A Masterpiece for Bess Read online

  Then she grabbed one of Dulcie’s rolls, along with the first basket she could find, and flew out into the warm afternoon.

  THE CURRANT ORCHARD was not far from Bess’s studio. It was just across Havendish Stream.

  Currant juice was a cheerful bright red, which would make fine paint, Bess knew. As she flew toward the fruits, they looked so pretty that Bess had an urge to paint them right then and there. Ah, but how could she? So many fairies were waiting for their portraits. She couldn’t disappoint them.

  Bess flitted from branch to branch. She piled as many plump currants into her basket as she could carry. A basketful would be—she hoped—enough for now.

  She placed one last fruit atop her wobbly pile, then reached out and picked one for herself. If she couldn’t paint the currants, at least she could taste them!

  She licked her lips, then took a big hungry bite. The sweet red juice dribbled down her chin. Bess watched it fall, drip by drip, onto her skirt. It mixed with paint splatters there.

  She swiped at her chin with the back of her hand. Yes! she thought with satisfaction. This color will do just fine!

  When she was done eating, Bess grabbed hold of the basket’s handle. She stretched up her wings, ready to fly away. The heavy basket, however, was not going anywhere. Bess could pick it up—just barely. But she couldn’t carry it more than an inch at a time.

  She tried unloading a few currants, but it didn’t help much. And if she took out too many, she wouldn’t have enough to make paint when she got home.

  Enviously, Bess watched a bluebird soaring overhead. If only she could speak to animals like an animal-talent fairy, maybe she could get some help. But she couldn’t even tell the gnats hovering around to go away. No matter how hard she shooed, they just kept returning.

  “Oh, well,” Bess said with a sigh. “I guess an inch at a time will have to do.”

  Bess flew—or hopped, really—out of the orchard and back toward her studio. By the time she reached Havendish Stream, she had settled into a comfortable rhythm: flap, flap, flap, flap-jump-land. Flap, flap, flap, flap-jump-land. But the crystal-clear stream stopped her short.

  It wasn’t that Havendish Stream was very big; a young deer could have crossed it in a single leap. To a fairy, however, it was huge. And there wasn’t a bridge. Fairies usually just flew over the stream.

  What am I going to do now? thought Bess. The stream was too wide to hop across. And though she didn’t mind getting her feet and legs wet, she didn’t want to risk getting her wings wet, too. Water soaked into fairy wings, as into a sponge. And if the stream was deep enough, waterlogged wings could drag her under.

  Still, Bess had gotten this far. She wasn’t going to give up now!

  She thought for a moment. Then she picked up one of the plump currants.

  With a mighty heave, she tossed it across the stream. The currant landed with a soft bounce on the moss on the other side.

  Bess cheered, then reached for another. Soon she was tossing currants across the stream one after the other.

  When her basket was empty, Bess lifted it effortlessly and flew across the stream. Then she refilled it and set off hopping once more. She was quite pleased with her clever solution.

  “Now to make some paint!”

  Back at her studio, Bess dragged a well-worn coconut shell from its resting place against her crate. She set it on the grass next to the back wall and dumped her basketful of currants into it.

  Normally, Bess made her paints in small batches. But she’d spent far more time collecting the currants than she’d planned. If she was ever going to get all those fairies their portraits, she’d have to start speeding things up—a lot! That meant making lots of paint.

  Bess kicked off her shoes and rolled up her spider-silk leggings. Then, ever so carefully, she climbed into the shell.

  “Oops!” Bess slipped and almost fell. She caught herself on the shell.

  POP! Squish! The pulpy fruit burst out of its skin and oozed coolly between her toes. Bess stomped around in the bowl. Her feet moved faster and faster.

  She tried her best to keep her wings high and dry. But she could tell they were growing heavy with juice. No matter, she thought. They’ll have plenty of time to dry while I paint. She looked down at the ruby red juice in the shell. Her heart filled with joy. Without thinking about it, she began to sing.…

  “Oh, fairy, fairy, fly with me—”

  “Bess? What are you doing?”

