The Color of a Blue Sun Morning

The Castle of Creativity sat on a ridge of violet rock, its towers catching the slow blue light of the sun the way a painting catches a second look — you had to stop and really see it before you understood how strange and beautiful it was.

Penelope Starwrite stood at the tall window of her studio, her rainbow cloak pooling softly around her feet. Outside, the blue sun hung low, turning the sky a deep, bruised teal, and the clouds beneath it looked like pencil smudges someone forgot to erase.

She pressed her sketchbook to her chest and breathed in.

"Another perfect morning for doing absolutely nothing useful," said a voice behind her.

Penelope turned. Master Corvell — chief architect of the castle and professional complainer — stood in the doorway holding a mug of something steaming.

"I was thinking," she said.

"About what?"

She looked back at the window.

"About whether every idea I've ever had was actually worth keeping."

The Parrot Who Remembers Everything

Master Corvell set his mug on the windowsill and looked at her the way someone looks at a clock that says the wrong time.

"Worth keeping?" he repeated.

"Every idea I've ever had." Penelope flipped her sketchbook open to the last page — a messy tangle of doors, staircases, and half-finished faces. "Maybe some of them weren't."

Corvell snorted. "You think too loudly."

Then a sound cut across the room. A sharp, bright voice — nothing like a person's.

"*Show me. Show me. Show me the one you threw away.*"

Penelope spun around.

On the high stone shelf above the fireplace sat a parrot. Green and gold, with a black beak and small, furious orange eyes. It hadn't been there a moment ago. She was certain.

"What parrot?" Corvell said flatly. He was looking straight at it and clearly not seeing anything.

The parrot tilted its head.

"*The last drawing,*" it said. "*The door on the wall. Draw it. Now.*"

Penelope's pencil was already in her hand before she'd decided to pick it up.