Hilda carried Captain Hook, his pirates, and the crocodile to the giants’ castle in a large, woven sack while Peter, Thistle, and the boys flew behind. Inside the enormous kitchen, Hook and his crew squirmed helplessly as Hilda searched for a pot large enough to cook them. She eventually left the sack beside the hearth, a little too close to the fire. As water thundered into a massive iron cauldron, Thistle turned to Peter and said, “We’re out of time.”

*

The youngest boy reached for her hand. “Thistle?”

“Let’s see what happens,” Peter said with a quiet chuckle.

Thistle stared at him. “Are you serious? I can see what’s happening.”

High above the kitchen floor, the boys hid among the copper pots, iron pans, and oversized cooking utensils hanging from a wrought-iron rack. They whispered among themselves as they watched the squirming sack beside the hearth.

Standing on the rack itself, Peter studied Hilda as she shut off the iron pump. The water settled near the rim of the enormous cauldron.

Hilda brushed her hands against the front of her apron and disappeared into a pantry beyond the hearth. Crockery rattled. Something toppled.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Hilda muttered, her words rolling out into the kitchen.

Thistle fluttered to a neighboring ladle hanging directly below where Peter stood. It swung gently from the rack as she watched Hilda. She groaned, her wings drooping.

Hilda emerged carrying a basket woven from strips of wood as thick as saplings and dumped the contents onto the table. Carrots thicker than tree trunks wobbled across the wooden surface beside onions that rolled like small moons and potatoes as large as boulders that shuddered to a stop.

“See?” Thistle whispered, looking up at Peter. “Hilda is making soup. This isn’t a joke.”

Her gaze shifted toward the squirming sack lying on the broad stone hearth before the fire. Another wave of heat rolled from the flames.

“And the pirates are roasting.”

Inside the sack, the air felt thick enough to chew. Jukes wiped sweat from his eyes. “If it gets any hotter in here, we’ll be cooked before we ever reach the pot.”

“Smee!” Hook barked. “Do something!”

“Like what?” Smee protested.

Steel rasped softly in the darkness.

Hook went still. “Jukes.”

“Aye?”

“Tell me you’ve still got your cutlass.”

“Aye.”

“You’ve had it this entire time?”

“Aye.”

“Then why haven’t you used it?”

“The sack was swinging from the giant’s hand, Capt’n. We’d have fallen right out, and I’d rather not have been dashed against the ground.”

Hook opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Harold pushed his chair back, cocking his head. “They’re talking again.”

Hilda kept her eyes on the vegetables as she continued to chop. “Who’s talking, Harold?”

“The little men in the sack.”

“Of course they’re talking, Harold.”

Jukes shoved the sagging weave off his head and shifted his grip on the cutlass. “Move.”

“Move where?” Hook snapped.

“Anywhere that isn’t here.”

The scaly green tail brushed against Hook’s arm.

Jukes shoved the tail aside. “Not you.”

The crocodile hissed.

Jukes pushed against the reptile’s side. “Back up. I’m trying to cut us out.”

tick... tock...

“He’s doing that on purpose,” Hook muttered.

Thistle reached up and tapped Peter’s ankle. “Peter.”

“Hmm?”

“We need a plan.”

Peter watched Hilda split another carrot.

THUNK.

The carrot broke cleanly in two beneath her knife.

“I have a plan.”

Thistle brightened. “You do?”

“I’m watching.” Peter watched the giant knife rise and fall.

“Honestly, that’s not a plan.” Thistle looked over her shoulder. “Tootles?”

“What?”

“How many of you are there?”

“I counted. Most of us.”

Thistle frowned. “That isn’t a number.”

“Um, I can’t really add things…”

TAP. TAP. TAP.

Thistle spun toward the sound.

Harold drummed his spoon against the table.

He rested a hand on his stomach. A low rumble echoed through the kitchen, rattling the jars on the shelves.

“Hilda?”

“What?”

“Does that give you a clue?”

Hilda didn’t look up from her chopping. “It tells me you’re hungry.”

Harold sighed. “That’s what I’ve been saying… Hilda?”

“Now what, Harold?”

“How much longer?”

“Lunch will be ready when it’s ready.”

Inside the stifling sack, Jukes tried to cut through the thick weave.

tick... tock...

Hook cursed.

Jukes worked the cutlass back and forth. A few strands frayed. He stopped and ran a thumb over the shallow groove he had made.

“Uh, Capt’n?”

“What?”

“The blade won’t cut this.”

Sweat dripped from Hook’s chin as he glared at Jukes. “What do you mean it won’t cut?”

“I mean it won’t cut.”

Smee wiped his forehead.

In the sweltering heat, the crocodile lay sprawled on its back, all four legs splayed in the air.

“Then think of something!” Hook ordered.

tick... tock...

Hilda leaned against the table, brushing a carrot aside with the back of her hand.

“Harold.”

“What?”

“Help me put the pot on the fire.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“You said lunch was soon,” Harold grumbled. He grabbed one handle while Hilda took the other. The enormous cauldron scraped across the stone floor toward the hearth as they heaved together.

“Oh, no!” Thistle’s wings stiffened. “Peter?”

Peter grinned as he watched water slosh over the rim of the enormous cauldron with each jolt against the uneven stone floor.

Thistle turned toward Slightly. “Help me!” She pointed toward a tall clay vessel on the shelving. “That crock.”

Slightly followed her finger. “What’s in it?”

“Cooking oil.”

Nibs blinked. “How do you know?”

“The spout.”

She flew up alongside the vessel. “I need every boy here. You, too, Peter!”

The boys landed on the shelf and swarmed around it, their heads tipping back as they looked up at the spout.

“We’re all going to tip it together.”

The twins exchanged grins. “Really?”

“Yes,” Thistle said. “Slowly.”

A dozen boys immediately threw themselves against the side. It lurched.

“Not off the shelf!” Thistle snapped. “We want to pour it out… slowly.”

A thick drop of oil splashed on the stone floor below.

A second drop splashed.

A thin but steady stream followed.

Thistle’s wings fluttered with relief, eyeing the growing puddle below.

“Careful,” she whispered. “We don’t want anyone to notice.”

Movement near the hearth caught her eye. Peter was crouched behind the sack with one hand cupped around his mouth. “What’s he up to?” Thistle muttered.

Peter pressed an ear against the sack.

crunch… crunch… crunch…

“What’s that noise?” Smee frowned, turning toward the sound.

The crocodile had rolled onto its side near the back of the sack. Its jaws worked steadily at the thick weave.

Hook stared at the reptile. “Is he helping us?”

Jukes slid the cutlass back into its scabbard. “Looks that way.”

“I dislike this enormously.”

Peter brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead. “Hook! You can hate it later. The soup pot’s coming! Hurry!”

crunch...

One of the thick woven strips parted.

Jukes seized the loose end and pulled. “Smee! Grab that end…watch those teeth!”

Smee lunged past the crocodile’s jaws and seized the loose end.

Hook stared at the reptile.

“Keep chewing!” he ordered, though the words pained him.

Thistle watched the oil spread across the stone kitchen floor, its glossy surface reflecting the firelight. “Easy... easy...” she whispered.

The boys eased the massive vessel back upright, the thin stream dwindling to a drip.

A broad smile spread across Thistle’s face. Neither giant had noticed anything amiss.

Tootles peered over the edge of the shelf. “Oh.”

“What?” whispered Nibs.

Tootles pointed toward the growing puddle near the giants’ feet. “This is going to be good.”

Inside the sack, Hook glared at the crocodile. “Chew faster!” he ordered. “How thick can it possibly be?”

“It’s a sack, Capt’n,” Jukes said.

“I know it’s a sack.”

“You asked.”

crunch...

snap.

Another strip sprang loose.

Peter seized the free end from the outside and glanced up as he tugged. The bald spot at the back of Harold’s head was suddenly close.

Harold tightened his grip on the cauldron as his foot slid.

“Hilda?”

“What?”

“This pot is getting heavier.”

“That isn’t how pots work, Harold.”

“Well, something is happening.”

Hilda clicked her tongue. “What’s happening is you’re dragging your end.”

“I am not dragging anything, Hilda!”

The boys giggled.

“Shh!” Thistle hissed.

Water sloshed over the rim again, splashing across Harold’s feet.

“See?” Harold said. “It did it again.”

“That’s because you’re jerking it.”

“I’m not jerking it.”

“Then stop doing whatever you’re doing, Harold.”

“I’m pulling my end, Hilda!”

Harold’s footing shifted. “Hilda?”

“What now, Harold?”

“I think the floor moved.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harold, floors don’t move.”

Hilda’s bare foot slid unexpectedly. She frowned. “That’s odd.”

Harold lifted an eyebrow. “See?”

“It doesn’t prove anything.”

Harold perked up. “I think it proves something.”

Peter glanced up at the sound of Harold’s voice as a green snout pushed through the opening in the sack. “Not yet!”

“Waiting is not an option, Pan!” Hook barked inside the sack.

“It is if you don’t want to be seen!”

The cauldron surged forward like a sled on ice.

Hilda slid with it as the enormous pot veered sideways.

“Harold!”

“What?”

“Stop turning it!”

“I’m not!”

Still gripping the handles, Harold and Hilda swung around with it.

“Now!” Peter shouted into the sack. “Move!”

Thistle discovered they had crossed into another story. Peter was certain it could be a great adventure. Hook disagreed. Unfortunately for Hook, Smee, Jukes, and the crocodile, the giant was hungry. Before long, all four were trapped inside a huge sack on their way to the castle kitchen.

*

“Hilda!” the giant called, lumbering after her.

“What?”

“Don’t drop the little men.”

Hilda looked back over her shoulder. “Really!?”

“They smell delicious.”

Thistle winced. “Ohh, I don’t like the sound of that.”

The sack lurched as it bounced against Hilda’s shoulder, drawing muffled protests from inside.

“Stop pushing!” Hook shouted, batting a boot away from his face.

“I’m not pushing!” Smee protested.

“Then whose boot is this?”

The sack bounced again.

“Could be mine,” Jukes snapped.

“Could be?”

“At the moment, Capt’n, I’m more concerned about the crocodile.”

A rough tail slid across Jukes’s legs.

“Watch it!” Jukes barked.

A low hiss answered him.

“Where’s the crocodile?” Hook demanded.

tick... tock...

Thistle flew after Hilda. The huge sack jumped with each stride, a muffled argument continuing inside.

“They mean to have the pirates for lunch!” she called to Peter as he flew alongside her.

“Do they now?”

“Yes!”

Peter watched Hilda’s thick braid sway from side to side as she trudged up the hill toward the castle. His gaze lifted beyond her.

The castle rose above the cloud line in weathered gray stone. Tall windows the size of houses reflected the afternoon sun. Laundry billowed between the towers like ship sails in the wind.

Peter’s grin returned.

The boys darted through the air around the giants like curious gnats, racing ahead and back again as Hilda carried the sack toward the castle.

The youngest boy looked up at Thistle. “Do they cook pirates first?”

She blinked. “I certainly hope so.”

“Maybe they boil them…” Nibs added.

“Scatter!” Peter shouted as a massive hand windmilled blindly through the air.

The boys burst apart laughing.

The giant swatted at Peter as he swooped beneath the enormous hand.

SMACK!

The giant struck himself squarely on the side of the face.

“OW!”

“I told you to stop swatting at them, Harold,” his wife said. “And now you’ve hit yourself again.”

Thistle watched the giant rub his cheek. “Peter, I don’t think he’s especially bright.”

Peter grinned. “I like him.”

“Keep your elbows to yourself!” Hook’s muffled voice shouted from within the sack.

“Oooh!” Thistle said, “it must be so crowded in that bag.”

Looking up, Slightly frowned. A thick plume of smoke rose from a broad chimney on the left side of the castle. “Why’s that one smoking?” he asked.

“That’s probably the kitchen,” said a twin.

“Oh, they’re definitely headed for the kitchen,” Thistle said, her wings beating anxiously.

Peter flew closer to the bulging sack. “Crocodile soup’s supposed to be quite tasty!”

A loud hiss rose immediately from within.

“Capt’n?” Smee’s voice squeaked.

“PAN!” Hook roared from inside the sack.

Peter grinned. “What is it this time, Hook?”

“All this talk about crocodile soup...” The youngest boy glanced with a frown toward the bulging sack. “Uh, I’m not hungry anymore.

Thistle spun around midair. “Peter, we have to save them.”

Peter glanced toward the sack. “I think they’re working it out.”

“WE ARE NOT!” bellowed Hook from inside.

The youngest boy swooped past Peter, shaking his head. “I don’t think they are.”

A furious hiss erupted from within the sack.

“For once, I agree with the crocodile!” came Jukes’s muffled shout.

Thistle crossed her arms, her wings turning a deeper shade of rose. “Peter, this is not sorting itself out.”

Peter chuckled.

“Hook asked nicely,” Thistle continued.

“PAN!” Hook roared.

Peter laughed. “Not that nicely.”

Hilda started up a broad stone staircase toward the doorway, swinging the sack in her hand.

Tootles gasped. “Those doors are bigger than Hook’s ship!”

Thistle’s eyes widened. “Peter, we don’t have much time.”

Peter turned to look over the boys as they swooped and circled through the air.

Ahead, the doors heaved open with a rumbling groan.

“You know, Peter,” Thistle said, darting alongside him, “you’ve never rescued pirates from a giant’s kitchen table before...”

tick... tock...

Peter glanced toward the sack. “That’s not how my story goes,” he muttered under his breath.

Thistle blinked. “Yes, well, I hate to point out the obvious, but none of this is how your story goes.”

Peter watched Hilda duck through the open doorway with the sack. His eyes brightened as he put two fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle.

“Last one in is a girl!” Peter shouted as he shot toward the doorway.

The boys followed in a laughing blur.

The giant paused just inside the doorway. “Did you hear that, Hilda?” He turned to peer down the hillside. “They’re whistling again.”

“Who’s whistling, Harold?” Hilda called from inside.

“The buzzing things.”

“Of course you heard something!” Hilda shouted. “You could hear a mouse sneeze three hills away!”

“Calling the boys girls is not how races are won!” Thistle called after Peter as she slipped past Harold.

The heavy doors shut behind her with a booming crash.

Thistle spun in a slow circle. The great hall stretched away beneath towering beams lost in the shadows above. Massive stone columns lined the walls. Suits of armor stood guard in silent rows, each one taller than a house.

THUMP.

THUMP.

THUMP.

The towering suits of armor rattled against the stone walls with each footfall. “I tell you, they’re in here somewhere,” Harold grumbled.

Nibs stared up at the towering armor and whispered, “I don’t want to meet them.”

Peter grinned. “I do.”

Harold stopped and sniffed. “I smell little men.”

“Up!” Peter shouted.

The boys shot toward the massive beams overhead.

Thistle sat on the helmet of a suit of armor, her legs dangling as she watched Harold sniffing below.

“Do you think the kitchen is enormous too?” Slightly whispered.

CLANG!

The unmistakable sound of metal striking metal came from beyond a broad archway to the left.

Tootles looked toward the archway. “That sounds like a—how big do you suppose the pot is?”

“Big enough for a crocodile,” said a twin.

“And some pirates,” added Slightly.

Thistle groaned.

The boys followed Thistle into a vast dining room. A well-worn oak table stretched nearly the length of the room. They flew through a forest of high-backed chairs as they hurried after her.

The kitchen opened before them. Great kettles hung from iron hooks above a blazing hearth, while shelves stacked with jars and crockery disappeared into the shadows overhead.

The sack squirmed atop a scarred wooden table that dominated the center of the room.

“They’re trying to get out,” Thistle whispered to Peter.

The sack lurched across the tabletop.

“LEFT!” Hook’s muffled voice shouted from inside.

The sack immediately veered right.

Hilda reached out with one finger and shoved the sack back toward the center. She set a black iron pot beside it and frowned.

She looked from the pot to the sack and back again.

“Too small.”

Thistle’s wings drooped. “That’s a sentence I never want to hear.”

Heavy footsteps shook the floor as Harold ducked beneath the kitchen doorway. He lowered himself onto a bench and reached for his favorite wooden spoon.

“Hilda!”

“What?”

“The pot is too small.”

“I know, Harold. I was the one who said it.”

The sack lurched toward the edge of the table.

“We’re moving!” Hook shouted from inside.

Without breaking stride, Hilda lifted the sack from the tabletop, sending it swinging through the air.

“That’s not us moving, Capt’n. I think someone is moving us,” Jukes cried.

Hilda set the squirming sack beside the hearth and disappeared behind a row of massive pots.

“It’s getting hot in here!” came Hook’s muffled protest.

The sack jumped.

Thistle landed on the handle of an long-handled iron ladle. The heat from the hearth washed over her wings.

CLANG!

The sound echoed through the kitchen.

A moment later, Hilda emerged from the shadows, shoving an enormous black cauldron across the floor, its iron legs scraping heavily over the stone.

Tootles swallowed. “That one’s bigger.”

Hilda gave it another shove.

It refused to move.

“Harold.”

“What?”

“Don’t just sit there waiting for lunch! Help me with this.”

Harold lumbered forward, his shadow sweeping across the hearth. Together they lifted the massive iron pot and carried it to the far wall, where an iron pump protruded from the stonework.

Water thundered into the enormous iron pot.

Thistle watched the water level slowly rise.

“Peter?”

“Hmm?”

“We’re out of time.”

As Hook fled up the towering stalk through layers of clouds, the crocodile followed relentlessly behind him, its TICK… TOCK… a constant warning. Peter and the boys treated the chase like a game while Thistle watched the increasingly ridiculous procession of captain, crocodile, and pirates climbing toward the sky. Then heavy footsteps from above shook the stalk.

“FEE… FI… FO… FUM!”

*

Thistle burst up through the shifting white clouds after Peter as another heavy footfall jolted the rolling landscape beneath them.