  The voice behind Bess took her by surprise. She wavered, and her foot slipped.

  Splash!

  Bess fell face-first into the sticky red currant mash.

  “Bess?”

  Slowly, Bess reached for the edge of the shell and pulled herself up. Peeking over the side, she saw Quill’s pretty face staring back. In Quill’s hands was a tray full of dishes covered with acorn caps.

  “Are you all right?” Quill asked.

  “Perfectly fine,” said Bess. She spit out a bit of currant. “I’m just—uh—making some paint for all my portraits.”

  Inwardly, Bess groaned. Why did Quill always catch her in her messiest moment?

  With as much dignity as she could manage, Bess pulled herself out of the shell. She tumbled to the ground. Covered in bright red juice, she looked as if she had a very bad sunburn.

  “I brought you some dinner,” Quill said. She set down the tray. “You need a hot meal to keep up your strength.”

  Even through the currant juice, Bess could smell the rich scents coming from the dishes. She wished, more than anything, that Quill hadn’t seen her this way. But it was hard not to be grateful for such a kind gesture.

  “I know I’ll enjoy it,” Bess said.

  “Would you like some help washing your wings?” Quill asked. Her tone was sincere. But Bess caught the corners of her mouth turning up in a smile.

  Bess shook her head and blushed. “Oh, no,” she assured Quill. “I’ll get to that…when I can.”

  “As you wish,” Quill replied. She fluttered her wings and turned back toward the Home Tree.

  DESPITE HER EMBARRASSMENT, Bess enjoyed the dinner Quill had brought. And she hoped it would give her more energy to work.

  But painting wasn’t easy. The currant juice quickly dried into a sticky sap. It made Bess’s hair and clothes stiff and her wings all but useless.

  If I’m ever going to get more painting done, Bess thought, I’ll have to clean myself up.

  She set off toward Havendish Stream again. Her wings were too stiff now for her even to hop, so instead she walked through the meadow. Unfortunately, because fairies hardly ever walked, there were no paths to follow.

  Bess climbed through the grass, in and out of a bush, and through a patch of dandelions. By the time she reached the stream, she could hardly move for all the grass and seeds and fluff sticking to her.

  She made her way down the mossy bank to the shore. And then she stopped. How was she going to do this?

  Bess knew she should have put aside her pride and let Quill help her wash her wings. It wasn’t an easy job for any fairy to do by herself. But at the time, Bess had just wanted Quill to leave.

  So now the problem was, what if she fell into the water? She had no idea how deep the water was. But she could see that the stream was running at an impish, happy-to-knock-you-over-and-carry-you-away pace.

  Cautiously, she dipped in a toe.

  “Ooh!” It was cold!

  Still, Bess had little choice. It was much too far to walk back to the Home Tree for a proper bath. So she knelt beside the stream. Cupping her hands, she began to splash water onto herself to try to wash the grass and juice away.

  The dried juice in her hair was particularly hard to wash out. Finally, she gave up splashing. She leaned over, ready to stick her whole head in the water.

  Crrrooaak!

  A frog Bess hadn’t noticed leaped into the stream. It landed with a splash. Bess didn’t have a chance of keeping her balance. The next thing she knew, she fell
headfirst into the water, making quite a splash of her own.

  “Sppplugh!”

  She kicked and waved and sputtered, even though her bottom was firmly on the stream’s pebbled floor. Luckily, the water was not very deep. Yet the harder Bess flailed, the faster the playful stream became. At last it began to carry her away!

  “Stop! Let me out!” Bess begged.

  By then her wings were impossibly heavy. “Help!” Bess cried. “Help! Help! Help!”

  “Bess!” a voice called out. “Stop kicking! The stream doesn’t like it! Just calm down, and I’ll pull you out. What were you doing?”

  Bess made herself relax. A second later, her friend Rani, a water-talent fairy, pulled her out of the water. Bess was safe, if sopping, on a sandy shore.

