A Land Too Sweet to Be True

Fairy Tale Land smelled like cinnamon and fresh rain.

The trees had leaves the color of strawberry candy, and the cobblestone path beneath Penelope's boots clicked like a cheerful little song. Somewhere overhead, a bluebird was loudly narrating its own flight.

"Graceful. Elegant. Magnificent," it announced to no one.

Penelope laughed and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The cloak was impossible to miss — a swirl of every color imaginable, shimmering faintly as it caught the afternoon light. She had found it tucked inside a market stall three days ago, and she hadn't taken it off since.

A plump orange fox trotted up beside her, glancing at the cloak with one amber eye.

"That thing gets shinier every day," said the fox, whose name was Crispin.

"Good," said Penelope, smoothing the fabric proudly. "I like shiny."

Crispin flicked his bushy tail. "Mm," he said, in the tone of someone who wasn't so sure.

The Parrot Who Wouldn't Hush

They stopped at Mira's Market — a loud, wonderful jumble of stalls selling everything from pickled moonberries to hand-knitted scarves for dragons.

Crispin, the plump orange fox, wandered straight to a cart piled with cheese samples. Penelope drifted toward a woman selling painted feather fans.

That's when the screaming started.

Not human screaming. Bird screaming.

"IT'S EATING HIM! THE COAT IS EATING HIM!"

A large green parrot with a bent yellow beak was flapping in frantic circles above the crowd. Below it, a round hedgehog was waddling past Penelope — and the hem of her cloak was slowly, silently wrapping itself around him like a closing hand.

"Hey—" Penelope grabbed the hem and pulled.

The cloak didn't let go.

The hedgehog squeaked once, then vanished. Right into the fabric. Gone.

The market went dead quiet.

Penelope stared at the cloak. The colors swirled gently, as if nothing had happened.

Crispin trotted over, cheese forgotten, ears flat against his head.

"Penelope," he said carefully. "That was the royal hedgehog."