Smoke in the Teapot

Poppy found a tiny puff of purple smoke coming out of the teapot in the workshop.

Poppy lived above the clock-mender's shop, and she loved to poke about in the workshop. It was full of half-built things. There was a wooden bird with one wing and a music box with no music.

The teapot was on the top shelf. The smoke went puff, puff, puff.

"Hello?" said Poppy.

"Go away," said a very small voice. "I am not here."

Poppy climbed onto a stool and peeked in. A baby dragon the size of a mouse sat curled up inside. Her scales were the colour of plums.

"I'm Poppy," said Poppy. "What's your secret? You look like you have one."

The dragon sniffed. "I can't make fire. Every dragon can. Mine only makes smoke. Please don't tell."

Poppy wanted to help more than anything. She tried to light a candle with the dragon's smoke. It only made the candle smell like toast. She tried tickling the dragon's nose to make a sneeze. The dragon sneezed, and a purple puff went right into Poppy's face.

"Achoo!" said Poppy.

"Sorry," said the dragon.

Poppy thought. Then she looked around the workshop at all the things that were not finished. A bird with one wing. A music box with no music. They were not broken. They were only waiting.

"Maybe you're not finished either," she said. "Maybe you're waiting."

"For what?"

"I don't know. Let's keep you warm while we wait."

Poppy lifted the dragon out and set her in the music box, on the soft little cushion. Then she turned its tiny key.

Plink. Plink-plonk.

The dragon's tummy went wobbly. Her chest glowed orange. She hiccupped, and out came one small, bright flame, no bigger than a bean.

It lit the candle. The candle smelled like honey.

"I did it," whispered the dragon.

Poppy cupped her hands around the flame. The music box kept on playing, plink, plink-plonk, and the workshop glowed warm and gold all the way up to the shelf with the teapot.