Story makerEvery story starts with one line.

Pip was a small snail with a big dream. He wanted to win the Great Garden Race.

Every summer, the animals of the garden lined up at the old stone wall. There was Lila the ladybug, Tomas the tortoise, and Mo the mouse. Pip always stayed at the back, hiding inside his shell.

"Maybe next year," Pip whispered. He could smell the sweet clover and hear the buzz of bees nearby.

On race morning, the starting bell rang. Tomas plodded off slowly. Lila zoomed ahead, her red wings flashing. Mo scurried through the grass. Pip poked out one eye and took a tiny step.

The last dragon of Verrin Vale did not come to the palace with fire or thunder. She came on a grey morning in late autumn, folded small into the shape of a tired old woman with a satchel of ink-stained letters, and she asked the chamberlain for work.

Her name was Ysolde Cindermaw, though she had gone by Mistress Sooth for two hundred years. Her wings had become a shawl. Her claws had become spectacles. Only the faint scent of cloves and hot stone clung to her, and the chamberlain, who had a cold, sneezed twice and waved her in.

The royal library was a tower of pale oak and dust-gold light, its shelves rising past the reach of any ladder. The old librarian had died in summer, and the books had been drifting into disorder ever since. Ysolde walked the aisles with her hand brushing the spines, and where her fingers passed, the volumes stilled and slid into their proper places like obedient swallows.

Prince Taddeus, nineteen and bored, found her at the far window. "You're not the usual sort of applicant," he said.

Marisol Dane arrived at Hollis Bakery before dawn, as she always did, her boots crunching frost on the cobbles. The shop smelled of yeast and cinnamon. Her apprentice, Tobin, was still asleep upstairs, and the ovens ticked as they warmed.

On the cooling rack sat a single round loaf, dusted with flour, its crust crackled gold. Marisol frowned. She had shaped every loaf the night before, and she had counted them twice. This one was new.

She broke it open. Inside, pressed into the crumb, was a folded slip of paper, dry as parchment. Symbols marched across it in tidy rows: a crescent, a bell, three dots, a key. Beneath them, in careful ink, were the words: Ask the mill about the flour.

Marisol pocketed the note and went to the mill across the river. Old Peder Wahl, the miller, rubbed his floury hands and said nothing for a long while. Then he showed her a ledger. Every Thursday for a month, a sack of rye had been delivered to the bakery under her name, paid for in cash by someone she did not know.