“Peter…” she said, her wings beating quickly. “I think we’ve crossed into another story.”

Peter looked excited. “Have we?”

“But…” Thistle murmured uneasily, “stories aren’t supposed to decide where I go.”

Another heavy footfall rattled the ground.

Thistle’s eyes widened. “That’s the giant.”

Peter grinned. “What giant? Can we see it?”

Thistle stared at him. “You are far too excited about this.”

He cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Tootles! Nibs! Slightly! There’s a giant!”

“A giant?” the youngest boy cried.

“Where?” shouted Tootles.

“Can we fight it?” asked a twin.

The boys flew in and out of the curling white clouds as laughter echoed through the giant’s world.

Another heavy footfall sent a tremor through the stalk.

“How big is it?” yelled Slightly. “Does it eat people?”

Thistle glanced uneasily over her shoulder. “Traditionally, that was its main diet.”

“PAN!” Hook roared, hauling himself onto the giant’s hillside.

Peter spun in midair toward him, the feather in Hook’s oversized hat streaming behind him.

“Oh, there you are,” Peter laughed.

“Take my hat off at once!”

“I don’t think this is really your moment to negotiate.” Thistle blinked at Hook. “Just listen…”

The steady scraping of claws echoed up the stalk.

TICK.

TOCK.

The crocodile lumbered heavily onto the grassy meadow through giant blades of grass, its body flattening a wide path as it continued steadily after Hook.

Hook’s face drained of color.

“Smee!” he shouted, stumbling backward across the hillside. “Jukes!”

“Aye, Capt’n!” Smee called as he scrambled after Hook through the thick blades of grass.

Bill Jukes yanked the cutlass from his teeth. “Hurry yourself, Smee!” he barked. “Unless you fancy the capt’n becoming crocodile supper!”

Peter burst into a belly laugh. “Oh, it’s definitely hungry!”

“The crocodile’s gaining!” Nibs yelled.

“Faster, you fools!” Hook roared as he crashed through the tall, dense grass.

Peter whooped as he bounded after the pirates. “Come on!” he shouted to the boys. “We don’t want to miss this!”

“FEE… FI… FO… FUM!” The clouds trembled.

“Uh… Thistle?” the youngest boy asked. “Was that the giant?”

Thistle looked from the crocodile pursuing Hook to the enormous castle towers looming above the clouds in the distance.

“Right,” she muttered. “Clearly there’s an awful lot of people-eating in this story.”

Hook stopped abruptly as an enormous, hairy hand swept through the clouds ahead, brushing the mist aside.

Behind him, the crocodile nearly crashed into him, its jaws snapping open.

“Stop moving!” Thistle shouted. “The giant doesn’t see very well!”

The crocodile slowly closed its mouth. Silence settled over the hillside.

“FEE… FI… FO… FUM! I smell the blood of an Englishman!”

“Well,” she whispered, glancing around at Peter, the boys, Hook, and the pirates, “that doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

Thistle flinched as the giant sniffed loudly overhead.

Hook stared ahead in horror as the giant’s massive bare toes curled slowly through the tall grass, each one larger than the captain himself.

Smee stared at them wide-eyed. “Blimey,” he whispered. “Even his toes are hairy.”

Peter stopped smiling. “That’s bigger than I expected.”

“Oh,” Thistle swallowed. “He’s much larger than I remember…”

The giant sniffed deeply, sucking the clouds in. “Mmmmmmmmm.”

“Hungry,” he rumbled, smacking his lips.

One enormous foot shifted in the grass, sending a heavy vibration beneath their feet.

“Come out, little men.”

The crocodile retreated a few slow steps as the pirates and the boys exchanged uneasy glances.

Peter’s grin slowly returned. “I think he means all of us.”

“Ohhhh,” Thistle murmured, “Clearly he’s hungrier than I remember too.”

The giant bent over for a closer look, his vast shadow sweeping slowly over the land. Warm breath swept through the forest of grass, making it sway.

“Hide, you dogs!” Hook hissed at Smee and Jukes.

The giant sniffed again, turning slowly toward Peter and the boys hovering in the air.

“I smell you, little men,” he rumbled as he straightened.

For the first time, Peter, Thistle, and the boys got a clear look at the giant’s face. His tangled beard shifted in the wind as his hungry eyes strained to follow the tiny figures darting through the air. The giant swatted at Peter and the boys as they scattered.

Peter burst into laughter as the enormous hand swept past him. “Too slow!” he shouted.

Thistle darted upward alongside him, her wings beating quickly to keep up.

“Peter,” she warned, “taunting the giant feels like a very poor idea.”

Peter grinned at her. “Relax. We’re just having some fun.”

The giant growled in frustration as Peter somersaulted out of reach again, laughing breathlessly.

The giant’s eyes narrowed as they lowered toward the tall grass below.

“Wife!” the giant boomed, turning toward the castle. “Bring my sack!”

“This way!” Hook hissed to the pirates, forcing his way into even thicker grass.

Smee and Jukes scrambled after him. The crocodile kept pace silently through the swaying grass.

The giant lowered himself onto his hands and knees, sniffing heavily. His looming shadow covered them in darkness.

Hook looked back in terror. One massive eye squinted toward them through the towering grass.

Thistle glanced toward the castle as heavy footfalls shook the ground. Another giant was already striding across the hillside with a massive sack slung over one shoulder.

Thistle’s eyes widened.

“Peter!” she shouted. “He means to bag Hook and the pirates!”

TICK.

TOCK.

The giant locked onto the ticking sound as his hand plunged into the grass. The crocodile let out a furious hiss as the giant yanked it upward by the tail, its powerful jaws snapping wildly as it twisted through the air.

Thistle winced. “Well… that’s unfortunate. That ticking gave him away.”

“Wife!” the giant boomed. “Open the sack!”

The wife arrived breathless, swung the massive sack from her shoulder and held it open as the giant dropped the crocodile inside.

“Wait,” the giant rumbled. “I still smell little men.”

“Oh, hell,” Jukes muttered, grabbing Smee’s arm.

Smee went pale. “Dear God,” he breathed.

The giant’s enormous hand plunged into the towering grass again. Hook shouted as giant fingers closed tightly around all three pirates.

The giant’s wife pulled the sack open again.

“He got them all,” Tootles whispered to Peter.

Peter’s smile faded as Hook, Smee, and Jukes disappeared inside.

The sack immediately bucked.

Thistle stared as the giant’s wife hoisted the moving sack onto her shoulder.

“Oh, no…”

tick… tock…

*

Hook’s ship shuddered under the impact. The crocodile was already lumbering down the sloping boards, leaves shaking loose from its back, its yellow eyes fixed on Hook.

The captain jerked Peter backward, his face gone pale beneath the brim of his hat.

Pirates stumbled out of the crocodile’s path.

“I told you…” Smee whispered. He retreated so quickly he nearly tripped over the warped planks.

Mullins swore under his breath, and Starkey edged toward the rail.

Bill Jukes lowered his blade.

Hook’s grip on Peter loosened as he retreated. He raised the silver hook toward the crocodile’s widening jaws.

Thistle stared at him. “Wait… you’re afraid of a crocodile?”

Peter twisted free, grinning now. “Up!” he shouted.

The boys scattered at once, scrambling for the rigging while the crocodile’s claws scraped across the warped boards as it closed on Hook.

“Too late!” Peter laughed. “It’s got your scent now, Hook!”

TICK.
TOCK.

“Oh good. It ticks too?” Thistle asked.

“Long story,” Peter called, laughing. “Swallowed a clock.”

“That makes it exciting!” Nibs called over his shoulder as he followed Slightly higher into the rigging.

“It’s a warning,” Slightly shouted.

“He wants Hook!” Tootles called gleefully from the crow’s nest.

The crocodile lunged for Hook.

The captain sprang back with a shout, catching a hanging line with his hook and pulling himself awkwardly upward. The jaws snapped shut beneath him.

“Cap’n! Look out!” yelled Starkey.

A barrel broke loose and thundered down the planks, sending pirates jumping clear as it crashed against the crocodile’s side before striking the deckhouse with a heavy crack.

Sinking its claws into rope and wood, the crocodile began climbing after Hook.

TICK.

TOCK.

“Clearly it’s obsessed with him,” Thistle said in wonder.

Mullins caught a hanging line to keep from sliding farther down the deck. Every pirate still on his feet grabbed ropes or rails to keep from being swept downhill.

Trunks, crates and other cargo broke loose and slid down the deck.

Fury flashed across Hook’s face as his crew struggled to hang on instead of moving to halt the crocodile.

“Stop it!” Hook shouted. “Well? Stop that beast!”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Mullins called back. “But what would you have us do?”

Hook seized the great stalk above the rigging and pulled himself onto it as the ship tilted nearer to vertical.

“Then climb, you dogs! After me!”

The pirates stared upward at the stalk disappearing into the clouds, uneasy glances passing among them.

“It likes climbing!” Peter called cheerfully.

TICK.

TOCK.

“Move!” Hook roared. “Climb!”

Smee swallowed hard and began after the crocodile. Bill Jukes shoved his cutlass between his teeth and followed.

“It’s climbing after him?” Thistle called.

“Of course it is!” Peter laughed.

The boys clung easily to the twisting vines of the stalk, watching Hook climb with growing delight.

“He’s bringing the crocodile with him!” Nibs shouted.

“Oh, look! Smee and Jukes are following the crocodile now!” Tootles called out.

Thistle flew higher along the stalk toward Peter.

“Well,” she said, watching the strange procession climb, “this is the most ridiculous parade I’ve ever seen.”

She glanced at Peter. “Is this how your story usually goes?”

Peter grinned. “Not usually.”

Thistle shook her head at the crocodile steadily pursuing Hook. “I didn’t think crocodiles normally climbed.”

Hook emerged through the layer of thick clouds, dragging himself awkwardly one-handed through the twisting vines.

“It’s gaining on you, Hook!” Peter called triumphantly from above.

“Silence, Pan!” Hook roared, looking up. His hat tumbled free and spun out into the clouds below.

Hook twisted instinctively after it, the silver hook scraping hard against the stalk as he caught himself.

“Jukes! My hat!”

“Aye, Captain,” the pirate shouted up, “but I can’t see it or you through the clouds!”

The hat somersaulted downward as the cloud cover thickened.

Above him, the boys burst into hysterical laughter hearing Hook’s panic over the hat.

“Save the hat!” Tootles shouted between laughs.

“Forget the crocodile! Catch the hat!” Nibs yelled.

“There goes the captain!” one twin cackled.

“No,” Peter laughed. “Only the important part!”

A streak of purple and pink darted downward into the cloud layer, vanishing from view.

Thistle caught Hook’s feathered hat by the brim just before it hit the ship.

The oversized hat dangled beneath her as she popped back up out of the clouds, her wings fluttering.

“You know,” she said lightly to Hook, “if you hadn’t tried to squeeze me earlier, I might have considered giving this back.”

Hook slashed his hook angrily through the air at her. “Give me that hat!”

“Perhaps now we can have that proper conversation you mentioned earlier,” Thistle said.

She tilted her head at the sound of rustling leaves and claws scraping along the stalk.

“Though I do think this might be a moment you should hurry.”

TICK.

TOCK.

Hook hauled himself higher up the stalk with a strained groan.

“Hmm…” she said, “I seem to have caught you at a poor time… and this hat is far too large for me to drag about…”

“You miserable little pest!” Hook roared. “Bring me that hat!”

“I’ll give it to Peter instead.” She smiled and drifted upward toward Peter.

“Pan!” Hook bellowed. “Do not put that hat on!”

Far below the crocodile, Smee and Bill Jukes continued climbing with considerably less enthusiasm.

“We should’ve stayed on the ship with the others,” Smee whispered.

“Too late for that now,” Jukes muttered around the cutlass clenched in his teeth.

“Hook!” Peter called cheerfully. “How close is it now?”

Hook looked up, irritated by the ceiling of dense clouds he could no longer see through.

TICK.

TOCK.

Hook twisted sharply to look down. Beneath him lay a thick blanket of white. A long green snout pushed through the cloud.

A strangled sound escaped Hook’s throat as the yellow eyes emerged.

Thistle poked her head through the clouds above him, upside down.

“Hook?” she said. “What are you waiting for?”

Hook stared at her in horrified disbelief, unable to speak.

A foul smell reached her a moment later. Damp. Rotten. Reptilian.

Thistle wrinkled her nose.

“Ohhh,” she said. “I suggest... you’d better hurry, Hook.”

The crocodile opened its jaws wide, exposing rows of jagged teeth.

Hook jerked his boots higher against the stalk.

A deep thud rolled like an earthquake high above them all.

Everyone froze.

The crocodile snapped its jaws shut.

The stalk shook violently as another deep thud rolled overhead.

Thistle’s eyes widened.

“Oh,” she whispered, gazing upward. “I think someone is coming.”

“Peter?”

She disappeared back into the clouds.

“FEE... FI... FO... FUM!”

Previously…

On the way to Captain Hook’s ship, Peter casually revealed how he had cut off the Captain’s hand and fed it to a crocodile. The deck was eerily quiet when they landed before erupting into chaos as pirates surrounded them. Hook made his move. His hand closed around Thistle.

*

“Unhand me, you miserable sea rat!” Thistle twisted, her bare feet bracing against his wrist as she tried to wrench free, but his fist only tightened, pinning her wings flat against her back.

He looked down at her, one brow lifting slightly. “Such spirit.”

Peter stepped forward, his smile gone. “Let her go, Hook. You’ve had your fun.”

Hook glanced at Peter, then back to Thistle. “You took my hand.” He lifted her slightly, bringing her closer to his face. “I’ll take this.”

“I am not a ‘this’!” Thistle snapped, her wings flaring red.

“Cap’n… she don’t look right,” Mullings muttered. “Her wings…”

Peter stepped closer, his voice sharper now. “You don’t get to keep her.”

Curly caught a line and swung straight into a pirate. The man staggered back, his blade clattering across the deck as he went down.

Tootles swooped in, kicking the blade up into his hand before veering away.

Nibs darted low across the deck, slipping past a grasping hand.

Peter drew his blade, the tip leveled at Hook. “You remember how this ends, Captain.”

Hook’s mouth curved faintly. “Still so eager.”

Beneath the ship, beyond the rush of movement, a faint tick… tock…

Hook’s head tilted, listening.

The corner of his mouth turned up as he gazed at Thistle. “She stays.”

Thistle’s wings surged hot, burning his hand.
Hook’s breath caught. His arm jerked back, his grip loosening.

Thistle wrenched free, her wings red with anger. “I told you to let go!”

Peter moved with her, putting himself between Hook and Thistle.

Hook’s jaw tightened, his expression cold.

“Tried to tell you, Cap’n!” Mullins called.
A few of the pirates fell back, startled.

Hook’s eyes narrowed on her wings. “You grow more interesting by the moment.”

“What is she?” Smee muttered.

“Now!” cried Slightly. The boys dove in low before the pirates could recover.

“Watch it!” Bill Jukes shouted too late.

Curly hit hard, knocking Jukes back into the rail.

A pirate’s blade flashed and missed as Nibs slipped through.

“Take her!” Hook barked, his eyes fixed on Thistle.

“After her!” Starkey snarled, moving to cut her off.

“Stay behind me,” Peter said, not looking back.

“I don’t need to,” Thistle said. “I can protect myself.” She hovered just out of reach, daring Hook.

Another pirate lunged, catching Nibs by the sleeve and yanking him off course.

Tick… tock… Beneath the ship, the sound drew nearer.

Hook glanced down, his shoulders stiffening.

Starkey lunged, his hand sweeping toward Thistle’s waist.

Peter shifted to block, but she darted clear, Starkey’s hand just brushing her side.

“Too slow!” Thistle teased.

At the edge of the deck, a thin green tendril crept over the rail.

“Leave the boys!” Hook demanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Take her!”

Two pirates broke away at once, turning toward Thistle.

She darted through the gap between them.

They lunged together and collided, staggering as they tangled.

“You’ll have to be quicker than that!” Thistle taunted.

The green tendril thickened, small leaves unfurling as it curled along the rail. Its tip lifted, tracing a small arc in the air before catching the rigging.

A blade swept low, forcing Tootles back. As Bill Jukes surged for Thistle, the twins swung in together, the lower one driving both feet into his stomach, knocking him backward.

“Enough!” Hook said. “Must I do everything myself?”

“By all means,” Thistle shot back, rising higher. “Do try.”

The vine tightened along the rigging and began to climb, its leaves broadening as it rose.

Thistle glanced up at it. “That’s new…”

Tick… tock…

The sound seemed to travel along the vine.

“Peter, that sounds like a…”

Thistle turned.

Hook stood directly behind Peter, his hooked arm locked across Peter’s chest, the point close enough that any struggle would cut.

“Peter!” the youngest boy cried, his voice breaking.

The boys halted their advance, anger flashing as they locked on Hook.

“Hook!” Thistle’s voice cut sharp.

“Now,” Hook said, “we can speak properly.”

Peter met Thistle’s eyes.

Thistle nodded, her wings deep red, pulsing faintly.

“You,” Hook said, a thin smile touching his mouth. “For him.”

Slightly edged in from the boys. Hook’s arm tightened, the point pressing closer.

“No, Slightly!” Thistle called.

“Release Peter first,” she said evenly, her eyes on Hook. “And I’ll come.”

Hook’s smile lingered. “You mistake your position.”

The vine climbed higher behind Thistle, thickening as it wound through the rigging, its leaves spreading wide.

“Cap’n…” Mullins said. “That ain’t right… them vines.”

Bill Jukes and Starkey turned, unease flickering as the vines crept ever higher. The boys stared with wide eyes.

Hook held Peter fast.

“Cap’n… you see what — those vines’ll foul the lines,” Smitty said. “You want we cut ‘em?”

