yarrr, ye scurvy boy-king, halt ye whinin'

Sunday’s first lesson was spinning wool into gold. They had brought the spinning wheel out into the garden so that Sunday could be close to her new pet; the bird cooed prettily in the tree beside her. Sunday wasn’t sure what the lesson had to do with her writing coming true, and she told Joy as much.

“You know how to write, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why would I waste my time teaching you something you already know?”

Somewhat less than satisfied, Sunday frowned at the bag of wool. “Isn’t it usually straw into gold? That’s what all the stories say.”

“Do you know where to get straw this time of year?”

“There might be some in the barn, but it’s for—”

“And if I had straw, would you have the first clue as to how to spin it?”

“No, but—”

“Then quit dwelling on other people’s stories and make up some of your own. I’ll be back in an hour.” With that, she turned and walked back into the kitchen to further antagonize Mama.

from Enchanted by Alethea Kontis