Odessa Tilts the Tin Star — Every evening, after supper bells chimed clong-clong, Odessa ducked into the mirror nook to practice her royal nod. Read the full story →
Every evening, after supper bells chimed clong-clong, Odessa ducked into the mirror nook to practice her royal nod. Tucked behind her tiara was a dented tin star from the palace roof, warm from her pocket and smelling faintly of rain. She called it her “brave bit,” though she only used it to face soup spoons and visiting peacocks. Until one evening, the moon mirror winked and copied her crossed eyes.
Because of that, Odessa snorted so hard her tiara slid sideways. Because of THAT, the mirror copied the crooked crown, then copied her gasp, then sent tiny star-sparks skittering over the glass like fizzy sugar. “Stop showing off,” Odessa whispered, but the mirror answered by turning her reflection into a queenly goose.
At last, Odessa pinched the dented tin star and set it on the mirror’s top curl, right where the painted moon waited. Her fingers shook, but only a little. The glass gave one soft ping, and the goose became Odessa again—still messy, still grinning, crown almost straight. If you peek at the mirror nook, can you spot the brave bit that began with the supper bells’ clong-clong?