The rigging groaned under the growing weight.

“How in the… how’d that get up here?” Smee said, leaning over the rail.

Thistle kept her eyes on Peter.

“Now,” Hook said to Thistle, “or I decide for you.”

She glanced toward the boys.

“Not yet,” Peter murmured.

“Bill…” Hook said quietly. Bill Jukes shifted at once, Starkey with him, both turning toward Thistle.

The ship tilted under the strain, pulled sideways and upward as the stalk climbed into the clouds.

“Captain—” Mullins said, grabbing the rail as the deck shifted.

“Quiet,” Hook snapped, his eyes following the stalk upward. “Smee,” he said.

“Aye… what would you have me do?” Smee called. “The vine—she’s pulling us with it!”

Hook’s gaze moved from the stalk… to Thistle.

“Cut her free, Captain?” Mullins called as the deck lurched again.

“No,” Hook said. “Not yet.”

TICK.

TOCK.

Hook snapped toward the sound.

Peter smiled.

The leaves along the stalk trembled, then shuddered, as if something were climbing through them.

Smee leaned farther over the rail, squinting down through the leaves. “Captain…” he said. “I think we’ve got company.”

The boys rushed toward the rail, peering down through the leaves.

“Back from the rail!” Hook ordered. “There’s nothing there. Move!”

Peter chuckled.

Something scraped along the side of the ship.

“Clearly something’s coming,” Thistle said.

A long green snout rose over the rail, leaves clinging to it. A tooth jutted from the side of its mouth.

“Someone you know?” Thistle asked lightly.

The jaws opened, exposing long and jagged teeth.

“Hook?” Peter said.

The crocodile heaved over the rail and dropped onto the deck.

Thistle joined Peter and the boys and found herself swept into their wild, chaotic flight, much to Tinker Bell’s dismay. A woman, suspended by an umbrella, drifted across the sky with a curious travel bag in hand. With a wink, she reached inside and drew forth a ship flying a black flag. A pirate ship.

*

Peter glanced at Thistle. “You know who that is, don’t you?”

Thistle stared at the black flag snapping in the wind. “What’s with the skull and bones?”

Peter grinned. “Pirates.”

Below them, the boys had already begun to climb—hands catching lines, feet kicking as they pulled themselves higher.

“Captain Hook,” Peter added, as if that explained everything.

“Hook?” she asked.

Peter held up his hand. “He used to have one of these.”

He curled his fingers into a hook. “Now he has one of these.”

He wiggled his fingers. “I took it.”

“Huh?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Cut it off,” Peter said lightly. “With my sword.”

Thistle blinked, her mouth falling open. “You did!?”

Peter glanced down at the boys. “Hey!” His grin widened. “Don’t start without me! We’ll take the lot of ‘em!”

“Up you go!” Curly whooped, catching a line.

“Too slow!” Nibs cried, already above him.

“I’m first!” one twin shouted as he streaked upward.

“Come on!” Peter called over his shoulder as he flew ahead. “It’ll be fun!”

“Cut his hand off!? What happened to it?” Thistle called, racing after him.

“Fed it to the crocodile!” he shot back.

Thistle stopped short, tumbling into a quick somersault. “Peter—wait… what?” She righted herself just in time to see Peter vaulting over the railing of the pirate ship.

“Is this how your story usually goes?” Thistle called after him.

“You’re behind!” Tootles laughed, sweeping past her.

Slightly, the oldest boy, cut across her path, the rush of air sending her wings fluttering. “Hurry up, Thistle! You’ll miss it!”

“Miss what?” she called, breath catching. Thistle flew over the railing and pulled up short.

Peter and the boys stood, scattered across the deck, looking at one another.

The sails billowed overhead, and the masts creaked softly.

“It looks deserted,” Thistle said. “Shouldn’t there be someone here?” She glanced toward the deckhouse. “The door’s just… open.”

Peter lifted a finger to his lips.

Something tapped against the crow’s nest. Heads jerked up, shoulders tensing.

Thistle flew to the crow’s nest and peered inside. “It’s empty,” she called to Peter, frowning.

The deckhouse door closed with a dull thud.

The boys spun toward it. Peter raised an eyebrow, watching the door.

Thistle swept down, hovering near him. “Did that door—”

A loose line dropped from above, slapping against the deck.

The boys flinched and stepped back, eyes snapping up. Peter sprang onto the railing.

“Peter… they’re here,” Slightly said.

Nibs leaned toward Curly and whispered, “I think they’re all around us.”

Peter smiled faintly. “Of course.”

Thistle drew in a breath. “Clearly we’re not—”

“How observant.” A polished black boot, turned neatly at the toe, stepped out onto the deck.

“Ohhh!” Thistle murmured.

The door swung wider. Dark coat, sharply cut, gloved hand at his side. A tricorne hat shadowed his face. His hook was set against the latch, its curve catching the light. His gaze shifted, fixing on Peter.

Peter dropped from the railing and landed squarely in front of Hook.

“Peter…” Tootles said under his breath. The deckhouse door shut.

“You do make a habit of this,” Captain Hook said. “Uninvited as always.”

Peter grinned. “You’d miss me.”

“So that’s Hook,” Thistle whispered, eyeing him.

The rigging creaked overhead, shifting.

“More pirates!” Nibs whispered. “Starkey… and Smee.”

Smee dropped to the deck, steel flashing, landing behind Hook. Thistle turned.

Peter’s grin widened. “Smee. Took you long enough.”

“Bill Jukes!” Curly shouted as a shadow shifted near the rail. “Thought you’d missed the fun!”

Pirates moved in the rigging, along the rail, and up through the hatchways. They stood on every side.

Thistle darted to Peter and faced Hook eye to eye, wings beating hard.

“A friend of Tinker Bell’s… I presume… from the look of you?” Hook said, studying her.
Thistle stared at him. “Hardly.”

Captain Hook’s smile thinned. He lifted his hook.

Pirates hit the deck—boots striking, blades drawn, voices breaking the air.
“Take him!” Starkey shouted from the rigging.
Lines dropped from above; one looped wide to snare Nibs’ waist.

“Look out!” the twins shouted.
Nibs ducked, twisting away as it struck the deck where he’d been standing.

Peter was already moving. “Up!” he called. The deck erupted as boys scattered skyward and pirates surged below. Hook’s gaze tracked Peter, unhurried.

Thistle shot sideways, wings flashing. “Oh, no you don’t!” She darted in, snatching the slack line off the deck before it pulled tight.

Curly swooped past, caught the loop, and swung it wide, dropping it over Bill Jukes.
The line snapped taut—Bill jerked upward as the loop cinched tight around his middle, his feet leaving the deck. “Gah!” He thrashed, boots kicking air.

“Got one!” Slightly whooped. The boys wheeled overhead, weaving through the rigging.

Peter shot forward, cutting straight for Hook.

The Captain watched, unmoved. His hook swept for Peter.

Peter slipped aside, laughing, just beyond his reach. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Thistle landed on his hook, wings beating hard. “Careful, Captain, you’ll poke yourself with this thing.”

“Careful, little one.” He jerked his arm, shaking her loose.

Thistle spun free, wings catching as she steadied.
She laughed. “That hook’s gonna come off!”

“Clear!” Tootles shouted, swinging through on a line.

Peter shifted aside at the last instant, and the boy’s bare feet clipped Hook’s shoulder as he shot past.

Captain Hook brushed his shoulder. “Impertinent.”

Smee strode across the deck with the youngest boy slung over his shoulder. “Put me down!” he shouted, swinging his arms.

“Not so fast!” Thistle caught a loose line and pulled it taut across his path.

Smee went down hard, the boy tumbling free.

“Run!” Thistle shouted.

“Thistle—!” Peter yelled.
Hook’s hand closed around her.

*

“Duck!”

Thistle turned as a boy streaked past on a line, close enough that the rush of air swept her hair back.

“Tootles!” Curly called.

“Clear the way!” the red-haired boy added.

Curly came swinging through, cutting across the deck.

“Watch it!” Tootles shouted.

Thistle turned to follow, lifting her wings. “Oh, I can—” but Tinker Bell tightened her grip on Thistle’s arm.

Peter sprang upward and landed atop the deckhouse, hands on his hips as he watched the boys tumble through the air. “You’ll want to watch that one, Thistle! He’ll nearly take your head off!”

The youngest boy caught a line and dropped in from above, swinging through upside down, grinning as he went.

“You’re doing it wrong!” shouted the oldest boy.

“You said that last time!” yelled Curly.

Thistle twisted, trying to break free.

“Oh no you don’t!” Tinker Bell snapped, her grip slipping.

Thistle chased after Curly with a squeal of delight, flipping upside down mid-flight to match him. Tinker Bell darted after her, right on her heels.

A line snapped tight above her as the red-haired boy swung through.

“Too slow!” one twin teased.

“Not you—him!” Tootles laughed.

Thistle twisted midair, still upside down, adjusting to follow. “Hey! Your hair color’s like mine!” She nearly collided with him as he passed beneath her.

Tinker Bell swooped after her with a sharp, frustrated huff, veering hard to avoid the same red-haired boy.

Peter flew up to the crow’s nest. “Glad to see you joining the games, Tink!”

Tinker Bell’s wings beat harder as she shot forward, but a canvas sail snapped full above her, the yardarm shifting with it across her path. She dipped underneath as the spar swept just over her.

“Oopsie!” Thistle shot past Tinker Bell the other way, still upside down. “Tink! You didn’t tell me you had such fun friends!”

Tootles let out a shrill whistle, then flipped into a quick somersault, whooping as he shot past.

“Do it again!” called the youngest boy.

Two boys swooped in from opposite sides, sweeping past each other in front of her, nearly brushing hands.

“I like her wings!” the youngest said.

“Yes!” called Curly. “Did you see them change color?”

Thistle laughed, spinning past them. “It’s my best feature!”

A shout went up above her. The twins came swinging through together, one hooked by his feet above the other, their hands linked as they swept toward her.

“Your turn!” they called out.

“I can do better!” Thistle laughed, tipping sideways as she dove between their joined hands.

“Bravo!” Peter called from the crow’s nest. “Encore!”

The oldest boy grinned at Thistle as she fluttered nearby. “You should stay with us!”

A cheer went up. Thistle hovered, wings turning a deeper pink as the boys gathered around her—some on the lines, some along the rail, all talking at the same time.

Peter watched with a grin, balanced on the edge of the crow’s nest.

Tinker Bell shot through the boys, scattering them as she went. She darted up from beneath Thistle, spinning her like a top.

“Oh! I did a pirouette!” Thistle exclaimed, laughing.

A burst of applause followed.

“You’ll do!” Peter called warmly, swooping toward them.

Tinker Bell hovered nearby, wings beating hard, gaze fixed on Thistle. She whipped around toward the boys.

“Over here! Follow me!”

The boys hesitated, looking at each other.

“You’re fun, Thistle!” the red-haired boy called. “Come with us!”

Tinker Bell spun back, wings flaring. “No! She can’t come with us!”

Thistle chuckled. “I think I’ll just fly here with the boys!”

Peter dropped in beside Thistle, among the boys.

He glanced over his shoulder at Tinker Bell. “Looks like Thistle’s happy here with the boys. I think I’ll stay too.”

Tinker Bell hovered, wings snapping the air, then wheeled sharply away.

Thistle sprang into the air, wings opening. “Let’s fly!”

“Race you to the mast!” Curly shouted over his shoulder.

“Catch me if you can!” Tootles yelled, shooting upward.

The red-haired boy streaked past Thistle’s shoulder, laughing as he went. Another boy swung down toward her, reaching for her hand.

A small shadow passed across the deck.

Thistle glanced up.

A figure drifted beyond the rigging, suspended under an open umbrella, a small travel bag in her hand. She turned her head, a smile touching her lips as she continued on.

“What’s that?” the youngest asked, shading his eyes. “Is that a person?”

“An umbrella? Clearly it’s not raining.” Thistle lifted her wings and flew upward. She slowed as she drew near.

The woman let go of the umbrella. It remained aloft. She set the bag in front of her, where it bobbed gently in the air. It stirred, opening with a soft snap. She reached inside, her arm disappearing to the elbow, then the shoulder, then farther still.

Thistle dipped under it to see where the woman’s arm would emerge. She saw only the bottom of the bag, just as it should be.

The woman’s gaze flicked to Thistle with a hint of amusement. She reached even deeper, her head slipping into the bag.

“Do you need help?” Thistle asked.

The woman looked up and shook her head. She tugged, then gave a sharper pull.

With a soft pop, something gave way. The woman glanced at Thistle and winked. She took hold with both hands and drew it out, hand over hand. At last, a long wooden pole emerged.

Thistle blinked.

Lines trailed from it as rigging took shape.

A mast.

“What have you got there?” Peter called.

“I—” Thistle called, her eyes fixed on it.

It grew as it rose, its shadow falling across the deck.

A dark curve took shape. A hull. Thistle edged away as it loomed above her head. The ship rode the open air, its sails drawn tight.

The woman glanced at Thistle, satisfied. The bag closed with a soft click. She took up her umbrella and drifted on as though nothing odd had happened.

“Did you see that?” one boy exclaimed. “Where is she going?”

Heads tilted upward as a few pointed.

At the top of the ship’s mast, a black flag marked with a skull and crossbones unfurled with a snap.

“Look at the flag!” the red-haired boy shouted.

“Pirate!” the oldest boy yelled.

“But how do you fit a ship in a bag?” the youngest asked, eyes wide.

Peter flew up beside Thistle, looking up at the ship with a grin.

“What an entrance! I’ve never seen anything like that!”

*

Mrs. Robinson paused at the door in the cool evening air. The lock clicked softly as she turned the key. She lingered there, her hand resting on the handle. Her fingers drifted to the chain at her neck, feeling for her glasses.

The shop lay quiet beyond the door—too quiet, perhaps—but that was nothing new. Old places had their ways. Settling wood. A draft where there should be none.

Could be a mouse… or so she told herself.

At last, she drew her shawl closer and stepped away.

Mrs. Robinson made her way down Storybook Way, a narrow cobblestone lane, her footsteps fading beneath the hush of the trees.

~

Inside, a soft patter stirred the stillness. A mouse darted from beneath the shelf, skittered across the worn boards, and vanished behind the small stack of children’s cushions set off to one side.

The clock on the wall seemed to tick a little louder.

High along the shelf, among a row of well-worn spines, one book gave a small, impatient wiggle.

Thistle’s head lifted, her gaze flicked to the shelf. She stilled, listening. Her wings fluttered, catching the last light. “That,” she whispered, “is not a mouse.”

The book worked itself loose from the row, inch by inch, as though it had waited long enough, wavering at the edge…

Thistle drifted closer. “What do you want?”

It tipped and slipped free. The book came down onto the cushions, then slid to the floor and settled, partly covering a large white spoon.

Thistle was already there to meet it. “Oopsie… that’s Noah’s spoon,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Huh. You’re rather a lot for this spoon.”

She tapped her fingertips against the cover. “Don’t hurt the spoon.”

A faint sigh escaped the book as it stirred.

“Oh!” Thistle drew her fingers back.

A soft breath stirred through the book. It eased, and the cover opened.

A page lifted, then turned.

More pages turned…

Then stopped.

One page eased back.

Thistle stepped onto the edge of the page for a better look at the picture.

A winged figure hovered near a tree, turned toward the water beyond. Her pale hair, drawn into a knot, caught the sun’s glow, her wings moving in a soft blur. The leaves stirred gently in the breeze, and the water in the distance lapped softly against the shore.

Thistle stepped farther onto the page, drawn by the faint hum of her wings. “At last,” she whispered, stepping closer. “Someone like me.”

At the sound of Thistle’s voice, the figure turned. Bright eyes fixed on her. “And who are you supposed to be?”

Warmth rose in Thistle’s cheeks.

“What happened to your hair?” She looked Thistle up and down. “I mean, it’s standing straight up.”

Thistle smoothed a hand over her hair. “It’s meant to do that. I’m Thistle.”

She tipped her head, unimpressed. “What kind of name is that?”

“It’s just my name,” Thistle said. “What’s yours?”

“Tinker Bell.” She settled lightly on the branch, as though she belonged there.

Her gaze dropped to Thistle’s bare feet. “You’re not from here.”

Thistle shifted her feet on the page. “Pixies prefer bare feet.”

“Fairies wear shoes.”

Thistle almost beamed. “Oh… A fairy? Then we’re practically cousins!”

Tinker Bell’s expression did not change. “Practically? No.”

Thistle’s wings drooped, her smile gone.

“Clearly, it’s time for me to go.” She turned and stepped off the book.

“Then go,” Tinker Bell said.

A faint creak of timber drifted through the air. Rigging groaned in the wind high above the sea. Tinker Bell’s gaze lifted. A ship moved across the sky above the trees.

A small smile touched Tinker Bell’s mouth, not quite kind. “Wait!” she called.

Thistle kept walking.

“Thistle,” she called. “I know you can hear me.”

Thistle slowed.

“Come back. I know someone you should meet.”

Thistle hesitated. “I thought I didn’t belong,” she said over her shoulder, a touch too quickly.

“You don’t,” Tinker Bell said. “But he won’t mind.”

Thistle’s wings stiffened. “Honestly, that’s not the same thing.”

A burst of laughter carried on the wind.

Thistle spun around. “Who was that?”

Canvas sails snapped overhead. A voice called out.

“That’s not a fairy,” Thistle whispered, frowning. Her foot found the page again without thinking.

A shadow passed over Tinker Bell and the tree.

Thistle stared, her gaze following a ship as it moved into the clouds.

She blinked. “What’s a ship doing in the sky?”

“Flying,” a voice called back.

She leaned forward, peering upward. “That’s not how ships work.”

Her foot caught the edge of the page, and she tumbled through the picture, catching herself on a branch near Tinker Bell.

