Read The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas for Free Online Page B

see,” said Agnes apologetically, “with everyone getting their Christmas hampers. It’s hard to remember every one.”
    â€œExcept for the one with the live chickens,” put in Lizzy Reid helpfully. “That was a very memorable hamper.”
    â€œDo. Not. Mention. The chickens,” said Sally darkly.
    â€œShe has an unaccountable fear of fowl,” explained Turnip to Miss Dempsey in an aside.
    â€œThey are nasty, they are smelly, and they peck ,” said Sally passionately. “Does anyone else have anything more to say on the matter?”
    â€œWhat about eggs?” There was a glint of mischief in Lizzy Reid’s eye. Turnip began to understand why she had been sent back from India. India probably didn’t know what to do with her.
    â€œEggs,” said Sally repressively, “grow into chickens.”
    â€œCould the message in the pudding be a prank?” interjected Miss Dempsey, intervening before the eggs hatched into full-blown fighting cocks. “You do have pranks here, I take it?”
    â€œOh, don’t they!” contributed Turnip feelingly. That had been his last visit. He had been forced to endure a very trying hour with the headmistress, trying to explain why Sally’s tying another girl’s corset ribbons to a drainpipe was nothing more than a case of girlish high spirits and not a cause for sending Sally home. Fortunately, the other girl hadn’t actually been in her corset at the time.
    â€œTraitor,” said Sally, but in a very perfunctory way. She turned back to Miss Dempsey. “This hasn’t any of the . . . the . . .”
    â€œProperties?” provided Agnes.
    Sally nodded regally. “Thank you. This hasn’t any of the properties of a proper prank. First, you can’t tell at whom it’s aimed. Second, none of us has the slightest way of getting all the way out to Farley Castle. It’s not like sneaking out the back way to go shopping for a bunch of ribbons, you know.”
    Turnip looked suspiciously at his sister. “About this back way . . .”
    â€œAnd third,” Agnes broke in hastily, before Turnip could ask awkward questions about their illicit extracurricular wanderings, “it’s in French! And we all know what French means.”
    She uttered that last in such portentous tones that Turnip began to wonder if he had misread the text on the pudding. He scratched his head and squinted at the piece of muslin lying open on the tea table.
    â€œI know what that French means,” he said cautiously. “It means ‘Meet me at Farley Castle.’ Doesn’t it?”
    â€œThat is, indeed, in accord with my translation of it, Mr. Fitzhugh,” said Miss Dempsey.
    None of the girls paid the slightest bit of attention to either of them.
    â€œBut of course!” said Sally breathlessly, just as Lizzy Reid leaned forward in her chair and exclaimed, “But you can’t really think . . .”
    â€œOh, but I do!” said Agnes.
    Turning to Turnip, Miss Dempsey said, “Do you think?”
    â€œAs little as I can,” Turnip replied honestly. “Do you have any notion what they’re on about?”
    â€œChickens?” she provided, in such a droll way that Turnip felt his face break into a broad grin. He might even have chuckled.
    Jolly good sport, Miss Dempsey.
    Sally directed a reproving look at both of them. “This is far, far worse than chickens,” she said with relish.
    â€œThen it must be serious,” murmured Miss Dempsey with all due gravity. Only Turnip noticed the corner of her lips twitch.
    â€œVery serious,” agreed Agnes Wooliston solemnly. “Who would have thought that even here, one would find . . . spies!”
    The announcement had less than the desired impact on the two adults in the room.
    â€œSpies,” said Miss Dempsey. “Spies?”
    â€œI wouldn’t have thought it,” said Turnip bluntly.