Page 1 of 17
When the colors vanish from Larkspur, nine-year-old Toby Bright gathers a talking paintbrush, a tinkered sparrow, and a clever fox and sets out to find them. He learns courage, kindness, and how sharing brings color—and people—back to life.
The bell in the square rang soft and low, a little note that slipped under shutters and into sleepy streets. Toby Bright was already awake. He lay on his back beneath the rafters of Mr. Fen's workshop, fingers sticky with paint from the night before, and listened to the town wake up. Outside the window a kite's tail slapped the air like a laughing ribbon. The smell of bread rolled through the lane and curled into the open door like a friendly cat.
Toby ran a thumb over the tiny wooden horse he had carved the night before. The horse's mane was carved in careful grooves. It had scales of dark varnish and one stubborn streak of blue that refused to match the rest. He liked that streak. It reminded him that nothing had to be perfect to be wonderful.
"Morning, Pipsqueak," Mr. Fen said without looking up from a drawer full of tiny gears. He had a voice like a wooden spoon—solid and warm. He always called Toby Pipsqueak as if the name were a badge. "Kites to mend, toys to paint. Think you can fetch the glue tin? And mind the paint—don't make the pigeons fashionable again."
Toby hustled down the ladder, knees knocking once, twice. The workshop smelled of oil and pine, of ribbons and lemon polish. Shelves bowed under the weight of painted soldiers, bellied dolls, tiny tea sets. Each toy had a smile or a missing eye or a hat turned at an awkward angle that made it look ready for mischief.
On the workbench, a small contraption perched on three mismatched legs. Cog, the tinkered sparrow, opened one copper eye and gave the tiniest, earnest chirp. Its feathered wings were patches of old tin cans and blue ribbon. Toby had made Cog from spare parts when the river had given up a handful of shiny things last autumn. Cog never sang like other birds, but it whistled in a stuttering rhythm that seemed to say, "Let us go."
Outside, Larkspur hummed like the inside of a music box. Stalls unrolled like painted rugs. Granny Dabble arranged jars of jam that glowed like jewels. Children ran with kites that looked like slices of sky. In the square, the Color Well shivered. It was a round pool edged with mossy stones, and the little waters inside always moved as if they were tipping their hats to whoever passed. Sometimes, the water spit up blue sparks when a new kite took off. Everyone in town said the well was a funny, stubborn thing and kept it that way—polite and alive.