“Hey! Watch what you’re doing!” Tinker Bell snapped as the branch dipped. She caught her balance, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just—”

“That’s one way to make an entrance,” the voice called.

Thistle looked up.

A boy dropped through the branches, brown hair tousled, a grin already forming. Catching a line, he swung down and came to rest beside her as though the moment had been waiting for him.

Thistle stared at him. “Oh? Is this who I’m supposed to meet?”

“Not quite,” Tinker Bell said.

“Close enough,” he said with a laugh. “I like your pink hair.”

Tinker Bell folded her arms, her lips tightening.

Thistle’s wings deepened to a soft rose. “My hair’s always been pink.” She glanced down at her feet.

He smiled. “Your wings are turning pink too.”

“We’re not discussing her wings, Peter,” Tinker Bell said.

“Easy, Tink,” Peter said with a laugh.

Thistle hesitated, turning. “You said there was someone…”

Tinker Bell glanced toward Peter, then back to Thistle. “Shh. Not now.”

Peter grinned. “Want to see the ship?”

Tinker Bell shot him a look. “Peter—”

“Come on!” He grabbed Thistle’s hand, and suddenly she was off her feet.

Breathless, she gasped. “I have wings, you know!”

With his free hand, Peter caught a line and swung upward with her.

Thistle’s wings fluttered, then caught as they rose.

“Peter!” Tinker Bell called, darting after them.

Peter pulled Thistle up and over the rail, landing lightly on the deck.

He caught her as she tipped forward and set her upright.

“I meant to do that,” Thistle said with a giggle.

Peter grinned. “Welcome aboard!”

Tinker Bell landed beside them and took Thistle by the arm. “You’re coming with me.”

Thistle looked up. “Please take your hand off me.” Her arm grew warm beneath Tinker Bell’s grip.

“Really, Tink?” Peter said. “Let her go.”

She didn’t.

Peter reached for Thistle’s free hand. “Come see my ship!” he said, turning around.

Tinker Bell tightened her grip.

She leaned in close to Thistle’s ear.

“I said you don’t belong here.”

Jam, ducks, and a whirlpool left the river in disarray—until it wasn’t. Back on the riverbank, Thistle realized it was the closest she had come to real friends. On a whim, she brought them home, where stories are read aloud.

*

Mrs. Robinson’s rocking chair creaked softly against the wooden floorboards before coming to rest. The book slipped lower in her lap.

“If you will all…” she murmured faintly, her voice trailing off.

A soft snore followed.

Gwendolyn, chin on the table, flicked her eyes toward the rocking chair. Nora leaned around Noah to see past him. Beau held his breath.

For a moment, the children watched to see if her eyes would open.

“She’s thinking,” Nora whispered.

Mrs. Robinson snored again, a little louder this time.

“She’s making a noise,” Sebastian said.

Nora nodded solemnly. “She’s thinking hard. My grandma does it all the time.”

Badger glanced from the sleeping woman to the children gathered at the table.

“Sensibly arranged,” he said. “One in charge, and she has removed herself.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes darted back to the animals. Will edged in beside her, one hand braced on the table. Nora shifted Noah on her hip as he reached eagerly with his big white spoon.

“They’re still here,” Gwendolyn whispered.

Maya spread her hands. “From the book,” Maya said, as if explaining something obvious.

Noah lunged forward, laughing and kicking his feet as Nora struggled to hold him. He struck the table with a sharp tap of his big spoon.

Mole started. “Oh! I beg your pardon—”

“He doesn’t mean it,” Nora said, catching Noah’s arm before he could do it again. “He just—well, he likes things that move.”

“I want the frog,” Sebastian insisted.

“To be perfectly clear,” Rat said, lifting one paw with quiet dignity, “none of us belong to anyone.”

Lee pointed at Toad. “Frog!”

“At last,” Toad said. “Someone who understands me.”

“He does look like a frog,” Thistle said, giggling.

“He’s not a frog!” Gwendolyn said.

“I am very much a frog,” Toad interjected.

Rat took a step forward. “If we might proceed one at a time—”

Three children spoke at once.

Rat lowered his paw. “Or… not.”

He composed himself. “As I said, we belong to our story—not to anyone else,” he said. “Though it may be difficult to explain under the present circumstances.”

Thistle hovered just above the table. For a moment, she did not laugh.

The children’s voices went on around her—questions, protests, small bursts of excitement—but the words drifted past.

Thistle turned slowly in the air; her gaze moved from Rat to Mole, to Toad, to Badger.

They belong together.

Noah struck the table again with his spoon and laughed.

Thistle blinked. “Oh!” she said. “Yes—well—carry on, then!”

Badger regarded the children without moving. “They are less orderly than I expected.”

“We are not orderly,” Beau said proudly.

“Yes,” said Badger. “I see that.”

Toad drew himself up to his full height—which, though not considerable, he carried with great authority.

“My dear admirers,” he said, smoothing his waistcoat, “you are in the presence of a most extraordinary individual.”

“He’s tiny,” Sebastian whispered.

Toad stiffened. “I am not tiny,” he said. “I am… efficiently sized.”

Behind them, the rocking chair creaked.

“—sit down—” Mrs. Robinson murmured in her sleep.

Toad glanced over his shoulder.

“I shall continue,” he said firmly, “while standing.”

Gwendolyn rose onto her toes to see better.

“Do you live in the book?” Maya asked softly, looking at Mole.

Mole clutched the jar. “Oh! Yes—well—generally speaking.”

He hesitated, then added politely, “It’s very comfortable.”

“Do you have a bed?”

Mole brightened. “A very good one!”

“I like my bed!” Lee announced.

Toad leapt forward. “I shall demonstrate advanced navigation!”

“Don’t, please,” Rat said.

Toad did.

He wheeled sharply, skidding along the polished wood.

“Observe!” he cried. “Precision under pressure!”

“There is no pressure,” Rat said.

“There very nearly was!” Toad retorted, attempting another turn.

“Oh!” Thistle said, darting ahead of him. “I know this part.”

“You do not—”

She whipped out a double pirouette. “Turn here!”

A few children clapped.

Toad turned.

He overcorrected.

His foot slipped.

“Mind the turn—” he cried, and spun off the table.

Maya caught Toad gently in both hands.

“You fell,” she said, peering down at him.

Thistle hovered, her wings fluttering a deeper shade of rose.

“Oopsie!” she said.

Mole clutched the jar. “Oh! Are you quite all right, Toad?”

Maya set him carefully back on the table.

“A controlled descent,” Toad replied, straightening. “Entirely intentional.”

“But Maya saved you!” Will said.

Toad froze.

“Saved?” he repeated.

He drew himself up. “I was not in need of saving. I was conducting a demonstration of controlled descent.”

“You fell,” Nora said, stifling a laugh.

“I did not fall,” Toad said firmly. “I descended with purpose.”

Rat sighed. “Off the table.”

“Momentarily,” Toad said with dignity.

“Well,” Thistle said, “that’s not quite where I meant you to turn.”

“I prefer my own method,” Toad said briskly.

Mrs. Robinson stirred. The rocking chair creaked.

“Children…” she murmured as the book shifted in her lap.

With a drowsy motion, she lifted it and set it down on the table beside her—close enough that Rat had to flick his tail clear.

Mole squeaked and drew the jar closer.

Badger looked up. “It’s time.”

Thistle drifted down to the table. “I rather hoped you might stay a while.”

Rat glanced toward the open book. “We should go,” he said. “It is where we belong.”

Thistle sighed and pointed at the open page. “Hold hands, and step into your picture.”

Rat reached for Mole without hesitation.

Mole took his paw, the jar tucked in the other.

Toad hesitated, gazing at the children. “I was in the middle of—”

“Hands,” Thistle said.

The four of them stood together on the open page, hands joined.

For a moment, nothing happened. The picture began to shimmer.

Mole tightened his grip on Rat’s paw.

Toad lifted his chin.

Badger stood as he always did, and then they were gone.

The children leaned in.

“They’re gone,” Sebastian said, eyes wide.

“They’re not gone,” Nora said. “They’re just—”

“How’d they get back in?” Will asked, watching the pages flutter.

The shimmer moved in soft waves across the book.

It quivered, then closed.

Mole’s loganberry jam slipped free of its jar and drifted downriver, with Rat and Toad in pursuit. Thistle, following close behind, found the river behaving as oddly as ever. The missing jam was found at last—in the overfilled bellies of several ducks—but the matter, it seemed, was not entirely settled.

*

A couple of purple bubbles slipped from the duckling’s bill as it burped again. It shot backward across the water like a startled cork.

Rat blinked. “Dear me!”

“Hic!”

The duckling tried to paddle, but its jam-stuffed belly made steering nearly impossible.

Toad leaned over the side of his boat. “Did you see that?”

“Hic!”

The duckling bumped gently into a reed and spun around, wings flapping.

Toad slapped the gunwale. “Burp propulsion!”

Rat kept his oar moving. “It is still burping.”

Another duckling hiccupped.

It plowed backward through the water and bumped the first one.

“Quack!” it protested. “Hic!”

Toad’s eyes shone. “Bumper-car poultry!”

Rat watched the wobbling ducks with a growing frown. “They are still ducks... which is rather the difficulty.”

Thistle sat up straighter, laughing. “Intoxicated ducks?”

One of the larger ducks burped while listing at a noticeable angle.

“Hic!”

Instead of going straight back, it curved.

“Hic!”

Thistle watched, amused. “Oh!” she said. “Clearly it’s stuck tilting to one side.”

“Hic!”

“And every time it burps,” she added with a giggle, “it sends itself around again in reverse.”

The duck spun once more.

The circle tightened, tugging the confused duck inward.

It blinked at the turning water.

“Quack?”

Rat frowned. “Why is the river doing that?”

“Hic!”

Another duck drifted too close as the circle widened. The startled duck opened its beak indignantly.

“Qu—”

“Hic!”

The whirlpool swallowed it.

Rat watched another floundering duck sweep past again. “They are backing into the whirlpool.”

“Look!” cried Toad. “It’s maneuvering!”

“It is not maneuvering,” Rat said. “The hiccups are to blame.”

Thistle’s eyes sparkled as she watched the whirlpool gather the ducks.

“Oopsie,” she giggled, “the river is stirring them.”

Mole gasped from the bank. “Oh dear! They’ll churn themselves!”

Toad leaned forward eagerly. “Churning!” he cried. “Excellent technique!”

“It is not technique,” Rat said, pulling at the oar to keep the boat clear of the circling water.

The whirlpool corrected his attempt and carried Rat’s boat around again.

Thistle stood on the bow, wings spread for balance, as the boat joined the carousel of ducks.

The duck just ahead of her stared.

“Quack?”

“Oh!” Thistle laughed. “Don’t look at me—I’m not the one going backwards.”

“Magnificent!” Toad cried. “What control! Precision reversing!”

“Well,” she said, “we appear to be in the rinse cycle.”

Rat opened his mouth to reply, then closed it.

The whirlpool carried them past the bank once more. When it came round again, Badger stood watching from the bank. Mole had joined him, clutching his empty jar and staring at the ducks circling round and round.

“Ah,” Badger called. “You’ve found the eddy.”

Rat blinked. “Badger?”

Toad waved enthusiastically. “I say, Badger! Where did you spring from?”

Thistle tilted her head. “Actually,” she said, “I think the burping started the whirlpool.”

Badger regarded the passing boat and poultry. “No. That eddy has been there for years.”

“Badger,” Mole said. “The ducks have eaten an alarming quantity of jam.”

“Yes,” said Badger. “I noticed.”

“Do you suppose they’ll get out?” Mole asked anxiously.

“Eventually,” said Badger.

Mole waved to Rat as the boat came around again. “Do be careful!”

“We are attempting to,” Rat called back.

Toad waved the basket handle from within his boat. “Capital pirouette!”

“I should like to point out,” Thistle said, “that I did not sign on as sail for your boat, Rat.”

Rat adjusted his stroke as he glanced up. “Noted.”

“Good,” Thistle said, “because I’m finished, and I believe the ducks are too.”

She rose lightly from the bow and drifted to the bank beside Mole and Badger.

Badger watched the whirlpool unwind.

One duck gave a small, disgruntled quack as it drifted away on the current with the others.

“That’s the river settling back to its business,” Badger said.

“Well,” Thistle said, eyeing the jar in Mole’s paw, “that seems to have settled the jam’s ambitions.”

Toad sprang from his boat onto the bank.

“What a stupendous performance!” he declared. “Ducks! Whirlpools! Reverse navigation! I have not enjoyed myself so thoroughly in ages!”

“It’s lovely here,” Thistle said as Rat tied his boat properly, “but I must confess I’m rather better with a bit more… sparkle.”

She glanced at Mole. “You did ask earlier… I live in a bookstore.”

Mole’s ears lifted. “A bookstore?” He paused. “With the tall shelves… and the ladder?”

“Ah,” she said. “That was you, then.” She rubbed the back of her neck with one hand. “I wondered how that boat got in my bookstore.”

“I must have wandered in by mistake,” Mole said apologetically. “In Rat’s boat.”

Thistle settled lightly between them on the riverbank.

Rat wrung a bit of water from his sleeve. Mole idly turned the empty jar over in his paws. Toad paced about excitedly while Badger watched everything with quiet patience.

Thistle smiled, listening as they talked together.

I wonder… if this is the closest I’ve come to real friends.

She stared at her toes, opening and closing around the blades of grass.

They live in this story… but I’m only visiting.

She bit her lip as she glanced out across the quiet river. The willows along the bank whispered softly in the breeze.

Thistle giggled.

“Why not?” she whispered.

~

Nora’s eyes widened.

“Look!” she said, pointing to the pink glow shimmering above the table.

The children seated around her gasped in surprise at the four animals standing there.

Badger turned his head.

Several large faces were peering up at them from the pillows on the floor below.

He regarded them calmly.

“Curious,” he said.

Mole followed Badger’s gaze and nearly dropped the jam jar. “Oh!” he squeaked.

Will leaned close to Beau. “That’s the same animal,” he whispered. “The one who rowed across the floor.”

Glancing up, Mrs. Robinson shushed Will.

She cleared her throat.

The open book rustled softly in her lap as she turned the page.

The children leaned forward.

Rat turned in place, taking in the smooth wooden surface beneath his feet.

“This,” he said at last, “is not the riverbank.”

Toad flung out his arms. “Excellent!” he cried. “A completely new adventure!”

Lee squirmed in Maya’s lap. “I wanna see!”

He wriggled free and toddled toward the table.

“Settle down, children, please,” Mrs. Robinson said without looking up from the page.

Noah waved his big white spoon at the characters on the table as Nora struggled to hold him.

“How’d they get out of the book?” demanded Gwendolyn as she scrambled forward.

Badger regarded the approaching giant with interest.

“That’s enough, children,” Mrs. Robinson said, closing the book.

She stood, catching her glasses as they slipped down her nose. “What is going on here, Gwen?”

Gwendolyn’s chin was resting on the edge of the table, her eyes fixed on the four animals from the story.

“What are you staring at?” Mrs. Robinson demanded.

Gwendolyn didn’t answer.

Behind her, the other children crowded closer.

Mole clutched the empty jam jar. “Good heavens!” he whispered. “I’d forgotten how enormous they are!”

Rat looked up calmly at the looming faces. “Yes,” he said. “That does appear to be the case.”

Mrs. Robinson turned to look at the table.

“Children,” she said firmly, “there is nothing to see. Please move back and sit down.”

“But I want to play with them,” Gwendolyn pleaded.

“Me, too!” said Sebastian.

Badger regarded the children with mild interest.

“Remarkably attentive creatures,” he observed.

Toad spread his arms grandly. “An audience!” he declared. “At last!”

“I think they are talking,” Sebastian whispered, his eyes fixed on the story animals.

Mrs. Robinson tapped the book sharply with her finger.

“Children,” she said firmly, “if you will not sit back down this instant, I am afraid story hour will have to end.”

“They are talking,” Nora whispered back, catching Noah’s arm as he swung his white spoon excitedly, narrowly missing Beau’s head.

A burst of giggling rose above Rat and the others.

Rat turned up toward the sound.

Badger’s ears twitched.

Maya squealed. “I knew it! It’s her!”

The rosy glow bloomed brighter above the table.

“Children,” Mrs. Robinson said sharply, “is anyone in this room listening to me at all?”

Thistle hovered in the glow and waved.

Maya clapped both hands over her mouth while the other children waved back.

“What are you waving at?” Mrs. Robinson demanded.

Thistle dropped lightly onto the table beside Rat and the others.

“Well,” she said brightly, “this is where I live… more or less.”

Mrs. Robinson sank back into her rocking chair, closing her eyes.

“Oh, I give up.”

Mole’s loganberry jam escaped the basket and slid toward the river. Thistle flew downstream to see what the wandering preserves were up to, calling to the boats for help in corralling the jam. But the river had other ideas, and before long Thistle and the jam were back where they started. When Mole tried to catch the jam in the jar, it slipped calmly past the rim.

*

Toad waded eagerly into the water, jostling his boat so it rocked. “Well? Did you catch it?”

Mole lifted the jar so the others could see. “The jar didn’t catch it!” he cried.

Rat glanced over. “Empty.”

“Yes,” Mole said faintly. “Quite.”

Badger turned toward the river.

The slow surge of loganberry jam slid past the gravel bar, widening as it went. The lid rode at its front, clearly resigned from its job of jam containment altogether.

Toad blinked. “Good heavens.”

Rat studied Mole. “How could the jar miss it? It was directly in its path!”

“It was,” Thistle said. Her wings brushed the air as she looked first upstream, then down. “Then it simply wasn’t.”

She hummed to herself. “I do admire its initiative.”

The thickening preserves slipped past a cluster of reeds and let the current carry it downriver.

