Jasmine woke to the sound of shouting.

“Where are my soccer cleats?”

That was Manu, from the top of the stairs.

“Wherever you left them when you took them off.”

That was Mom, from somewhere downstairs.

“Where’s that?”

“Well, how would I know? They’re your cleats.”

Suddenly, Jasmine’s stomach lurched. She sat bolt upright.

Truffle!

She had crept down and fed her every hour in the night. And she had meant to bring her back upstairs after her six o’clock feeding.

What time was it now?

She snatched her alarm clock from the bedside table.

Eight thirty! She had slept through her six o’clock alarm! And now everybody was up and Truffle was still in the Aga and how on earth was she going to smuggle her upstairs again before she was discovered?

Jasmine scrambled out of bed and ran downstairs in her bare feet. Mom was in the kitchen taking off her coat. She must have just gotten back from a call. She smiled as Jasmine came in.

“Have you just woken up? Oh, goodness, your feet will freeze. Go and put your slippers on.”

“I’m not cold,” said Jasmine. She had to check Truffle. At least nobody seemed to have discovered her yet.

Mom went to fill the kettle. While her back was turned, Jasmine darted to the oven. She had her hand on the door when footsteps thundered down the stairs. Manu burst into the kitchen, pulled out a stool, and sat at the table facing the Aga.

“What do you think would kill you quicker, Jas, yew berries or rat poison?” he asked.

Jasmine didn’t answer. This was terrible. How was she going to check on Truffle now? She didn’t even know if she was still alive.

“It has to be yew,” said Manu, who would settle for a conversation with himself if nobody else was willing to join in, “because rat poison is for killing rats, which are tiny, but yew kills massive animals like cows and horses.”

Please be alive, Truffle, prayed Jasmine. Please be alive.

The back door opened and a gust of wind blew in through the mudroom. The door shut again and Jasmine heard Dad taking off his boots.

“Who’d like pancakes?” asked Mom, taking a box of eggs from the cupboard.

“With syrup?” asked Manu. “Yes, please.”

“Blossom’s been laying well this week, Jasmine,” said Mom, opening the box to reveal six dark-brown speckled eggs.

Blossom was Jasmine’s very own hen. On her fifth birthday, Jasmine had opened a wicker basket to find a fluffy yellow day-old chick, nestled in a bed of hay. Blossom had quickly grown into a beautiful hen, and now she lived with the rest of the chickens, but she was extremely tame and loved to be picked up and cuddled. Jasmine could carry her all around the yard, stroking her silky feathers, while Blossom nestled in her arms, clucking in a low, rhythmic way that sounded almost like purring.

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Dad walked into the kitchen in his socks, which had wisps of hay stuck all over them.

“Another nice calf out there,” he said. “Lovely little heifer.”

A grunt came from the Aga.

Truffle! She was alive! Jasmine felt dizzy with relief.

Mom looked startled. “What was that?”

Jasmine thought quickly. “It was me. Sorry.”

“You? What an odd sound to make.”

“Sounded like a pig,” said Manu.

From the Aga came a little squeal, followed by a scuffling sound.

Everyone stared at the slightly open oven door. Then a change came over Mom’s face. Her eyes narrowed and she shifted her gaze to Jasmine, who was sitting on her stool with what she hoped was an innocent, dreamy look on her face.

Mom walked over to the Aga. Jasmine sprang up and stood in front of the oven door.

“Jasmine,” said Mom, in her quiet-but-deadly voice. “What have you done?”

“Oh, don’t be angry,” pleaded Jasmine. “I had to take her. That horrible farmer was just going to let her die. And she would have died, too. She’s so tiny you wouldn’t believe it. Look. I couldn’t have left her, could I?”

And she bent down, reached into the oven, and lifted out the minuscule piglet.

“Oh!” squealed Manu. “That’s so cute!”

Mom’s face softened as she looked at Truffle. She was trembling a little in Jasmine’s arms, but she had her eyes open now, and Jasmine marveled again at their deep-blue color and the length and curl of her lashes.

“My goodness,” said Mom. “I think that might be the smallest live pig I’ve ever seen.”

Ella appeared in the doorway in her pajamas. She gasped as her eyes rested on the piglet. “Ohhh!” she squealed. “That is the cutest thing ever. Where did you get it?”

Dad was looking utterly bemused. “Would somebody mind telling me how on earth a piglet has just appeared in our Aga?”

Mom raised her eyebrows at Jasmine. “I think you’d better answer that question, Jas. Don’t you?”

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