Princess Mira had very important work to do. She was at her mud-pie station — the best spot in the whole royal garden, between the rosebushes and the old stone wall — pressing flower petals into the tops of her pies and arranging pebbles in perfect little rows. Her hands were the colour of chocolate. Her dress was worse.
Squelch, squelch, squelch. That was the sound of Lord Pemwick arriving in his very best shoes. "Your Highness!" he gasped, staring at the mud on his left toe. Then his right toe. Then, somehow, his knee. Lord Pemwick was very good at stepping in exactly the wrong place. Mira said good morning politely and went back to her pebbles.
That was when she noticed. Quiet. Real quiet. The old stone frog at the centre of the fountain — the one that always burbled, always, even in winter, even at midnight — was not making a single sound. Squelch, squelch, squelch. Mira was already walking toward it. "The fountain appears to be in perfect order," said Lord Pemwick, consulting his clipboard without looking up. Mira crouched down and peered into the frog's wide stone mouth. It was stuffed completely full of mud and twigs and soft grey fluff, packed in as neatly as a secret.
A nest. A real one, small as a teacup, with three tiny eggs tucked inside it — and sitting right at the front, no bigger than a walnut, one very small sparrow chick who had clearly already hatched and already decided she was in charge. The chick looked at Mira. Mira looked at the chick. The chick cheep-cheep-CHEEPED in a voice that meant: this fountain is mine, I found it first, and I will not be taking questions. Mira burst out laughing so hard she nearly sat in her own mud pies.
She couldn't unblock the fountain. Not with those eggs still in there, not with that tiny bird staring at her like a very small queen. So Mira thought. She looked at her mud-pie station. She looked at Lord Pemwick's shiny shoes heading straight for the fountain base. She got to work. Squelch, squelch, squelch — but this time it was Mira, piling mud into a low curved wall all around the fountain's base, smooth and solid, just high enough to stop a pair of good shoes from getting too close. Lord Pemwick walked into it immediately and made a noise like a surprised kettle. Mira pressed three daisies into the top of the wall, and then — because it seemed right — she wove a small daisy crown and set it on the stone frog's head. A gift. The frog's carved eye caught the afternoon light in a way that looked, just possibly, like a wink. Mira leaned close to the nest and whispered her deal: the fountain stays quiet, no one bothers you, until those babies are big enough to fly. The sparrow chick considered this. Then she tucked her head under her wing, which Mira decided meant yes.
That night, Mira climbed into bed still smelling of soil and crushed petals and something green she couldn't name. She listened. Outside her window, the garden was quiet — no burbling, no splashing — just the hush of the night air moving through the leaves. She pulled one muddy hand under her cheek and closed her eyes.