Mole splashed a little farther through the shallows, clutching the jar in both paws. “Do come back!” he called anxiously.

The river obligingly carried the lid along while the preserves spread over the water.

Rat frowned at the river.

“This,” he said, “is not how rivers behave.”

“To be fair,” Toad said, “the jam appears to be behaving exactly as it pleases.”

Thistle lingered in the air, studying the water with growing curiosity. Her wings deepened to a soft rose as she thought.

“Rat,” she said finally, “how did the boats get back here?”

Rat looked down.

Both boats lay along the bank beside him, swaying as though they had been there all along.

Rat cleared his throat. “We rowed them.”

Thistle crossed her arms. “But the boats were ahead of me when I went after the jam.”

Toad leaned over his own boat suspiciously. “I certainly don’t remember rowing here.”

Thistle turned toward the gravel bar where she had been following them.

“Then I passed the boats,” she said, puzzled. “But when I came back… they were already here.”

Rat stared at the boats. Toad stared at the river.

“And somehow I followed the jam downriver and ended up right where I started,” she whispered.

Badger had not taken his eyes off the current. “The river,” he said quietly, “has shortened something.”

Thistle scrunched her nose. “Shortened?”

“The trouble.”

Rat looked at him. “What trouble?”

Badger inclined his head toward the widening jam floating on the current.

“That one.”

Mole gasped. “It’s escaping altogether!”

Rat straightened. “We must intercept it.”

“But the jar!” Mole said anxiously, splashing toward them. “It won’t all fit now!”

“Pursuit!” Toad cried, already climbing into his boat.

He grabbed for the oar.

There wasn’t one.

“Where’s my oar?”

“You lost it in that race of yours,” Rat said.

“Earlier,” Badger said.

“My race?!” Toad cried. “I distinctly recall it being a shared event!”

Toad sprang back onto the bank and grabbed the picnic basket.

“Improvisation!” he cried, plunging it into the river.

“Not the basket!” Mole cried.

“That,” Rat said patiently, “is a picnic basket.”

“To the untrained eye!” Toad declared.

Badger watched the current without moving. “The jam will be here shortly,” he said.

Thistle raised an eyebrow at him.

Rat stepped briskly into his boat as Toad shoved away from the bank with great vigor. A moment later, Rat pushed off, dipping his oar into the water.

He watched Toad attack the river with the picnic basket. “You’re rowing the water, not the boat!” Rat called.

Toad wrestled with the basket, spraying water everywhere like a sprinkler.

Thistle perked up. “We can cut it off at the next bend!”

The jam drifted serenely past the bend in the river, the lid perched atop.

Thistle hovered, wings beating. “Oopsie… or we could have.”

She darted ahead, scanning the river. “It’s still moving!” she called. “A little faster now!”

The jam slid along with the water, the lid riding proudly at its front as though supervising the journey.

“Row!” Toad cried.

“I am rowing!” Rat snapped.

Toad heaved the basket again. It came up sagging, trailing water into the boat.

Thistle slowed, wings beating.

“Oh.”

Rat frowned up at her. “What is it now?”

She pointed. “Look.”

Ahead of them, the river narrowed into a calm stretch between its banks.

Rat blinked.

Toad stared. “Where is it?”

Mole splashed up beside them along the bank, clutching the jar. “Thistle? Where did my jam go?”

She circled once, scanning below.

“I was following it,” she said. “I am quite certain of that.”

Thistle circled again. “And yet it appears I’ve misplaced it.”

Toad leaned over the side of the boat. “It was right there!”

“Jam does not simply vanish,” Rat said firmly, lowering his oar.

“Do you suppose it sank?” Mole peered anxiously into the water. “Loganberry preserves are rather dense…”

“Rivers do not eat jam!” Toad declared. “Someone took it!”

Rat let the boat drift. “That,” he said, “is most peculiar.”

Thistle settled onto the edge of Rat’s boat, eyeing the water suspiciously. “I was watching it the entire time.”

“If you were watching it,” Toad said, plunging the basket into the water again, “you ought to know where it went!”

“I was watching it,” Thistle retorted. “Not supervising.”

The wicker gave way. Toad lifted his paw, holding only the handle. “My basket!”

“That’s my basket!” Mole cried from the shallows. “You were supposed to row with it—not destroy it!”

Rat stared at what little remained. “Well.”

“Of course it would,” Thistle said, folding her wings with a quiet snap.

“Thistle?” said Mole anxiously.

Thistle dipped her fingers into the cool current. “The jam didn’t sink.”

Mole blinked at the water. “Then where did it go?”

Toad waved the basket handle wildly as his boat wobbled in the current. “Then kidnappers took it!”

“Jam is not generally abducted.” Rat droned.

A plump duck drifted into view, listing gently to one side. Its beak was purple.

Thistle grinned as she flicked a tiny sticky drop from her wing into the river. “Perhaps not.”

The duck turned at the splash, struggling to stay afloat.

Three more bobbed sluggishly in the current, their beaks and chests streaked with purple.

Thistle chuckled. “They look… unusual.”

The ducks rode low in the water, so stuffed they barely floated.

Mole blinked. “Oh dear.”

A baby duckling drifted after them, its back feathers just above the water.

Thistle’s eyes sparkled. “Floating purple dumplings!” she laughed.

“They’ve eaten all of it?” Mole cried.

Toad rose halfway in his boat, pointing the basket handle wildly. “There! The kidnappers!”

Mole wrung his paws anxiously in the shallows. “I do hope that much jam is not unwise for ducks.”

Rat watched the gentle current carry the overstuffed raft of ducks.
“I believe,” he said calmly, “the matter has been resolved.”

The smallest duckling opened its beak and burped.

Thistle smiled. “Clearly,” she said, “it has not.”

“Too much water!” yelled Thistle.

As the river rose, Rat’s and Toad’s boats left without permission.
Toad called it a race. Rat called it cheating.

Mole sat on the picnic basket, spilling the jam. The lid resigned. And while no one was paying attention, the boats slipped quietly back into the current.

*

Rat stood at the river’s edge. “Now where are they off to?”

Toad shaded his eyes. “Where’s who off to?”

Rat pointed. “Our boats.”

“Mm?” Thistle poked gently at the jam swirling in a pool inside the basket. “What’s off?”

“THIS IS HIGHLY IRREGULAR!” Toad dashed forward. “Boats are NOT permitted to behave like this!”

Rat stiffened.

“I refuse,” he declared, “to chase my own property. It sets a terrible precedent.”

Thistle blinked.

“You and Toad seemed quite fond of that precedent a moment ago.”

Rat sniffed.

“That,” he said firmly, “was entirely different.”

Thistle glanced at the boats. “They do look rather determined…”

A slow ribbon of loganberry jam eased over the basket’s edge. The lid, having clearly abandoned its duties, floated serenely atop the advancing jam.

Thistle gasped. “Oh, it’s escaping!”

Mole’s head snapped up.

“Escaping?!” He leaned over the basket, aghast.

Thistle laughed. “The jam brought its hat!”

“That lid had ONE responsibility!” Mole lamented.

Toad splashed knee-deep into the river. “EVERYTHING is escaping!”

Badger’s voice carried sharply across the water. “What now?!”

Horrified, Rat called out, “Toad! The river’s making decisions again!”

“It never stopped,” Badger called evenly. He watched the spectacle unfold from the opposite bank.

Toad splashing.
Rat shouting.
Mole leaning over the basket.
Jam escaping.

He closed his eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

The river, which had been hurrying along with considerable self-satisfaction, hesitated. Its lively chatter faltered. The water drew back from the bank, revealing a scatter of stones.

Badger moved forward. “Finally.”

He stepped onto the nearest stone without comment, as though this had been the river’s idea all along.

Rat blinked. “…Badger?”

“Mm,” Badger sounded from midstream, as though crossing were an unavoidable nuisance.

The river slid past beneath him, deeply inconvenienced.

“Oh my…” Mole murmured.

Toad spluttered, “SHOW-OFF.”

Thistle beamed. “Oh, that’s clever! That’s something I would think of!”

“No,” Badger called. “You’d just fly over.”

Thistle huffed. “Details!” Then promptly flew out toward him.

Badger watched her approach. “Exactly.”

Thistle hovered beside him.

“Did you tell the water to stop?”

“No.”

“Slow down, then?”

“Certainly not.”

Thistle grinned. “It decided?”

Badger stepped onto the next stone.

“Eventually.”

Badger climbed onto the bank to join the others.

Behind him, the river immediately resumed its previous pace, babbling as though it had just humored Badger.

“MY JAM!”

Mole lurched forward as the glossy ribbon of loganberry preserves continued its determined descent across the grass. The lid bobbed along at its leading edge, as though supervising the journey.

“This simply will not do!” he cried.

Thistle fluttered down beside Mole. “Ohhh, it really is going somewhere!”

Rat stared. “Why is it heading for the river?”

“Because it can!” Toad declared triumphantly. “Everything else is!”

The ribbon of jam slid over a small stone, gathered itself, and continued forward.

Not dripping.
Not oozing.
Escaping.

“This is NOT how jam behaves!” Mole cried.

Badger flicked water droplets from his sleeves as he surveyed the moving preserves.

“Clearly,” he said, “it has developed ambitions.”

The river’s chatter softened.

Waiting.

Rat stared downstream. “What do you suppose our boats are doing?”

“Plotting,” Toad said.

Rat frowned. “They’re not coming back, are they?”

“Nothing comes back from rivers,” Badger said calmly.

Thistle tilted her head. “I could go check,” she said, glancing back toward the migrating ribbon of jam, “…though I do hate to miss this.”

Rat nodded. “Please do.”

“After the jam reaches the river?”

“Now.”

She spread her wings with reluctance. “Don’t let anything happen while I’m gone.”

Toad blinked. Then blinked again.

“Happen?”

He threw up his hands. “My dear Thistle, it’s already happening!”

She turned to Mole. “Do try not to encourage it.”

“Encourage it?!” Mole gasped.

“Very well, then,” she muttered, and flew downstream.

Badger sighed, smoothing out his waistcoat. “It appears self-motivated.”

The lid had, by all appearances, taken command.

Toad squinted as the jam neared the river. “Well, that’s just unsettling.”

~

Thistle spotted the boats along the bank where the river had neatly arranged them. Rat’s boat drifted closer to Toad’s boat, uninvited, then nudged it. They appeared to be whispering.

“Oh-oh, that’s not good.” Thistle slowed, drifting lower.

“What are you two doing?”

Rat’s boat gave a sudden, startled lurch. Toad’s boat bumped sharply against it.

Thistle spun. “What are you up to?”

Rat’s boat rocked as it turned, attempting innocence.

The river gathered itself beneath the glossy ribbon of loganberry jam and carried it smoothly under Thistle. The lid rode at the front like a small captain, clearly instigating the escape.

Thistle banked sharply.

“Excuse me?” she gasped. “You were supposed to stay put.”

Her wings flared pink, deepening into a deep rose.

With growing irritation, she noticed that the jam was considerably larger than before.

“After it!” she called to the boats.

Rat’s boat slipped from the bank. Toad’s boat matched its speed.

Thistle darted forward, then glanced over her shoulder.

The boats were moving smartly into the current.

The river obliged, smoothing into a calm stretch.

“Keep your eye on it!” she called.

The boats tilted slightly, as though attempting to focus.

The river eased around a broad willow, its branches trailing low in the water.

Thistle leaned into the turn, following the swelling tide of jam.

~

On the bank, Toad shaded his eyes and rose on his toes, peering downstream. “I can’t see her!”

Mole twisted his paws together.
“Do you suppose she’ll find it?” he asked anxiously.

Toad turned sharply. “Find what?”

“My jam!” Mole cried.

Rat glanced sideways. “It is rather difficult to miss.”

“Yes, but it’s moving,” Mole insisted. “And she did say not to let anything happen…” He swallowed. “I do hope she won’t be cross that it left without her.”

Rat blinked.

“I doubt it minds,” he said patiently. “It seems quite occupied.”

Mole leaned closer to the riverbank. “Do you suppose she can scoop it?” he asked. “Before it… spreads?”

“It is showing far too much initiative,” Toad huffed.

Rat adjusted his waistcoat and stared downstream. “I should like to know what my boat believes it is doing.”

Badger did not answer. He listened instead.

The river babbled on, making a great show of nonchalance.

~

Thistle swooped low over the water for a closer look at the broadening red surge drifting toward a shallow gravel bar.
“Oh, there we are,” she murmured.

The lid rode at the front like a tiny admiral as the river narrowed.

“We’ll funnel it into the shallows!” she called over her shoulder.
“Gently now — don’t spook it! Flank it at the bend!”

She leaned into the turn, eyes fixed on the loganberry swell.

“That’s it — steady — steady—”

The river lay perfectly calm.

The thickening jam snaked across the water, holding together as if it preferred it that way.

Beyond the gravel bar, the bank widened into open light.

The two boats rested along the shore as though they had never moved.

Rat stood beside them.

Waiting.

Thistle nearly overshot the turn, the rose draining from her wings.

“How?” She glanced back up the river, then at Rat again.

“You were behind me!”

“Were we?” Rat asked mildly, tugging at his cuffs.

Thistle shook her head, as though the river had simply misplaced a few details.

Mole waved. “Did you find it?”

Thistle stared at him. “It’s busy,” she called, pointing.
Ahead of her, the jam continued along the surface of the river.

Mole hurried to the edge of the bank, jar in both paws.

Badger folded his arms behind his back as he watched. “I suspect,” he said at last, “it has reconsidered being contained.”

“Contained?!” Toad protested. “It’s staging a rebellion!”

Mole waded in to mid-shin, holding the jar high. “Do be careful,” he muttered, though it was unclear whether he meant himself or the preserves.

The river drew around him by a polite margin.

“There now,” he coaxed. “Back in, please.”

“A little left! No, your other left!” Thistle called from above.

The jam approached.

Mole adjusted.

“Tilt it! Tilt it!” Thistle cried.

For one hopeful moment, the jam seemed almost persuaded.

Mole leaned forward, jar trembling in his paws. “Mind the rim,” he whispered.

The lid slid by without so much as a glance.

The jar, empty.

“The jar,” Badger remarked, “appears to be a former arrangement.”

“…I did say tilt,” Thistle murmured, almost kindly.

“Treasonous!” Toad cried.

Mole peered into the jar.

He straightened slowly.

“…Oh.”

Thistle ventured beneath the bridge despite Rat’s warnings and made the acquaintance of a most irritable Badger, who was waiting for the river to decide.

The river soon made up its mind—and from atop the bridge, Thistle cried, “Too much water!”

*

“Too much what?” Toad called.

The words crossed the river in pieces.

Rat turned sharply to Toad. “Water!” he answered. “She said water!”

“Well, of course it’s water!” Toad cried. “What else would it be?”

“Not,” said Rat evenly, “in this quantity.”

Badger offered no comment as Thistle flew back to the others, her wings buzzing brightly.

Mole wrung his paws. “Is there… a limit?”

Thistle clapped her hands, hovering overhead.

“Oh, how exciting if there isn’t!”

Badger closed his eyes briefly. “There is,” he called across the river. “And we are approaching it.”

The water lapped higher along the bank.

Considering.

Encouraged.

Thistle spun midair, wings flashing.

“It’s doing something! Isn’t anyone else seeing this?” she cried.

“What the river has decided is precisely the difficulty,” Badger called back.

“Perhaps it simply wanted a better view,” Thistle retorted across the water.

“Rivers,” said Badger, raising his voice, “rarely improve their vantage points.”

She darted downward, skimming the surface, following the duck family.

“Careful!” Rat shouted.

“Honestly, Rat,” Thistle laughed, “it’s only water!”

Mole gasped. “Rat… your boat!”

Rat blinked.

His boat was moving.

Not drifting.

Moving.

“HA!” Toad cried. “There! You see?!”

“See what?” Rat shot back, lunging knee-deep into the water for the rope.

“Something’s amiss with the river!” Toad declared. “I said so!”

“You think?” Rat snapped.

Toad’s boat gave a polite but definite wobble.

Toad stopped mid-stride. “Now, see here!”

Then, without consultation, Rat’s boat surged forward.

Toad’s boat answered.

“Catch it!” Mole squeaked.

“Catch mine!” Toad cried.

“Catch your own!” Rat retorted.

“I would, if it would hold still!” Toad yelled, “but it refuses!”

“Boats do that,” Badger murmured to himself from the opposite side of the river.

“HA!” Toad cried, waving his arms. “A race!”

“It is NOT a race!” Rat shouted.

“It clearly is!” Toad called, sprinting.

“Boats are supposed to be able to… stay put!” Mole yelled.

Rat’s boat skimmed dangerously close to the bank, its oar chattering in confusion as it bounced erratically against the wooden seat.

Toad’s boat followed, recklessly inspired.

His oar bounced once —

twice —

then sprang free and vanished into the current.

Rat winced, puffing as he sprinted. “Not the oars…”

Thistle hovered ahead of the commotion, wings buzzing with excitement.

“Hurry up!” she called to the breathless pair below.

She darted after the boats with a delighted squeal, her pink light flashing above the growing river.

The current quickened, apparently pleased with itself.

Badger hauled himself onto a broad rock which appeared to be standing its ground against the advancing water. He shaded his eyes with one paw, squinting downstream at the spectacle.

“Idiotic,” he muttered.

The duck family scattered, quacking in alarm, as the boats tore past.

Badger lowered his paw and, with a long-suffering sigh, climbed down from the rock.

“This,” he grumbled, “is why I avoid rivers.”

Mole stared after the racing boats. “Oh, dear…”

He grabbed the picnic basket. The lid sprang open, teacups rattling furiously.

“Oh no, not now!” he gasped.

Clutching the basket to his chest, Mole hurried after them.

Mole ran three steps.

Stopped.

“Dear me!”