  “Rani, you saved me!” Bess panted, as much with exhaustion as with relief. “You must let me do something for you.” She tried to raise herself onto her elbows. But her waterlogged wings felt like weights on her back. She settled for rolling over to face her friend. “I know! How about a—”

  “—portrait!” Rani almost shrieked. “Just like Tinker Bell’s? Bess, you read our minds! We were just talking about how wonderful it would be for each of us to have a portrait!”

  “Each of you?” Bess said, confused.

  “Yes, each of us!” Rani replied. “Everyone,” she called to a group of water-talent fairies. “Come down here and see Bess. She’s going to paint portraits of all of us. We’ll be the first talent group to have a complete set!” She teared up with joy. “And could somebody please bring me a leafkerchief?” she asked, sniffing loudly.

  In seconds, a dozen eager water fairies surrounded Bess.

  “So when can you get started?” Rani asked.

  “Well, honestly,” Bess began, “I have several others to finish first. And then I’ll probably have to make more—”

  “—paint!” Rani cut in knowingly. “Of course.”

  “I hope you’ll use watercolors for all of our portraits,” Silvermist said with a giggle. The whole group of water-talent fairies laughed.

  Bess managed to smile politely. She struggled to her feet.

  “Oh, here, let me help you,” said Rani. “You’ll never get anywhere with wings that full of water.”

  She brushed a bit of fairy dust from her arm onto Bess’s wings. Then she held her hands above them. Closing her eyes, Rani drew the water out in a thin silvery ribbon. She formed it into a ball and tossed it into the stream.

  “Your wings will still be damp for a while,” she said, turning back to Bess. “But at least they won’t weigh you down.”

  Bess stood and gave her wings a little flap. “Much better,” she said with relief. But her relief turned to dismay as she thought of the new portraits…a whole talent’s worth. Goodness!

  As she said good-bye to the water fairies, Bess tried to remind herself that portrait painting was an honor.

  “Don’t forget about our portraits!” the fairies called after her.

  “Oh,” said Bess, “I won’t.”

  BESS HEADED BACK ACROSS the meadow, in the direction of her studio. To her dismay, her flying was a little wobbly since her wings were still a bit damp. But at least I’m clean, she thought. She tore off a piece of grass and used it to tie back a lock of hair.

  With a sigh, Bess realized that she could use some clean clothes. She hadn’t been back to her room in the Home Tree in quite a while. A bit of freshening up in general might do her some good. So she quickly turned away from her studio, toward the Home Tree.

  As she neared the knothole door, however, her stomach began to churn. Bess’s room was in the tree’s south-southwest branch. That meant passing dozens of rooms and workshops. Who knew how many fairies she might meet along the way? And what if they all wanted portraits? Not that Bess didn’t want to paint them all. She just wasn’t sure she wanted to do it right now.

  No, going through the Home Tree was not the way to get to her room, Bess decided. She would have to sneak in through her back window instead.

  Bess had never flown to her room from behind before. But really, how hard could it be? She circled the trunk to the side where the low evening sun was shining. Thank goodness it hadn’t set yet! Then she looked up at the rows of brightly colored window boxes along the tree’s branches.

  Now, that’s a subject for painting, she thought wistfully. But right now, the window boxes were for counting.

  “One…two…three…four…five…”

  Bess got to thirteen, but then she had to stop. The Home Tree’s leafy branches began to block her view. Bess flew closer and continued counting.

  “Fourteen…fifteen…sixteen. Here it is!”

  Funny, she thought, I don’t remember that leaf in front of my window.

  Bess flew over to the window and tugged on the sash. Stubbornly, it refused to give. She pulled a little harder. But still the window held fast.

  “What am I going to do now?” Bess said. She balled her fists and pounded the window in frustration.

  Immediately, the window gave way. Bess tumbled inside.

  How odd, she thought, shaking her sore head. I always thought that window opened out.…

  “Bess!” came an alarmed voice from across the room. “Are you all right?”

  “Quill!” Bess cried, looking up. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m sculpting—in my room,” Quill replied. Her voice now sounded more puzzled than shocked.

