Tilda and the Star Stitch

On the morning of the Spring Parade, the Queen’s crown sprang apart.

Ping went one ruby.

Pop went two pearls.

Ploink went the golden star from the very top, straight out of the window.

The royal jewellers searched under rugs, inside boots and even in the soup pot. The star had vanished.

“Without it, the crown cannot wake the castle bells,” said the Queen. “And without the bells, spring will not know where to begin.”

Tilda, the youngest palace tailor, peeped over her basket of thread. She was small, quick-fingered and good at mending tears that everyone else called impossible.

“Could a tailor help?” she asked.

The jewellers chuckled. “Crowns need gold, not stitches.”

But the Queen gave Tilda a silver thimble. A tiny arrow shone on its side.

“This thimble points towards whatever is truly needed,” she said.

The arrow spun, wobbled and pointed through the eastern gate.

So Tilda packed blue thread, a currant bun and her best brass scissors. Then she followed the arrow into the Whispering Wood.

Soon she reached a bridge tangled in silver brambles. The thorns rustled, “Only a grand hero may cross.”

Tilda stood tall. “I am on a grand errand.”

“Too small,” whispered the brambles.

Tilda could have cut them down. Instead, she noticed that the vines were shivering.

“Are you cold?” she asked.

The brambles rustled more quietly. “All winter.”

Tilda unwound her blue thread and knitted as fast as rain. Over, under, loop and pull. She made eight tiny woollen sleeves and slipped one onto each trembling vine.

The brambles sighed with delight. They lifted their thorns and opened the way.

“Small hands,” they whispered, “can do grand work.”

Beyond the bridge, Tilda found a stone giant blocking the mountain path. He stamped one foot, and pebbles bounced into her hair.

“No one passes!” he boomed.

Tilda gripped her scissors. “Must we have a battle?”

“I hope not,” said the giant. “Battles make my knees wobble.”

Then he sneezed.

“AAAACHOO!”

Three pine trees shook. A family of squirrels landed safely in a bush, looking surprised.

Tilda spotted a feathery fern tickling the giant’s nose. She climbed his boot, crossed his belt and scrambled onto his shoulder. With one careful snip, she cut the fern free.

The giant breathed in.

He breathed out.

No sneeze came.

“You have defeated my terrible enemy,” he said. “How may I help?”

He lifted Tilda over the mountain as gently as a teacup and set her beside a cave glowing red and gold.

The silver arrow pointed inside.

Tilda tiptoed past shining coins and sleepy bats. At the back of the cave lay a green dragon curled around the missing golden star.

“Aha!” Tilda cried. “You stole the crown jewel!”

The dragon opened one amber eye. “Borrowed.”

Under her wing was a pale blue egg, trembling in the cold. The golden star rested beside it, giving off a warm, buttery light.

“My fire has gone hiccuppy,” said the dragon. A small puff of smoke escaped her nose. “Hic! See?”

Tilda looked at the star. If she took it, the bells would ring and spring would begin. But the egg would grow cold.

The thimble’s arrow spun between the star and the egg.

“Oh, bother,” said Tilda. “Why can magical objects never give a straight answer?”

She sat beside the dragon and shared her currant bun. Then she made her choice.

“Keep the star until your egg hatches,” she said. “We shall find another way to wake the bells.”

The thimble grew hot on Tilda’s finger. Silver light streamed from it like thread. It curled, looped and stitched itself into a new star, brighter than the first.

The dragon gasped. The egg gave a cheerful crack.

Together they hurried back. The dragon carried Tilda over the mountain. The giant waved both boots in the air. The brambles rang their woolly sleeves like little bells.

At the castle, Tilda stitched the silver star onto the crown.

The moment the Queen put it on, every bell began to sing.

Ding for the warm sun.

Dong for the green shoots.

Delly-ding-dong for one baby dragon, who arrived at the parade wearing a blue bonnet Tilda had sewn.

The jewellers stared at the crown.

“That is not how crowns are usually repaired,” one said.

“Good,” said the Queen. “This one has learnt something new.”

From that day on, Tilda became the Royal Mender of Impossible Things. Above her workshop door hung a silver sign shaped like a star.

And whenever anyone said, “You are too small,” Tilda smiled, threaded her needle and answered, “Just watch my hands.”