Ran again.

“WAIT!” Mole cried, sprinting after them with the basket bumping wildly at his knees.

“Leave it!” Rat shouted over his shoulder, sloshing forward, water spraying about his waistcoat.

“Leave WHAT?!” Mole shouted.

Badger, striding briskly along the opposite bank, stared.

“Why,” he called across the water, “are you still carrying that basket?!”

“ESSENTIALS!” Mole puffed.

Thistle swooped downward and settled lightly into Rat’s boat as though this had been the plan all along. The boat wobbled in protest.

“That is not an improvement!” cried Rat.

“Oh, splendid!” Thistle cried to the boat. “You’re winning! Do go faster!”

“Stop encouraging it!” Rat shouted. He splashed forward, nearly losing a boot to the greedy mud.

“WINNING?!” Toad shrieked. “I HAVEN’T EVEN BEGUN TO WIN!” he bellowed, charging headlong downstream, stumbling but refusing absolutely to slow.

Badger stopped short, shaking his head. “Of course she would encourage it.”

“THIS IS A SCANDAL!” cried Toad. “SLOW DOWN AT ONCE!”

Rat’s boat struck a rock ahead with a sharp, ringing thunk. The boat leapt into the air and went sailing.

Thistle squealed with delight.

Toad’s boat shot neatly past.

“HA!” Toad cried. “SUPERIOR BOATING!”

Rat’s boat splashed down again, rocking in outrage behind Toad’s boat.

Rat gaped. “That is CHEATING!”

“I TAKE THE LEAD!” Toad cheered.

Badger blinked. “Predictable.”

Thistle’s pink glow flared brighter behind Toad’s boat.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” she cried.

The boats raced around the bend with effortless enthusiasm and vanished from sight.

Rat came splashing to a halt. “Well!”

“After them!” Toad cried.

“They’re gone,” Rat snapped.

Further downstream, the race had taken a most peculiar turn.

Toad’s boat was circling slowly in place, entirely self-satisfied.

Rat’s boat had lodged itself sideways against a fallen branch.

“Oh, honestly,” Thistle pouted, planting her hands on her hips. “What’s the matter with you two?!”

Toad’s boat bobbed gently, quite unconcerned.

Rat’s boat rested quietly against the branch, looking rather tired.

Thistle’s wings twitched at the sound of shouting.

Rat burst into view, breathless—stopping short at the sight of the boats’ disgraceful conduct.

Toad collided with him from behind.

“OOF!” Toad cried, sprawling onto the grassy bank in the most undignified manner.

Thistle beamed. “You missed everything.”

Rat did not move.

Thistle stared at the boats. “They started it,” she volunteered.

Toad pushed himself up to a seated position, looking deeply offended by the ground.

“Preposterous,” he sniffed.

A moment later, Mole came hurrying into view, puffing considerably, the picnic basket having acquired a most enthusiastic collection of grass.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked anxiously.

Thistle folded her arms, eyes fixed on Rat. “And the boats were just getting into the spirit of the race!”

Rat spluttered. “My boat does no such thing!”

“Well, of course it’s your boat’s fault!” Toad huffed. “It took off first!”

“I’m here!” Mole gasped—

and promptly sat down on the picnic basket.

Crunch!

Mole froze.

His eyes widened. “Oh!”

He sprang up.

“My jam!” he breathed.

Rat leapt forward. “Mole!”

Mole dropped to his knees beside the basket.

“Oh no… oh no… oh no…”

“Good heavens!” Toad exclaimed. “Why would you sit on it?”

“Oopsie,” Thistle said, hovering above. “Did something break?”

“Of course it’s broken!” Mole cried. “It went crunch!”

Mole fumbled desperately with the basket.

Rat watched anxiously.

“Oh…” Mole said, inspecting the contents.

The teacups were cracked.

The jam had fared far worse. From beneath the cloth, loganberry jam pooled steadily into the basket.

“My JAM!” Mole wailed.

“Ohhh, look at it go!” Thistle said.

“Well, that’s most inconvenient,” Toad said, peering over Mole’s shoulder.

From across the river, Badger observed the commotion.

“Entirely inevitable,” he muttered.

Thistle drifted lower, peering closer at the spreading jam.

“It does move rather nicely,” she offered.

“It is NOT supposed to move,” Mole cried.

Rat knelt beside him. “Let’s not assume the worst just yet…”

Mole lifted the cloth with trembling paws.

He blinked. “…Oh.”

Rat leaned closer. “Well?”

“The jar is perfectly intact,” Mole whispered.

He swallowed.

“…It’s the lid. It appears to have resigned.”

“It does seem quite free-spirited,” Thistle observed.

“There now,” Toad said. “No lasting harm done.”

“It is rather beautiful,” Thistle added. “Look how the lid slides gently on top.”

“It’s a DISASTER,” Mole moaned.

Rat rose slowly. “Good gracious me.”

The river was still rising… apparently quite pleased with its decision to change.

The boats slipped quietly back into the current when no one, it seemed, was paying the slightest attention.

Thistle, Mole, and Rat were picnicking by the river while Toad insisted on being in charge. When the jam behaved badly, it reminded them that here even rivers and boats sometimes have minds of their own.

“There’s something under the bridge,” Thistle said. “It’s moving.”

*

“He’s not usually there,” Rat said quietly. “He’s never been fond of the river.”

Mole frowned. “No,” he agreed. “He keeps to the ground… for the most part.”

“I noticed him too,” Toad said, a touch defensively. “Hard not to, under the bridge.”

Thistle straightened.

“Who?” she asked.

Her eyes moved from Rat to Mole, then to Toad.

Warmth gathered at the base of her wings as they twitched.

“If we’re discussing someone,” Thistle said, “I should like to know who.”

Mole shifted. “Oh—I don’t think there’s any cause for worry,” he said. “It’s just not his usual place.”

Thistle drew herself up.

“I see,” she said, her smile disappearing.

She looked to Rat as she hovered, her wings stirring the air.

“Thistle,” Rat said. “It’s best not to disturb him.”

Her wings beat softly as she flew toward the bridge.

“I wouldn’t go poking about there,” Toad called after her. “He doesn’t take kindly to interruptions.”

“Fiddlesticks, Toad!” Thistle called, laughing as she went.

“She does tend to rush into things,” Mole said anxiously.

Her pink glow slipped beneath the bridge, lost to the shadows.

The river went on more quietly here, the steady talk of it lowering, as though someone had asked it to hush.

The bridge answered in its own way. A muted groan ran along the curve overhead, old moss-covered stone settling where it stood, mindful of its role.

Thistle’s laughter faltered.

“Hmph,” said a deep voice.

A broad shape unfolded from the deepest shadow, just enough for her pink light to catch against fur and shoulder.

Thistle slowed, wings angling wide, holding herself suspended beneath the bridge.

“Oopsie,” she said. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.”

The furred creature stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he looked at her.

“You are.”
He adjusted his waistcoat with faint irritation.
“Most thoroughly.”

“Ah,” Thistle said. “That explains the quiet.”

Closing her wings with a soft snap, she added, “And who precisely are you?”

“Badger,” he said without elaboration. “Though I had not intended introductions today.”

From across the river, Rat called, his voice carrying clearly,
“Thistle? Are you all right?” He moved to the water’s edge and steadied his boat.

The bridge remained, doing what it had always done while the water passed beneath without comment.

Badger turned reluctantly toward Rat’s voice, as though he’d expected it. “Now you’ve done it. Everything’s listening.”

Thistle tilted her head.

“Listening for what, exactly?”

“The river,” he said. “It hasn’t made up its mind yet.”

He glanced upstream.

“If it comes, you’ll hear it. If it doesn’t, we’ll go.”

Rat called out again. “Thistle! Can you hear?”

He set his oar in the water—then held it still.

Mole had already gathered the loganberry jam and teacups, folded the cloth a little too neatly, and set them in the basket.

“If anyone should go and have a word with him,” Toad said, heading for his boat, “it’s me.”

“No boats,” Rat said.

“But you’re in one!” Toad protested.

“Oh dear,” Mole said, wringing his paws. “This does seem like the sort of thing one waits out.”

“Wait it out?” Toad said. “Really, Mole. Someone ought to take charge.”

“Stay where you are,” Rat said, laying the oar across the boat.

“I do happen to have my own boat,” Toad said stiffly.

“No one’s moving yet,” Rat said.

“She has been gone longer than I like,” Mole said, glancing toward the bridge.

“I can swim, you know,” Toad said, testing the water with his toe.

Mole lifted the basket, standing up.

“Back,” Rat said, his voice even.

*

Beneath the bridge, the water no longer lingered. It slipped faster now, pressing past the stones as though it had someplace to be.

Badger looked up from the river.

“It’s decided,” he said, as though answering something only he could hear.

“What’s decided?” Thistle snapped.

She dropped onto a mossy stone directly in front of him, planting her feet.

Crossing her arms, she glared up at him.

Badger regarded her for a long moment.

“You won’t enjoy my company.”

“I don’t care for secrets,” she shot back.

He turned his head back to the river.

“Secrets,” Badger replied, “are rarely concerned with preference.”

The water pressed harder against the left bank, worrying at the roots there.

“This is why I dislike interruptions,” he grumbled.

The cool water touched Thistle’s bare feet, tickling as the river crept closer.

Badger stepped back from the rising water.

She lifted, hovering just above as she cast a sharp look at the flowing water.

“Is this what you meant?” Thistle asked.

“It’s awake,” Badger muttered. “Too late now.”

Above them, the bridge withdrew from the conversation.

Thistle reached up and laid her hand against the cool stone overhead.

“What about the—”

“The bridge will remain,” Badger said. “The river has other plans. Do keep up.”

The water pulled away toward the left bank, abandoning the bridge altogether.

Badger emerged to survey the river’s new course.

Thistle rose and settled on top of the bridge, her legs dangling over the side. She watched the river slide past, carrying a mother duck guiding her brood, as if nothing at all were amiss.

The bridge now stood untouched.

“You there,” Rat called. “That water’s running wrong.”

“It’s already decided,” Badger called back.
“Do stop shouting.”

“Decided?” Toad scoffed. “By whom? That won’t do at all. Rivers run where they’re meant to.”

“Rivers do tend to wander,” Mole said helpfully. “Sometimes.”

The river widened as it moved, its current deepening without haste. A small, deliberate tug pulled Rat’s boat away from the bank.

“Exactly,” Toad said briskly. “You see? Rivers don’t go about tugging boats unless something’s amiss.”

Rat set the oar and brought the boat back in without comment. The grasses along the bank began to sway, bowing as water touched them for the first time.

The river sounded different now, its voice carrying farther than it had before.

Thistle stood high on her tiptoes atop the bridge, turning to peer upstream.

“What do you see?” Badger called.

Thistle rose, wings beating, to see past the willow branches.

She turned back at once.

“Too much water!” she called, her voice nearly lost in the rush.
“It’s not staying in its banks!”

Thistle sat by the river with Mole and Rat, sharing a quiet picnic where nothing much was required of anyone at all—until Toad arrived.

Loud, hungry, and certain he ought to be in charge, Toad disrupted the afternoon and insulted Thistle. When he seized the jar of loganberry jam and asked who was in charge of it, the afternoon took a turn.

*

“Toad,” said Thistle, “not you. We covered that. No tasting. No eating. Not in charge either.”

Mole gasped, clapping a paw to his mouth as if someone had upset the teacups.

The river slid on beside them, untroubled.

“Well—” Mole hurried on. “I did bring it. Though Rat helped. With the basket. And the cloth, so perhaps…”

Toad laughed.

“Ha! Capital spirit, Thistle,” he said. “Very droll.”

“I was answering your question of who’s in charge of the jam, Your Toadship,” Thistle snapped.

Rat took up the knife and sliced three pieces of bread.

“Yes, yes,” Toad said, waving a hand—the jar bobbing slightly as he did. “Quick as lightning. Very entertaining.”

“I’m not entertaining,” Thistle said.

The river kept on without comment.

“Well,” she said, considering it, “perhaps I am.”

There was a small sound from under the lid.

Mole jumped.

“Oh!” he said. “I expect the lid’s stuck.”

Rat lifted his eyes.

Toad frowned at the jar and gave it a small shake. He brought it up closer, squinting.

The lid answered with a distinct rap.

Mole stared at the jar.

“I expect it’s the seal,” he blurted. “They do make a noise sometimes. When they’re tight.”

Thistle tilted her head.

“Are you going to answer that rap?”

Mole made a small, helpless sound.

Toad snorted, but his grip on the jar shifted as he listened.

“Answer it?” he said. “Don’t be absurd.”

He lowered the jar an inch, then stopped.

“It’s just jam,” he added, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

Rat said nothing.

“Well,” Thistle said, “it doesn’t seem to think it’s just jam.”

Toad huffed.

“Nonsense,” he said. He opened his palm, the jar sitting on it. “There. You see?”

It rotated until the label came into view.

Thistle let out a small giggle before she could stop herself.

Toad’s fingers snapped shut around the jar.

“I’m not hungry just now,” Toad said, setting it down between them.

The jar’s red-and-gold label faced no one in particular.

“Picnics do go on,” Thistle said rather pleasantly, glancing from one face to another.

Rat reached for the jam and twisted the lid without comment.

Mole slid a piece of bread toward him at once.

Rat spooned the jam thickly, first onto his own, then onto Mole’s, the red spreading neatly to the edges.

“Thank you,” Mole said, relief warming his voice.

Rat glanced toward Thistle, tipping his head in her direction.

He turned to Toad. “And you’ve said you’re not hungry,” he added, as if noting the weather.

“Not just now,” Toad said, a touch too quickly. He folded his arms and looked away—then, despite himself, his eyes flicked back to the bread.

He sniffed and shifted his weight.

“Well,” he said briskly, “I don’t see that there’s much point in sitting about.”

Mole blinked.

“Oh,” he said. “I was rather enjoying—”

“Yes, yes,” Toad said, waving a hand. “Very pleasant. But one mustn’t let an afternoon slip away entirely.”

Thistle slid off the stone. Her skirts settled as she hovered just above the basket.

“What shall we be doing instead, Your Toadship?”

Toad brushed her question aside. “Yes, yes—we’re all perfectly aware you can fly.”

Mole, intent on his bread, looked up.

“It’s a very good loganberry, this,” he said with the utmost pleasure.

Rat wiped his fingers and glanced toward the river. “Plenty of daylight yet.”

Toad sniffed and rose.

“Well then,” he said briskly. “We’re off.”

He strode down to the water’s edge, pushed the boat off the bank and waded in ankle-deep, reaching for the oar.

Mole took another bite.

Rat watched a ripple widen and fade.

“Coming along?” Toad called, oar in hand.

Mole chewed thoughtfully.

Rat’s gaze stayed on the river.

The water lapped against the hull, going about its business.

Toad’s mouth tightened. He laid the oar down in the boat and walked stiffly up the bank as if he had meant to return all along.

“I do think,” Thistle said to Mole, “that picnics improve when everyone stays put.”

“I was hoping we all might,” Mole said, smiling at his bread. “It’s easier that way.”

Rat set the knife back in the basket and brushed his hands together.

He nodded. “No need to rush a good thing.”

Toad glanced to where his boat waited at the edge of the river.

“Boats do have a way with them.”

Mole smiled. “I’ve found that to be true,” he said.

Thistle tilted her head, listening.

“There’s something under the bridge,” she said. “It’s moving.”

*

Thistle sat on the grassy bank by the river with Mole and Rat, the picnic laid out between them.

For a little while, no one spoke.

The river made its own small sounds—water brushing stone, reeds sighing against one another, the faint clink of teacups. Somewhere above, a bird adjusted its footing in the willow tree.

Thistle listened to the flutter and song above her, then whistled softly in answer without quite meaning to.

Rat sipped his tea, gaze drifting along the curve of the bank beneath the draping willow branches. Mole fussed once with the cloth around the bread, then folded his paws in his lap, satisfied it was as tidy as it was going to be.

After a moment, Mole cleared his throat.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” he said carefully, as though the words themselves might startle if spoken too fast. “For tea—though of course you don’t drink. I only meant… just here.”

Thistle looked up at him.

“That’s kind,” she said, her wings stirring the air.

Rat looked pleased, though he didn’t say so.

“The river takes now and then,” he said. “But only what it can carry without fuss.”

“You mean the boat?” Thistle asked, frowning just a little.

Rat glanced out over the water.

“Rivers don’t stay either,” he continued. “They pass through, and somehow that’s enough.”

Mole nodded, satisfied.

“It’s very polite that way,” he said. “So long as you are too.”

Rat lifted his cup, then set it down again.

“You travel about,” he said.

“I do,” she answered. “Sometimes by accident.”

Mole chuckled, delighted.

“Accidents can be very pleasant things,” he said. “Some of my favorite adventures arrived without warning at all.”

Rat hummed into his cup. “You come and go as you please, then.”

Thistle tilted her head. “More or less.”

Rat nodded faintly, as if this answered a question he hadn’t asked.

Mole, who had been doing his best not to stare, drew a small breath.

“From where do you come, exactly?” he asked, trying—and failing—to make it sound like idle curiosity.

Thistle gazed past him to the dark curve of the stone bridge they’d rowed under.

“From stories,” she said. “Mostly.”

Mole blinked.

“Stories,” he repeated.

Rat’s mouth curved, just slightly.

“Books,” he said.

Thistle smiled at him. “Yes. Books.”

Mole drew a quiet breath, absorbing this.

“How extraordinary,” he said. “Do you mean… all of them?”

“Oh goodness, no,” Thistle said. “That would be exhausting.”

Rat picked up his cup again, unhurried.

“And the journey doesn’t always behave?” he asked.

“No,” she said, smiling. “It rarely does.”

Mole chuckled, delighted all over again.

“Well,” he said, “that does sound rather like traveling—one never quite knows what one will find.”

