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"Tink," the voice
said.
Tink turned. Terence was standing behind
her on the branch. She'd been so wrapped up in her thoughts, she hadn't
even heard him fly up.
"I haven't fixed the ladle yet," Tink
told him miserably.
"I didn't come because of the ladle,"
Terence replied. " I saw you leave the tearoom."
When
Tink didn't explain, Terence sat down next to her on the branch. "Tink,
are you all right? Everyone is saying that . . ." He paused. Like Queen
Ree, Terence couldn't bring himself to repeat the gossip. It seemed to
unkind.
"That I've lost my talent," Tink finished
for him. She sighed. "Maybe they're right, Terence. I can't seem to fix
anything. Everything I touch comes out worse than when I started."
Terence was startled. One thing he had
always admired about Tink was her fierceness: her fierce dark eyebrows,
her fierce determination, even the fierce happiness of her dimpled
smile. He had never seen her look defeated as she did now.
"I don't believe that," he told her.
"You're the best pots-and-pans fairy in the kingdom. Talent doesn't just
go away like that."
Tink said nothing. But she felt grateful
to him for not believing the rumors. For still believing in her.
"Tink," Terence asked gently, "what's
really going on?"
Tink hesitated. "I lost my hammer," she
blurted at last. |