Princess Mira never went anywhere without her goggles. They were big and round and slightly too large for her face, and she wore them pushed up on her forehead until she needed to spot something — then, snap, down they came. Tonight, she needed them. The town below the castle had gone dark. Every lantern on every street, every little light on every tower — all of them, out at once, like a candle someone had cupped in their hand and blown. The midsummer market was supposed to start in an hour, and the market stalls needed light.
Mira unrolled her magic carpet on the castle roof. It smelled like dust and old adventures, which she considered a very good smell. She buckled her purple cape, pulled her goggles down over her eyes, and sat cross-legged at the front. "Let's go," she said. The carpet shot up into the cool night air. Wind. Stars. A crescent moon so thin it looked like someone had bent a silver pin and hung it in the sky. Spot things, spot things, spot things — Mira always said it under her breath when she was looking hard for something. She looked hard now.
Below her, the streets were the colour of cold tea. She could see the lantern-posts standing in their rows, iron hooks and little glass doors, all empty. No flame. No flicker. Not even a wisp of smoke. She swooped lower, goggles pressed to her face, and scanned every rooftop. Something moved on a chimney pot. Something small and grey, with wings like crumpled tissue paper. Mira steered the carpet toward it and landed with a soft thump on the nearest roof. It was a moth. A very small moth, crouched on the chimney with his cheeks puffed out like a little grey balloon. He was trembling. He looked, honestly, rather mortified.
"Hello," said Mira. "Are you all right?" The moth squeaked. His name was Sib. He had been flying over the town when the lanterns lit up all together — more light than he had ever seen — and he had leaned in to taste just one little flame. Then he sneezed. One enormous sneeze, and he had accidentally swallowed every single flame in the whole town at once. His cheeks were still glowing faintly orange from the inside. He looked like a very embarrassed night-light. "Can't you sneeze again?" Mira asked. Sib shook his head miserably. He'd tried. Every time he thought about sneezing, he got too nervous, and the sneeze just — stayed. Stuck. He needed to not be thinking about it at all.
Mira tapped her goggles. She had an idea. It was a very silly idea. She climbed back onto the carpet. "Watch this," she said. She flew straight up — then looped sideways — then wobbled left — then wobbled right — then went in a spiral that was so lopsided and ridiculous that the carpet's fringe was flapping in completely the wrong direction. She did it again. And again. The wobbliest, most topsy-turvy loop the town had ever seen. Sib watched. His wings twitched. His nose wrinkled. His whole small grey face scrunched up — and then he laughed. And when he laughed, he sneezed. ACHOO. One enormous, unstoppable, magnificent sneeze. Every flame shot out of him in a fountain of gold, spinning and arcing through the dark air, and every single one found its lantern. Click. Click. Click. The whole town lit up in one golden flash, like a thousand little suns turning on at once.
She flew back to her tower, landed, and climbed off the carpet. She hung her goggles carefully on the bedpost. Through the window, the town glowed warm and busy, tiny figures moving between the lights, a fiddle starting up somewhere on the square. Mira lay down on her pillow and watched the lanterns flicker until her eyelids went heavy and her breathing slowed and the fiddle music got very, very far away.