The river slid on, unbothered either way.

Rat glanced upstream at the sudden rustling—reeds parting with far less care than the river preferred.

Something splashed.

A boat rocked sharply against the bank.

“Oh dear,” Mole said, instinctively reaching for the basket.

Rat closed his eyes.

“Halloo!” came a voice, loud and delighted. “Make way there!”

A boat shot into view, entirely too fast for the narrow bend, its oars dipping unevenly as it scraped along the bank.

At the helm stood Toad.

Rat sighed.

Toad beamed at the bank as though he had arrived precisely where he meant to be.

“Well!” he cried, hauling his oars in with unnecessary flourish. “There you are! I thought I heard voices. Capital place for a stop, this. Absolutely capital.”

His boat, which had other thoughts, bumped the bank again, harder this time, sending a small wave over Mole’s shoes, which did nothing to improve matters.

Mole cried out, hopping back and clutching the loaf to his chest. “Careful, please—my bread!”

“Nonsense,” Toad said cheerfully, leaping out of the boat without securing it. The river took a mild interest, and the boat began to drift.

“Oh!” Mole squeaked.

He thrust the loaf into Rat’s paws and waded straight into the water, his shoes disappearing beneath the surface.

“Mind you come back!” Rat said mildly, already tucking the loaf back inside the basket.

Toad had already turned, brushing imaginary water from his trousers and taking stock of the bank, the picnic, and the general excellence of the afternoon—everything except his boat.

Finally, he noticed it.

“I say!” he cried. “I was just about to pull that up.”

Mole held up his coat with great care as he waded, his expression fixed on the boat in determined concern.

“You’ve got it, then,” Toad added cheerfully.

He strode straight into the picnic, jostling the basket so the cloth slid halfway off the bread. With a grand sweep of his arm, Toad addressed the gathering.

“Now then,” he announced. “What have we here?”

Thistle, who had been watching with growing interest, flinched as Toad’s sleeve snagged the edge of her wing.

“Oopsie,” she muttered, tugging it free.

“Toad,” Rat said evenly.

“Rat!” Toad cried, delighted. “Just the fellow I was hoping to see! I’ve had the most extraordinary morning. Positively thrilling. Nearly drowned twice.”

Mole stared where he stood in the shallows, clutching his coat, dripping in quiet dismay.

“Twice?” he echoed faintly.

“Toad,” Rat said, reaching for the boat to drag it a little higher onto the bank, “this is a picnic.”

“Oh, splendid!” Toad exclaimed. “I’m starving.”

He dropped onto the grass with no regard for blanket, basket, or personal space.

Thistle blinked.

“What am I,” she wondered aloud, “a tree?”

Mole started.

“Oh! Oh dear—how very rude of us,” he said at once, flushing beneath his damp fur. “Rat, we haven’t—”

Rat straightened.

“Toad,” he said, “this is Thistle.”

Toad peered at her at last.

“Oh! I thought you were some sort of decorative insect.”

Thistle stood.

“I am not an insect,” she said, wings beating, a deep crimson color flaring through them. “Decorative or otherwise.”

“Oh!” Mole cried. “Please—Thistle, please don’t go!”

Thistle’s wings slowed. She looked at Mole—really looked at him—standing ankle-deep in the flowing river, water running from his cuffs.

“I don’t enjoy being called a bug,” she said.

“Toad,” Mole burst out, turning on him with sudden courage, “one does not call guests insects!”

Toad blinked at this, surprised.

“Well,” he said, considering it, “I didn’t mean it unkindly.”

Rat said nothing. He finished settling the boat and dusted his paws together, as though that matter were now resolved.

“I prefer to be addressed properly,” Thistle said, lifting her chin.

Toad peered at her again, really seeing her for the first time.

“Extraordinary,” he said. “You do talk.”

Thistle stared.

Mole gasped.

“Of course she talks!” he cried. “She’s been talking this entire time!”

“Oh,” Toad said, nodding to himself. “So she has.”

Toad leaned closer, squinting.

“Well, I never,” he said. “You light up.”

Thistle did not answer.

Toad straightened, already warming to the idea.

“Very handy sort of thing, that,” he went on. “A little lantern, eh? Be splendid on the river. No more bumping into banks. One could tie you to the prow—”

Mole made a strangled sound.

“Toad,” he said faintly, “you really mustn’t—”

Thistle’s glow deepened to a dark red, gathering along her skin like fireflies that had forgotten how to leave.

“I am not a lantern,” Thistle said, hands on hips.

Toad blinked.

“No?” he said. “Pity. You’d do it very nicely.”

Rat met Thistle’s eye, just briefly, and then looked away again.

“Well, then!” Toad said, undeterred. “If you’re not for lighting, perhaps you’re for tea.”

He reached into the basket and came up with jam.

“Ah, loganberry,” he said approvingly. “I prefer strawberry—unless there’s gooseberry.”

He twisted the lid as though permission were a formality.

“Then you’re in luck,” Thistle said. “You won’t be eating any.”

Toad paused, jar in hand.

“Oh?”

“No,” she said. “You’ve already called me a decorative insect and tried to hang me off the front of your boat.”

Mole nodded vigorously.

“Quite right,” he said. “Very sensible.”

Toad considered this.

“Well,” he said at last, “when you put it that way…”

He set the jar down, looking faintly disappointed.

Mole fussed with the cups, setting them neatly in a row before looking up at Thistle.
“Your light’s very pretty,” he said shyly. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

“No one’s ever said that,” Thistle said slowly. “I’m generally accepted as I am.”

“It suits you,” Rat said, unwrapping the bread.

“Hmm,” Thistle said. She sat as her wings folded with a soft snap, the glow dimming once more.

Toad cleared his throat.

“Now then,” he said brightly. “Who’s in charge of the jam?”

Thistle’s hurried return to Whispering Pages caused a familiar bit of chaos during story hour. As Mrs. Robinson read The Wind In The Willows, Thistle looked up at the sound of water finding its way in. A small boat slipped across the floor, navigating around the seated children. Mole appeared, polite as ever, climbed aboard, and drifted back into his story.

Smiling, Thistle slipped through the shimmering page after him.

*

Thistle tumbled out of the page sideways and landed with a soft thump on the boat’s sun-warmed seat, wings tangled beneath her, skirts askew, and dignity delayed.

The boat rocked, only a little, enough to make Mole pause with one paw lifted and his hat tucked neatly beneath his arm.

“Oh!” he said at once, stopping short. “I beg your pardon—I was just about to…”

The boat settled again, as it always did, the water lapping quietly against its side.

Mole turned, concern already knitting his brow.

“Oh dear,” he said, peering at her. “Are you quite all right?”

Thistle blinked up at him, then at the narrow curve of the boat beneath her feet and the small wicker basket tucked near the seat, before looking out at the slow, shining river sliding past the hull.

“Oopsie,” she said cheerfully, wiggling her wings free. “I meant to do that. Mostly.”

Mole nodded, deeply relieved.

“Quite,” he said. “Happens all the time.” He hesitated, tugging at his hat. “Well. Not all the time. But one does have to be careful with boats.”

Mole drew his foot back and shifted his weight, clearly abandoning the idea of stepping out just yet. The boat accepted this change without comment.

From the other end, Rat glanced over, one paw resting lightly on the oar.

“Well,” he said mildly, “so that explains the extra wobble.”

Thistle turned at the sound of his voice, eyes bright with interest.

“Hello,” she said. “You must be in charge.”

Rat smiled at that… not broadly, but enough to be kind.

“Only of the tea,” he replied. “And even then, it has its own opinions.”

Mole cleared his throat.

“I was just stepping out,” he said apologetically, as if this explained everything. “But of course, one shouldn’t leave a guest—oh! Forgive me. I don’t believe I’ve—”

He stopped, suddenly uncertain how to finish.

Thistle paused, rocking once on her heels as the boat drifted in place.

“I’m Thistle,” she said, unfazed. “I thought I’d just drop in for a visit.”

She smiled at them both, the way she always did when she hoped this might be how friendship began.

“Oh!” Mole said at once. “How very sensible of you. I’m Mole. And this is Rat.”

Rat tipped his head.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “You’ve arrived at a pleasant hour. The river’s behaving.”

Thistle glanced at the water again. It gleamed and whispered, moving without hurry, without question.

“I like it,” she said. “It feels like it knows where it’s going.”

Rat chuckled softly.

“It doesn’t need to,” he said. “It just goes and never tells you where.”

Mole shifted again, frowning slightly at the space in the boat.

“I do hope you’re comfortable,” he said, fussing at the air with one paw. “It’s a bit narrow, I’m afraid. I’d meant to tie up properly before… well… before all this.”

Thistle tucked her wings closer.

“I fit,” she said. “Mostly.”

“Good,” Mole said, satisfied. “Very good.”

The boat nudged the bank with a gentle bump, as if reminding them all it was there.

Rat reached out, bracing a paw against the bank to steady it.

“Well then,” Rat said, easy as breathing, “since we’re together for the moment, we might as well carry on.”

He looked at Thistle again, eyes curious but calm.

“Care for a little ride?”

Thistle’s smile crept wider, delighted.

“Oh,” she said. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

Rat dipped the oar without hurry, and the river answered.

The boat drifted near a willow with low-hanging branches. One brushed the boat, and Mole reached out to guide it gently aside, the leaves lifting and settling again, untroubled, as they passed.

Mole cleared his throat, not looking at Thistle directly.
“Do you live near the river?”

Thistle considered this, watching the water flow past the bow.

“Not exactly,” she said at last. “But I like it here.”

Mole nodded, satisfied by this in a way he couldn’t have explained.

Rat said nothing at first. He let the boat go as it would, eyes on the water.

A small family of ducks drifted into view; the mother gave a soft quack and promptly led her brood back toward the reeds.

Rat paused the oar, glancing toward Thistle.

“Are you visiting long?”

Thistle smiled, small but hopeful.
“We’ll see,” she said.

The river meandered gently, drawing them toward a low stone bridge ahead. Its arch sat close to the water, moss dark along the stones where the river touched it.

Rat glanced up once, then back at the oar.

“Mind your head,” he said mildly.

Mole ducked at once, hat pressed flat against his chest.

Thistle looked up.

“Oh,” she said, just as the underside of the bridge came into view.

She folded herself down, skirts brushing the seat, wings tucking in with a faint rustle.

The boat slid beneath the arch, close enough that the stone skimmed overhead.

From the darkness beneath the bridge came a low, deliberate hmph—not quite a voice, not quite a movement, but enough to make Mole wince.

“Oh dear,” he murmured.

Rat did not look toward the sound. He kept the boat on course.

“Best not to linger,” he said under his breath.

Thistle, crouched low, glanced toward the dark space beneath the bridge. She opened her mouth—then thought better of it and closed it again.

The hmph did not repeat.

They drifted out into the sunlight once more.

Thistle straightened a little, still keeping her head low, and brushed a bit of grit from her sleeve.

“Who was that?” she breathed.

Rat’s mouth curved, just slightly.

“Someone who prefers not to be disturbed.”

“Yes,” Mole said, nodding. “Quite.”

The river widened. Rat let the oar rest for a moment, and the boat floated on at its own pace.

“Well,” Mole said, brightening. “That’s behind us.”

He adjusted his hat, glancing ahead, then back toward the bank, where the grass rose gently from the water’s edge.

“We might stop for a bit,” Mole continued, hopeful. “Stretch our legs. Have something warm to drink.”

Rat dipped the oar and guided the boat closer to shore.

“A good spot just here,” he said.

Thistle perked up at once.

“Oh!” she said, leaning forward before she remembered herself and sat back. Her wings twitched, then stilled. “Stopping sounds… excellent.”

Mole smiled, pleased.

“It’s always best not to rush these things,” he said. “The river doesn’t care for hurry.”

Rat eased the boat in, the hull brushing softly against the bank.

Thistle hopped out onto the grassy shore and immediately took three steps in opposite directions before settling on one.

She turned back to them, eyes bright.

“Did you know,” she said, unable to help herself, “that sitting is much harder than flying?”

Rat’s mouth curved.

“So I’ve heard,” he said.

Mole chuckled, already reaching for the basket.

He lifted the lid. The warm, sweet smell of bread rose as he set out the small loaf wrapped in cloth, a jar of loganberry jam, and two cups.

He paused, his attention settling on Thistle.

“What may I get you?” he asked, kindly.

Thistle smiled.

“No thank you,” she said. “I don’t really do food.”

Mole nodded, immediately relieved of the question.

“Of course,” he said. “Quite.”

Rat poured the tea.

Thistle settled on a flat stone near the bank and tried very hard to stay there.

Her wings twitched. Then again. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“I don’t do this much,” Thistle said, half to herself, her wings easing.

“No need to be good at it,” Rat said mildly.

Thistle sat with Rat and Mole… and for once, it seemed enough.

Thistle hurried home to Whispering Pages children’s bookstore, expecting quiet.

She should have known better.

*

Thistle squealed with delight as she banked hard and came in low and crooked, skidding along the smooth counter on her hip with a soft oof and plowing straight into a loose stack of bookmarks.

They went sailing.

“Oopsie!” she said, giggling.

Thin strips of paper burst into the air like confetti, twirling and fluttering down, skimming knees and cushions.

Gwendolyn leaned forward, eyes bright, stretching her arms outward to catch the last falling strips before they settled to the floor. “They fell all by themselves!”

The children erupted in laughter as the bookmarks lay scattered around them. A few landed face-up—a gray wolf, a pink flamingo, a Woozle.

Thistle froze mid-scramble, propped on her elbow, wings humming faintly behind her.

“That one touched my shoe,” Sebastian said, pulling his foot back.

Little Noah, snug in Nora’s lap, waved his big white spoon at the fallen strips.

Maya scooped one up. “It moved,” she said, certain. “Did you see it wiggle?”

Mrs. Robinson’s voice cut through the chatter.

“All right—who pushed those?” She rose from her chair, the book still open in her hands, glasses slipping as she looked sharply toward the counter. “Quiet down, please. That’s not for climbing.”

Thistle stayed perfectly still, one wing caught awkwardly beneath her, watching the children’s gazes follow the last bookmark as it came to a rest against the leg of the rocking chair.

“Really,” Mrs. Robinson muttered, smoothing her cardigan. “This sort of nonsense…”

Beau shifted on his cushion and glanced up. “But I heard someone laughing.”

All eyes darted upward, searching.

Nora’s mouth curved into a small, knowing smile.

“It’s her,” she whispered. “She’s back.”

“I knew it!” Will exclaimed, rising to his knees. “There—up there! It’s all pink!”

Young Lee twisted around, one hand already planted as he tried to scramble up.
“I wanna see!”

“Lee—no,” Mrs. Robinson said at once, stepping forward. “Everyone, please stay seated.”

She glanced toward the counter, then back to the children, frowning. “There is nothing to see,” she said. “Settle down, please.”

Taking the last sip of her tea, she drew a steadying breath. “If anything pushed those bookmarks down, it was a mouse… or… or… a draft. This is an old building.”

Mrs. Robinson drew herself straighter in her chair and cleared her throat.
“Now,” she said firmly, adjusting the book in her lap. “Let us begin again.”

As the room settled, Thistle drifted above the open book, wings fluttering softly, stirring a few wispy curls loose from Mrs. Robinson’s braid.

Several children blinked at the pink glow.

Nora’s eyes widened. She leaned forward a fraction, peeking around Noah. “Uh—Mrs. Robinson?”

Mrs. Robinson did not look up.

Nora smiled.

“She’s right there,” she whispered. “I can almost see her wings.”

A few of the children nodded.

Mrs. Robinson began.

“The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters, then on ladders and steps and chairs…”

From the floor around the children came a faint, rhythmic sound of water.

Lap.
Lap.

Thistle lifted her head, ears pricking as her gaze followed the sound through the room.

Mrs. Robinson turned the book so the children could see the picture.

Tall grasses bent along the bank. A small boat rested at the edge of the water, its rope slack.

Beau squinted at the page. “Where’s the person who goes in the boat?”

“It’s tied up,” Will answered knowingly. “It doesn’t need anyone.”

Mrs. Robinson lowered the book again and continued.

“Where was I? Oh, yes… ‘ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash, till he had dust in his throat and eyes and splashes of whitewash all over…’”

The sound of moving water grew louder.

Lap.
Lap.

The children sat up straighter, eyes darting around the room.

Sebastian pulled his feet in without thinking. Maya tucked hers beneath her skirt. Gwendolyn hugged her knees, eyes shining.

The sound slipped around them, rippling gently through the open spaces between cushions.

Thistle drifted above the children as the sound in the room matched the picture.

“Oh!” squealed Maya, looking past Gwendolyn. “A little boat!”

Gwendolyn lifted her feet.

A small boat drifted beneath her legs and eased forward along the floor.

“Where is it going?” Gwendolyn asked, delighted and earnest all at once.

“Gwendolyn, dear, what are you doing?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

“I’m making a bridge!” she exclaimed.

“Hey!” Sebastian cried. “That’s the boat in the picture!”

Noah tried to tap the boat with his spoon as it passed.

“Gentle, Noah,” Nora whispered, pulling his arm back.

Mrs. Robinson sighed. She slowly removed her glasses, wiped them off, and set them gently on her nose before peering down at the floor.

The children continued to shift and scoot across the rug, their attention obviously fixed on something moving along the floor.

Mrs. Robinson closed the book and set it on the table beside her. She brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and sighed.

“All right,” she said. “I think we all need a moment.”

She rose and tugged at her bunched-up cardigan again. “I’m going to make another cup of tea. You children can decide whether you’re ready for a story today or not.”

She turned toward the back room as the children quieted, watching her.

The stained-glass window at the back caught the light, washing the wall in soft bands of blue and green. Her footsteps faded as she reached the doorway, where she paused.

