The Morning Before Everything Changed

Canvas Castle was the most colorful place in all of Art Gallery Kingdom — and that was really saying something.

Its four towers were giant paintbrushes, bristles pointing at the clouds. The drawbridge was shaped like a painter's palette, streaked with dried splotches of every color imaginable. The walls shimmered faintly gold in the morning sun, like a canvas stretched wide and waiting.

Paintbrush Mother Bear stood at the tallest tower window, her teal cape catching the breeze. Below, fairy-tale folk were starting their day — Cinderella's mice hauling a wheel of cheese, the Three Billy Goats arguing over a breakfast bun.

She smiled. Quiet mornings were her favorite.

"Mama Bear!" called a small voice from the courtyard.

She leaned out. A young rabbit in a paint-splattered apron was waving up at her, pointing excitedly toward the castle's inner workshop.

"Someone's been in the inventor's room again!"

Something Splattered This Way Comes

Paintbrush Mother Bear ran down three flights of spiral stairs, her teal cape streaming behind her.

The inventor's room was on the castle's ground floor, tucked between the kitchen and the broom cupboard. It smelled like paint thinner and burnt toast on a good day. Today it smelled like something far worse.

The door was wide open.

The young rabbit — her name was Pip, and her white fur was going grey from shock — stood in the doorway with both paws over her mouth.

"I only peeked," she whispered. "I didn't touch anything."

Inside, an overturned metal canister sat in the middle of the stone floor. Thick, shimmering paint — the color of every color at once — was oozing slowly out of it. And where it touched things, those things changed.

The wooden stool had become a mushroom. The bucket was a fish. The boot rack was now three very confused-looking flamingos.

The paint reached the doorframe.

"Don't let it touch you!" Pip yelped, jumping back.

Then they both watched it slide into the hallway.