Princess Mira loved her drums the way some princesses loved their gardens — loudly, completely, and with both hands. Every evening before bed, she played one last roll on her rainbow drum, the big one at the center of her set, painted every color from red to violet. The boom rang out through the whole castle, and the cook smiled into her soup, and the guards tapped their boots, and nobody told her to stop.
But tonight, the night before the Royal Festival, Mira struck the rainbow drum and heard — nothing. Not a thump. Not a whisper. She struck it again. Silence. She frowned at her own hands like they'd done something wrong. She fetched her candle and peered into the drum's hollow. There, surrounded by scraps of purple velvet and a tiny square of gold ribbon, was a moth. A very small moth. A moth with enormous eyebrows, for a moth.
"Excuse me," said Mira. "Excuse you," said the moth. "I am sleeping." His name was Pip, and he had stuffed the drum with velvet to make it soundproof, because the festival trumpets, he explained with great dignity, were simply too much. Mira could not argue with that. But she couldn't leave him there either — she needed her drum by morning. She cupped him gently in both hands. Cupped hands, careful and warm. "I'll find you somewhere better," she said. "Unlikely," said Pip.
She carried him down the torchlit hallway, past the suits of armor that smelled of old metal and candle smoke. She nudged open the door to the linen cupboard. "Very cozy in here," she said. "Lots of sheets." Pip sniffed. "Sheets are scratchy. Also there is a spider." There was, in fact, a spider. They kept walking. Cupped hands, careful and warm. Mira tried the pantry next — warm, dark, smelling of cinnamon and dried pears. Pip peered out between her fingers. "Someone will open this door at dawn," he said. "Clattering. Banging. Festival pies." He shuddered his wings. He was, Mira had to admit, not wrong.
She climbed the stairs to the library, where the books rose up to the ceiling and the air tasted of dust and old paper. High on the top shelf sat a small music box — painted blue, with a silver dancer on the lid. It hadn't worked in years. Mira stretched onto her tiptoes and brought it down. She blew the dust off the lid in one long breath. She opened it carefully. Inside: a velvet lining, soft and dark, no spring left to play. Cupped hands, careful and warm. She lowered Pip inside. He turned around twice, pressed the velvet with one foot, and curled into a neat little comma. "Acceptable," he said, and closed his eyes. Mira closed the lid. And then — just once — the broken music box let out a single soft chime. One note. Then silence, as if it had been waiting all those years just to say thank you.
She carried it back to the shelf, tucked it between two tall books, and walked back down the stairs to her drum room. She sat at her set. She raised her sticks. She struck the rainbow drum — and the boom rolled out through the whole stone castle, and the cook grinned, and the guards tapped, and a tiny moth did not hear a single thing. Mira played one last slow roll, soft as a heartbeat. Then she set her sticks down, yawned so wide her eyes squeezed shut, and padded off to bed, her feet heavy on the cool stone floor, the castle quiet all around her.
