Where the Blossoms Begin

Fairy Tale Land smelled like warm cinnamon and something impossible — like a color you couldn't quite name.

The village of Clovermill sat at the edge of an enchanted forest, and nobody went near the forest after dark. The candy-coated baker's house sat on one side of the lane. The cobbler who argued with his shoes sat on the other. Between them, tucked behind a climbing rosebush, was the smallest, coziest home on the lane.

Inside, Wren pushed her glasses up her nose and frowned at her book.

"Dela," she said, without looking up. "Something's wrong with this chapter. The beast in the story has three claws, but the illustration shows four."

Dela paused her dusting. She tilted her head toward the window, where the dark tree line of the enchanted forest pressed against the early morning sky.

"Maybe," Dela said, "the book isn't the one making the mistake."

What the Parrot Remembered

Dela had gone out for bread.

That was the whole plan — bread, maybe a small cheese, back before noon.

But the market in Clovermill was loud and crowded that morning, and it was there, between the pickle barrels and the flower stall, that she found the parrot.

He sat on a wooden post near the ribbon seller's cart — a big green bird with a bent yellow beak and one eye that seemed to be judging everyone personally.

"Beast!" the parrot screamed, completely unprompted.

Several people dropped their baskets.

"FOUR CLAWS! FOUR CLAWS! DON'T GO IN!"

Dela stopped cold.

An elderly woman selling scarves nearby clicked her tongue. "Ignore him," she said, waving a hand. "Old Bramble's been screaming about that beast for three days now. Drove off half my customers."

"Three days?" Dela said.

"Since the Morrow girl went missing." The woman's voice dropped. "She was nine years old. Walked into that forest and never came back."

Dela forgot about the bread entirely.