EIGHT

PRILLA FLEW into a hanging basket. The basket rocked, spewing rivets. Tink was on the floor, picking up rivets, too angry to scold. She thought Prilla was as clumsy as a Clumsy. “Sorry!”

“Nobody says sorry.”

Prilla picked up rivets, too. The parquet floor was painted white, so they were easy to see. She peeked at the room around her.

Oh! She sat back on her haunches, rivets forgotten. Oh! The workshop walls and ceiling were shiny steel. The room was circular, and the ceiling was domed.

Prilla wondered, Am I? Could it be?

Tink smiled at her astonishment.

Prilla saw Tink’s smile and found the courage to ask, “Am I inside a big…pot?”

Tink’s dimples came out again. “It was a Clumsy’s teakettle. I found it on the beach.”

Tink had hammered out its dents and had cleaned and polished it inside and out. Then, with the power of a gallon of fairy dust and with Mother Dove’s advice on the magic, Tink had squeezed the kettle into the Home Tree and expanded it again. She’d turned the spout upside down to make the door awning, and she’d punched out openings for windows and doors.

“We’re inside a teakettle?” Prilla spun around. “A teakettle! Oh, my! You’re so talented, Tink.” Talented. Now she was saying it.

“Thank you.” Tink couldn’t help adding, “It’s the only inside-a-pot workshop on the island.”

Prilla said, “Could I see something you’ve fixed?”

Tink flew to a table by the door, where she kept jobs that hadn’t yet been picked up. She raised an iron frying pan, using a bit of levitation to lighten it. “I finished this one yesterday. A piece had broken off.”

“I see it,” Prilla said, following a jagged outline with her finger. She didn’t think Tink could be very accomplished if her repair stood out so clearly.

Tink started to laugh. “That’s a…” She was laughing too hard to finish the sentence. “It’s a…” A minute passed. Tink kept laughing.

Prilla didn’t see anything the slightest bit funny.

Finally, Tink’s laughter died down. “It’s a joke. That’s not where it broke. I just put that there…” Her laughter bubbled up again. “… to fool everyone.”

Prilla smiled uneasily.

Tink sobered. “Try to find the real place where it broke.” It was as good a test as any. If Prilla found it, she was in.

Prilla’s glow vibrated with nervousness. She took the frying pan and inspected it. “Umm…” She brought the pan almost to her nose. She didn’t see anything. Except for the false crack, the inside of the frying pan was utterly smooth, utterly black.

On the back of the handle was Tink’s talent mark, a drawing in red enamel paint of a tiny pot with squiggly lines for steam rising from it. Across the pot were the letters TB.

Prilla saw the mark, but nothing else. She knew she’d failed. Tink hadn’t liked her much before, but she’d like her even less now. “I can’t find it.”

Tink was surprised at how let down she felt. Now Prilla still needed fixing, and the pots and pans didn’t have a new fairy, and the ladle was still leaky.

“This is the real break,” Tink said. She traced a crack that Prilla still couldn’t see. “Come, I’ll show you what I’m working on now.”

Prilla forced a smile.

Tink went to the pots and pans on her worktable, her wonderful pile, days and days of puzzles for her to solve. She took the leaky ladle from the top of the pile and held it up. “This is it.”

The ladle was made of Never pewter, a smoky blue variety produced only on Never Land. “It doesn’t always leak, but when it does, it leaks mulberry juice, only mulberry juice, no matter what liquid it’s dipped in. It’s a fascinating case.”

The ladle would be needed often tonight, and if it wasn’t fixed, the leak was sure to show up.

“I don’t know,” Tink went on, “where the leak is or if it’s a pinprick leak or a squiggle leak.” She sat on a stool at the worktable and cupped her hand around the bowl of the ladle. Her glow in that hand intensified. She crooned, “Are you an instant or a gradual leak?”

She forgot Prilla completely. She wasn’t trying to be unkind. But she wasn’t trying to be kind, either.

Prilla hovered quietly, feeling lonelier than ever.

Ten minutes passed. Tink selected jars and tubes of different sorts of adhesive. She mixed a little of this and a little of that in a bowl.

Prilla edged toward the door. Why did she have to stay here? Her talent—if she had one—was elsewhere. She should be looking for it.

She reached the door and glanced back. Tink’s head was down, over the ladle.

Prilla said, too softly for Tink to hear, “I’m leaving now. Thank you for showing me your workshop. Good-bye.” She pushed the door open and slipped out.