Amira kicks the white wall of the castle. SWOOSH! She slaps the bucket of pink paint against the wall, and the paint runs down like a tiny waterfall.
She claps her sticky hands together. *Finally*, she thinks, smiling with her whole mouth.
She dips her brush into the purple and paints the windows, the stairs, the doorknobs. The castle smells like fresh paint.
SPLAT! A big purple drop lands right on her nose. She sneezes — AH-CHOO! — and a purple streak goes right across the freshly painted wall.
She pokes her nostril with her finger, bursts out laughing, then slaps her palm against the smudge. *Even better*, she tells herself.
She paints faster, even faster. But the pink bucket is empty — she shakes it, and nothing drips out.
She spots a rose in the garden behind the window, plucks a petal, and rubs it gently on the bare wall. The mark is barely visible. She tilts her head and nods: *Now that's my thing.*
She steps back, and the whole castle sparkles in pink and purple, every surface still wet. She sees herself in a painted window — messy hair, huge smile. *I'm the one who makes the castle magical.*
She spins around. Tiny splatters of paint fly off her skirt like little stars.
She slides down the pink staircase, her hand trailing along the purple railing. In the garden, the roses sing in the breeze. She hums a little song, paint still wet on her cheeks.
