Free Megan Button and the Brim-Tree by M. T. Boulton Page B

it), and gingerly brushing past frilly pleats, worn by a Pierrot doll in a
glazed porcelain finish, her fingers whacked against a tub of pastel-coloured biscuit macaroons, then Megan found what she was looking for: she extracted her best artist utensils; a tin of
watercolour pencils.
    Sitting back, Megan put a black pencil in between her teeth, propped open the pad against her knees, and raked a hand through her mane of loose curls. Hearing tinkerling birdsong, and not
mistaking it for a hopeful magpie out on the windowsill waiting for bread crusts, Megan glanced at the cuckoo clock, above her vanity dressing table (that served as a dumping ground and boasted an
array of well-thumbed
Pony & Me
comics parceled with elastic bands, a clogged comb, a broken umbrella, gobstopper wrappers, a jewelry box chock-full of coloured pencils, a pink woolen
scarf, an empty carton of birdseed, heavily-creased jackets, wads of tissues used to mop up the excess water from paintbrushes, a half-full tumbler of pink lemonade, an unopened cellophane packet
containing six chunks of coconut-flavoured fudge, and all topped off by the slightly rotten remains of a banana skin languishing on a bashed-looking, dog-eared Dictionary), which had just chirped
into the next sluggish hour, and the late afternoon clanked droningly on, then after a generous helping of mashed potato, sausages and baked beans, followed later by a scrumptious mound of apple
crumble with lashings of custard, marbled bathing twilight fell, and nine o’clock, bedtime, came far to quickly for Megan’s liking.
    Her Mum came into the bedroom to tuck her in, and seeing Megan looking at her new pretty ornament, said with mock botheration, ‘I don’t know. What with your Father being a model
plane enthusiast, and with all these,’ she waved a beringed hand, ‘we may have to convert the attic.’
    Megan returned her mum’s smile as she closed the door, then snuggled underneath the cocoon of her cream and pale pink quilt cover.

Chapter Two
Princess Blossom
    Lying on her stomach, with her nodding head facing the wall, Megan was not sleepy in the least bit: she was counting sheep, but kept on getting into quite a muddle after the
thirtieth sheep had
baa-baaed
over the stile.
    Tossing and turning and trying to get comfortable, she looked up to her photo frames hanging on the pink-wallpapered wall and noticed beams of light reflecting off the glass.
    With mounting curiosity she slowly rolled over and saw a radiant yellow light encasing the Fairy figure. Turning as white as a sheet, Megan stiffened.
Is this real
, she thought,
or am
I dreaming?
    Hauling the quilt over her head, and diving under the bedclothes, she huddled into a ball, and then suddenly heard a muffled sound close by.
    ‘Do not be scared. I will not harm you. Please will you come out?’ coaxed a soft musical voice.
    Trembling and twitching, Megan took a deep breath and tweezed the quilt down inch-by-inch. As she timidly peered over the top, her pupils dilated saucer-like: a Fairy was close to her head!
    Megan gaped.
    She was about three times larger than the figurine, surrounded by a yellow and green light, and as she stared at Megan, her wings fluttered back and forth like a hummingbird.
    ‘W-who a-a-are you?’ Megan quivered, flabbergasted.
    ‘I’m a Fairy. My name is Princess Blossom of the Fairy folk.’
    ‘Goodness. A Fairy?’ breathed Megan, ‘a
real
Fairy?’
    ‘Yes, a Fairy, I am sorry if I scared you before. What is your name?’
    ‘I’m M-Megan. But why are you here, in my-y bedroom?’
    Blossom dropped her head and wings, while the light around her diminished.
    ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ asked Megan, alarmed.
    ‘I was kidnapped and now I am trapped,’ Blossom replied in a very dispirited tone.
    ‘G-gosh.’
    Blossom just about managed a wintry smile.
    Megan sat up straight, and said kindly, ‘
Please
do tell me about your world, Princess Blossom,’ as the Fairy then settled on the