut and serious. “Issie, I’m afraid it’s bad news. It’s about your aunty Hess…”
Hester had woken at 3 a.m. and, finding herself wide awake, resigned herself to her fate. She switched on her bedside lamp and tried to occupy herself with a crossword puzzle, but found it impossible to concentrate on the page in front of her. Her eyes kept darting nervously away from the newspaper in her hand to her laptop, which sat silently in the dark on her desk. She was waiting for an important email and, until it arrived, sleep was out of the question.
At 6 a.m., as the light came streaming in through the wide bay windows of Blackthorn Manor, she finally heard the sound that she had been longing for and dreading at the same time: the soft “ping” that signalled that an email had arrived in her inbox. She walked across the room and looked at the screen. You’ve got mail! it flashed at her urgently.
Hester held her breath as she clicked the mouse to open the email. She was so sick with nerves, she could barely bring herself to look at it. Please let it be good news, she thought to herself. We need this film so badly!
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