  “Your room?” Bess bit her lip as she rose to her feet. Her eyes darted around the tidy chamber. She looked from one stone sculpture to another, over to the cast-bronze bedstead, and then to the marble busts set into each wall. Finally, her eyes went back to Quill.

  “Yes,” Quill said. “My room. Did you need something, Bess?”

  Bess tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She choked out a laugh. “Need something! Ha! That’s a good one, Quill. No. No. No. I was just…er…flying by…to let you know I don’t need anything! And, uh…” She looked down at her limp, wrinkled, stained skirt. “To show you that I cleaned up…all by myself!”

  She swallowed once more and stretched her mouth into a grin.

  “I see,” said Quill. She still looked confused. “I’m…so glad.”

  “Anyway,” Bess went on, “I have portraits of all the water-talent fairies to do. I really must fly off.”

  “Are you sure I can’t help you in some way?” Quill asked again.

  “Absolutely not,” said Bess. Still grinning, she took a backward hop toward the door…and ran straight into a granite statue of a luna moth. With a crash it fell from its pedestal onto the hard wooden floor.

  Bess cringed. “Oh, no!”

  “Don’t worry.” Quill flew over and sprinkled some fairy dust on the heavy statue. Then she used the magic to stand it back up. “No harm done,” she said.

  “Truly,” said Bess, “I’d fly backward if I could.”

  Quill laughed. “Flying backward is how you knocked it over in the first place.”

  Bess knew it was a joke. But she couldn’t help noticing that Quill hovered protectively next to the moth statue.

  Bess blushed. “See you later, Quill,” she said. And she hurried out of the room before she could do more damage.

  Oh, of all the rooms to fall into by mistake, why did it have to be Quill’s? Bess thought as she flew to the next room down the hall. She reached for the knob. Then, just to be safe, she checked the number on the door to make sure it was hers.

  Inside, Bess’s mood quickly lifted. It was a relief to be among her favorite things.

  She flew to her bed, which was covered in a multicolored quilt made from different kinds of flower petals. She lay back and gazed up at the stained-glass window above her. The sun was almost down, but there was just enough light to allow the colors to dance along the wall across the room.

  And, oh, the walls! They were covered with framed pictures of every shape and size. Many were gifts from other art fairies. The rest were
drawings and paintings that Bess had done herself. There was her very first sketch of Mother Dove. Next to it hung her Home Tree series. She’d followed the tree through all its seasons—spring and summer (which were the only seasons in Never Land).

  Each work reminded Bess of a time and place and mood. Some were good and some were bad, but each was special in its own way.

  Then her eyes fell on a statue in the corner. It was a portrait of Bess carved out of smooth sandalwood. Quill had given it to her as a gift on her last Arrival Day anniversary. Quill had remembered how much more Bess liked wood than hard, cold stone.

  Bess smiled at the statue. It was a perfect likeness, right down to Bess’s long bangs and the paintbrush behind her ear.

  Funny, Bess thought. She yawned and let her heavy eyelids close for just a moment. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was the work of a good friend.

  THE NEXT THING SHE KNEW, Bess awoke to a loud knock at her door. She didn’t even remember falling asleep! What time was it?

  Knock-knock-knock.

  “Bess! Are you in there?”

  Groggily, Bess flew up and opened the door.

  “Hi, Bess! It’s me! Is it done?”

  It was Dulcie.

  “I went to your studio. Your sign said you’d be there this morning. But when you never showed up, I thought maybe I’d find you here.”

  “Oh,” said Bess. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, trying to wake up.

  “So?” Dulcie went on. “Is it done?”

  “Is what done?”

  “My portrait!”

  “Oh!” Bess thought for a moment. “As a matter of fact, it is. But it’s not here, of course. It’s back at my studio.”

  “Well, come on!” Dulcie grabbed her arm. “Let’s go!”

  By the time they reached the tangerine crate, Bess was wide awake. She was pleased to be presenting the new portrait.

  She had to admit, though, that she was a little disappointed that Dulcie hadn’t brought another plate of rolls, or some other tasty treat.