Behind her, the children leaned closer together, chattering.

A small but deep voice came from the space between the shelves.

“Ahem.”

Mrs. Robinson turned halfway back toward the room. “What was that?” she asked.

The children looked at each other, puzzled.

“Did someone say something?” repeated Mrs. Robinson.

She shook her head. “Old buildings,” she muttered, and stepped into the back room.

The door swung gently closed.

In the sudden quiet, the boat continued on its way.

The children leaned forward, watching as it drifted across the rug—unhurried—until it bumped gently against a little brown figure standing at the carpet’s edge.

He wore a small jacket and held his hat carefully in both paws, blinking in mild surprise at the children.

“Who’s that?” Beau whispered.

Cushions shifted softly as the children leaned in. Sebastian came up on his knees. Gwendolyn edged closer, balancing on her toes before settling back again. No one stayed quite where they had been sitting.

“Oh,” Mole said, clearing his throat. “Ahem.”

He looked up, offering a polite, half-smile.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting,” said the Mole.

Nora tilted her head, studying him.
“I think he’s from the story.”

“He’s the right size,” Will whispered to Nora. “For the boat.”

The little boat nudged gently against his shoes, and Mole looked down, relief softening his expression.

“Ah,” he said. “There you are.”

He stepped carefully inside, the boat gently rocking beneath his weight, and turned back toward the room.

“I do hope I didn’t cause a fuss,” he added. “It’s terribly easy to lose one’s way.”

Mole glanced at the ring of wide eyes, then back down at the boat.

“Rat will wonder what’s keeping me,” he said, almost to himself.

The boat turned easily, drifting back through the spaces between cushions as quietly as it had come.

One by one, the children rose, stepping closer to the shelves, eyes fixed on the place it had gone.

Lee’s small voice followed after it. “Where boat go?”

Mrs. Robinson came back into the room with her teacup warming her hands.

The children were all standing, backs turned, clustered together, quiet in a way that made her pause.

Lee reached for Will’s hand. “Boat go?” he asked again.

For a moment Mrs. Robinson simply stood still, steam curling up past her glasses. Then she shook her head. “I’m not even going to ask,” she murmured.

“All right,” she said at last. “Please be seated.”

Mrs. Robinson set her cup down carefully on the table beside her chair.

“If you’re finished,” she said, picking up the book, “our friends by the river have been waiting.”

“But—” Nora began, glancing back at the shelves. She sighed as she set Noah and his spoon on the floor.

“As I was saying,” Mrs. Robinson began, smoothing the page with her palm. “Now… where was I?”

“Well then,” Thistle murmured, a smile tugging at her mouth.

The page shimmered faintly—

and Thistle slipped through.

*

Tigger froze.

One paw hung in the air, inches from the nest, his body locked so completely it seemed the forest itself had paused with him. Only his eyes moved—sliding, quick and narrowed—following the sound along the roots of the trees.

Leaves brushed shoulders and ears as the group pressed in beneath the canopy, the space suddenly too small for easy answers.

Owl’s wings twitched, half-spreading, as he glanced toward the trees. “That would be—” he began, then stopped.

All eyes shifted to Tigger.

Rabbit glanced up at him, unimpressed. “You do realize you’re orange, right?”

Pooh considered this. “Yes,” he said. “You do seem noticeable.”

Tigger did not move.

Thistle tried not to smile as she whispered, “If you’re hiding—it needs work.”

Brisket snorted. “We didn’t come all this way for nothing.”

Tupp glanced toward the tree. “This is taking too long.”

Dust scuffed softly at their feet as restlessness rippled through the group.

Ramble’s voice hardened. “We’re done waiting.”

Troll’s hands closed around the trunk, fingers digging into the bark. “Troll let them pass,” he growled.
“Troll not waiting.”

TOOT!

Tigger’s toes curled into the forest floor, gripping as his tail stuck straight out behind him. With a resigned sigh, his shoulders eased. He lowered his paw, and he stepped back from the nest.

Eeyore’s ears sagged lower. “Figured she’d come back.”

Piglet twisted his scarf and leaned closer to Pooh. “Th-they’re her eggs.”

Troll’s lips peeled back in a snarl. “Don’t care whose eggs—Troll owed shiny.”

Kanga shook her head, drawing Roo closer.
“They haven’t even hatched.”

Owl straightened, lifting his wings and drawing in a breath.

“Given the circumstances,” he began, “it would be prudent to—”

Thistle slid one hand beneath the eggs.

Owl’s beak remained open as his gaze dropped to her hands.

Thistle withdrew the folded note. It stirred in her palm.

Owl tilted his head.
“It appears,” he murmured, “to relocate itself according to narrative necessity.”

Brisket stamped a hoof. “Relocate what?”

Rabbit spluttered. “That thing doesn’t count—”

“Paper not payment!” Troll cut in, stepping closer.

“—you can’t just change the rules mid-hunt!” Rabbit snapped.

Piglet swallowed. “Thistle? Uh… it-it’s doing that paper thing again.”

Brisket frowned as he looked at the note.
“Doing what?”

Tigger brightened. “Pfft! I can do that!”

He folded in on himself and sprang apart again. “See? Paper thing!”

Pooh tugged Piglet’s arm.
“It does seem to be doing it on purpose.”

Above them, the leaves shifted softly, indifferent to claims of ownership.

TOOT!

Kanga didn’t move. Her paw rested firmly on Roo’s head.
“That’s her. She’s coming back to the nest.”

Roo looked up, eyes wide.
“Mama, are they okay?”

Every eye went to Thistle’s hand as the last fold snapped open.

Rabbit threw up his paws. “Now what?”

Thistle stared, waiting for the words to appear.

Instead, the Note vanished from her palm with a soft pop.

“Honestly,” Thistle murmured, closing her hand.

Tigger craned forward. “Wha—pfft!”

“That document,” Owl said stiffly, “was the only reason this remained even marginally coherent.”

“Funny,” Eeyore said. “Seemed messy to me.”

He sat.

Owl folded his wings. “In narrative terms, this suggests a transition point.”

Rabbit’s whiskers twitched. “Fine. Five eggs. Five original members.”

Piglet swallowed. “Th-there were six.”

Brisket tilted his head. “You said five.”

“No,” Thistle said, standing beside the nest, wings taut. “That’s not how this works.”

Troll turned from the tree.

Rabbit stepped back—and bumped hard into Eeyore.

“Oof,” Eeyore said mildly.

Troll snorted through his nose, gaze dropping to Piglet as he planted his feet.

Piglet stumbled with a small squeak, ducking under Eeyore.

Eeyore turned to face Troll.

“Uh, Thistle?” Tigger said. “Troll’s doing the hungry thing.”

A familiar call came fast through the undergrowth.

Toot.

Toot.

Tooter darted between Troll’s legs as if they were part of the forest and scrambled for the trunk.

Troll lifted his foot, looking down.

Rabbit’s ears slowly lowered.

Brisket watched Tooter step carefully into the nest. “Oh… no.”

She shifted, lifting one wing and nudging the eggs closer until they disappeared beneath her.

Tigger’s ears tipped forward as he rose onto his hind legs for a closer look.

“Easy,” Thistle whispered.

Tooter made a soft, cooing sound, barely louder than breath.

Tupp dipped his head, beard brushing his chest as he exhaled. “That… changes things.”

Ramble shifted his hooves. “Show’s over.”

Troll’s gaze flicked up to the nest, growling. “Not so fast.”

Thistle dropped lightly onto Troll’s shoulder and caught his ear between her fingers.

She leaned close.

His head tilted, eyes sliding sideways, trying—and failing—to find her.

“Troll leave b-bridge?” he stammered.

Troll’s fingers curled, then relaxed again.

Troll looked at the tree, jaw set.

Rabbit shook his head. “Troll, you can’t just walk away from the treasure now.”

Kanga stared at Rabbit. “Really? You’re going to take her eggs?”

Rabbit bristled. “I’m saying there were rules.”

Owl cleared his throat.

“While this development is certainly… unexpected,” he began, “it does not, strictly speaking, invalidate the original premise of the expedition.”

“If Troll is to assume a custodial role,” he continued, “then such a position would require procedural accreditation, and I…”

Rabbit’s ears twitched. “My cousin didn’t follow us all this way for nothing.”

Eeyore didn’t look up. “Your cousin left.”

Piglet hesitated. “White R-Rabbit isn’t here anymore.” He twisted his scarf nervously in his paws. “He went h-home to Alice.”

“That’s not…” Rabbit stopped.

Tooter shifted, drawing one wing fully over the eggs. Her eyes closed.

Troll lowered his hands from the trunk.

Brisket let out a slow breath and turned, hooves picking their way between the exposed roots.

Tupp followed without a word.

Ramble hesitated, shook his head and went after them.

Tigger watched them go.

“Well,” he said at last, spreading his arms—“that’s not very ta-da.”

“It seldom is,” Eeyore said.

Roo looked up at Kanga.
“Mama… they’ll be all right, won’t they?”

“Yes, dear.”

Piglet glanced at Troll, then away. “D-do you think he knows how?”

Thistle followed Piglet’s gaze to the tree.

“Well,” Owl said, adjusting his feathers, “I shall, ah, withdraw from further supervisory involvement.”

Thistle glanced up as Owl flew away through the branches.

Then she looked back at the wing curved protectively around the eggs—and smiled.

*

The glow of the eggs caught Tigger’s eyes all at once. His forepaws pressed into the trunk as he strained to hold still.

He sucked in a breath so sharp it nearly turned into a yelp.

“THI—”

Thistle spun and clapped both hands over his mouth.

His tail quivered like a wound spring.

Her wings were tight against her back, every line of her tiny frame pulled taut as wire. She shook her head.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

Tigger’s cheeks puffed as he held the sound in. His eyes darted past her—toward the eggs: the impossible, glowing proof that he’d been right all along.

He gently peeled her hands away.

“Treasure,” he whispered, reverent and vibrating. “I just knew it’d look like this.”

Rabbit burst through the ferns, ears flattened, breath quick, ducking beneath the low, leafy canopy.

“What are you looking at?” he called.

Thistle glanced over her shoulder.

The others were still pushing through the narrowing trees—hooves, low voices, rustling leaves.

“Tigger,” she murmured, “not yet.”

“But this is exactly the part where you yell,” he hissed back. “This is the announcement part. I’ve seen it happen. You find the treasure—” His paws twitched helplessly. “—everybody cheers!”

Thistle looked at the eggs again.

They caught the dappled light in the woven nest, unaware of what they were about to cause.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “that’s when it all goes wrong.”

Wings beat overhead.

Tigger glanced up, then frowned at Thistle, his body held like a cork before the pop.

“But we found it. That’s good, right?”

She hesitated.

“Yes,” she said.
Then, softer:
“And no.”

Behind them, the brush parted in a rush of movement, footsteps quick and uneven, closing in.

Tigger swallowed.

“So,” he whispered, “what do I do with my bounce?”

Thistle closed her eyes and pressed her fingers briefly to her brow.

“Hold it.”

His whole body trembled, the spring fighting to break loose.

Owl circled again and settled onto a higher branch, peering down through his spectacles at the nest.

“Well,” Owl said mildly, “not very many—this introduces an unexpected degree of allocation complexity.”

Rabbit skidded to a stop at the base of the tree.

“Allocation of what?” he demanded.

Thistle looked up at Owl.

“You’re already talking like it’s ours,” she said, her voice flat.

Tigger rocked from one paw to the other.
“I mean… that’s how treasure works.”

Owl adjusted his spectacles.
“Found objects,” he said, “still require governance.”

Rabbit let out a sharp, impatient huff.

“Oh, bother.” He sprang up, landing on Tigger’s shoulders, grabbing the trunk for balance.

Tigger froze.

“Hey—hey—careful!” he whispered, every muscle locked.

Rabbit craned his neck, tightening his grip on Tigger’s shoulders.

“Oh,” he said faintly.

Owl removed his spectacles and peered down, then replaced them carefully.

“Five,” he said calmly. “That’s what I thought.”

Troll crashed through the trees, branches snapping under his weight. He skidded to a halt beside the tree and peered into the nest.

Hooves clattered too close behind him.

Brisket ran straight into Troll’s back with a startled bleat. Tupp and Ramble piled in behind him.

Troll didn’t turn. He couldn’t look away from the nest.

“Back off!” he rumbled over his shoulder. “Get away from my shiny.”

“Add-ons,” Owl said, as if clarifying a footnote, “will need to wait.”

Brisket lifted his chin.

“We are three,” he said.

“That’s not an add-on,” Tupp said. “That’s a number.”

Ramble shifted his hooves.

“Tigger promised. That was the agreement.”

Owl inclined his head.

“Quantity does not equate to priority,” he said.

“Five doesn’t divide cleanly,” Rabbit said at once. “Someone’s getting less.”

“We could take turns?” Tigger offered weakly.

He brightened. “Or… share!”

“Listen to yourselves,” Thistle said, folding her arms.

Owl ruffled his wings, settling himself.

“Order,” he said calmly, “is what prevents chaos.”

He looked down again at the eggs.

“Distribution will require criteria.”

“Criteria means someone decides,” Rabbit said.

“And who made you the decider again, Professor?” Thistle snapped.

Owl drew himself up.

“Someone must,” he said simply.

Troll lowered his head, nostrils flaring as he sniffed.

“Mmm…” he rumbled. “Troll smell shiny.”

“Back off, you overgrown moss lump,” Thistle warned.

Several heads turned at once as branches stirred behind them.

Kanga ducked into the cramped space beneath the crowded branches, Roo bobbing in her pouch.

“Did you find it?” Roo asked brightly.

Eyes slid away.

Owl cleared his throat, opened his beak, then seemed to think better of it.

From somewhere close came the sound of Pooh humming to himself, untroubled and slightly off-key.

“Figures,” Eeyore said, trudging in. “No one’s talking.”

Piglet edged closer to Pooh. “I—I don’t like it when it goes quiet.”

“Oh?” Pooh said thoughtfully. “Perhaps they’re thinking.”

Tigger squeezed his eyes shut.

“I can’t hold it,” he said through clenched teeth.

Suddenly Tigger shot upward in an explosive streak of orange.

“WE FOUND TREA—!”

“Oof—!”

Owl flung his wings wide, jerking sideways to avoid a collision. Leaves burst loose around them.

The nest tipped.

Thistle grabbed it with both hands as an egg rolled free.

“Oh, no!” she cried.

For an instant, something pale and folded showed beneath the eggs.

Kanga’s paws came up instinctively, catching the egg before it struck the ground.

Eyes widened.

“It’s golden!” Roo breathed.

“I KNEW we’d find it!” Tigger burst out, bouncing again, unable to stop himself. “I mean—I totally knew it.”

Kanga held the fallen egg only a moment before gently placing it back into the nest.

Thistle stared at the nest in her hands before easing it back into the fork of the branch.

“Tigger! Mind the surroundings!” Owl snapped as something clicked.

“My spectacles!”

They dangled from a twig just below him.

Thistle freed the glasses and held them out.

Owl snatched them from her fingers, ruffling his feathers.

“Given the numerical imbalance,” Owl said, “it would be inappropriate to extend equal claims to auxiliary participants.”

He folded his wings briskly.

“Any arrangements made outside the established framework of the expedition,” he continued, “must therefore be honored by the parties who made them.”

Thistle’s eyes narrowed.

“Or maybe,” Thistle said quietly, “they aren’t meant for—”

“In short,” Owl continued, without looking at her, “add-ons will need to receive their portions from the original members who invited them.”

“Cheat Troll,” he bellowed. “Troll eat piggy!”

Brisket tilted his head. “Now hold on.”

“If you’re cheated,” Tupp said carefully, “then so are we.”

Ramble nodded. “Three is more than one.”

Brisket took a cautious step closer to Troll.

“Plenty to go around,” he said. “If it’s done properly.”

“Troll want fair,” he growled, shoulders rolling. “Fair shiny.”

Kanga stepped forward, one paw resting lightly on Roo’s head.

“I was added too,” she said gently. “If Roo has a share, it’s ours.”

Roo looked up at her. “Together?”

“Always,” she soothed.

Tigger threw himself into a flip, tail and paws everywhere.

“But there weren’t this many before!” he blurted as he landed. “Since when do add-ons add on more add-ons?”

“How many did you add?” Rabbit yelped. “Stop bouncing and think!”

Eeyore’s ears sagged. “Thinking appears to be the problem.”

“This isn’t a game anymore,” Thistle murmured, shaking her head.

Pooh frowned at the nest. “Do gold eggs make honey?” He sat down. “Someone promised me a taste.”

Piglet sat down beside him, reached for his paw, and held on.

“And my cousin counts,” Rabbit added. “He got us through the log. That was your deal, Tigger.”

“Pshaw—we had to get through the log!” Tigger said, hopping from one foot to the other. “That’s not a deal. That’s just… I wasn’t counting shares.”

Eeyore shifted uneasily.

“Seems like counting’s the problem.”

Owl drew himself taller.

“Counting is not the problem,” he said. “Procedural coherence is.”

“This situation requires adjudication,” Owl continued. “Which, as the only remaining neutral party—”

“First you claim a share,” Thistle snapped. “Now you want to be in charge. You can’t keep—”

“I claimed no such thing,” Owl said stiffly. “I am addressing the logistical reality.”

“However,” Owl continued, “it would be irresponsible for an uninvested party to administer distribution without proper compensation—”

“NO MORE TALK!” Troll roared. “Troll want shiny NOW!”

“We were promised shares!” Brisket said.

“Promised,” Tupp echoed.

“Troll’s right!” Ramble added. “We did our part, and it’s time we were paid.”

Thistle tensed.

Kanga stepped forward, planting her feet.

“Easy,” she said. “No one’s touching anything yet.”

“I should have one,” Tigger said.

He reached.

“Toot!”