Pip's First Solo Run

The dispatch bell at No. 1 Enamel Way gave a small, polite ding. A card slid out of the brass slot, still warm. Front tooth, top row, it said. Wobbled for eleven days. Owner: Theo, aged six, 14 Larkspur Road.

The Tooth Fairy looked at the card, and then at the big board on the wall, which had seventy-three pillows on it tonight. Then she looked at Pip. Pip was the smallest courier in the Molar Intake Division. She was holding a mop, because she was not usually allowed to hold anything more exciting than a mop.

"Pip," said the Tooth Fairy, "how would you like your first solo run?" Pip dropped the mop. "Me? On my own? With a real tooth?" "With a real tooth," said the Tooth Fairy. "Fly slow, land soft, and keep the pouch close to your heart."

Pip packed carefully: one velvet pouch, for the tooth. One silver coin, polished on her sleeve until she could see her own nose in it. One map, and one spare map in case the first map got lost. One cress sandwich, cut into triangles the size of postage stamps. Then she read Rule Four of her Courier Handbook twice, just to be sure: never fly through a sneeze.

She took a deep breath and stepped off the edge of Cloud Nine. The night air was cool, and it smelled of chimney smoke and somebody's toast. Below her, the town was a blanket of tiny orange windows. Pip flew slowly, just as she had been told, and counted the streets on her map. Larkspur Road was the one with the crooked lamp post.

At the crooked lamp post, a moth in a little peaked cap held up one feathery arm. "Night Traffic," he said. "Permit, please."

Pip showed him her Courier Permit, and the moth peered at it, and then at the lamp, and then at the permit again. "Lovely lamp," he sighed. "I mean, lovely permit. On you go."

Number 14 had a window open just a crack, which is the polite way of saying the Bureau is welcome. Pip slipped through. On the landing, a large brown dog was asleep with his ears inside out, snoring like a kettle that has nearly boiled. Pip tiptoed past him so quietly that even her wings held their breath.

Theo was asleep with one arm flung over his head. There was a gap in his smile where the tooth used to be. Under his pillow Pip found the tooth, wrapped in a tissue, and a note in wobbly pencil. It took eleven days, said the note, and I was very brave. Please can I keep the tissue.

Pip read the note twice. Then she slid the tooth into the velvet pouch, tucked the coin under the pillow, and left the tissue exactly where it was. She added a tiny receipt, because receipts are important. Received with thanks, it said. One front tooth, very bravely wobbled.

The flight home was the tricky part. Halfway up, a gust of wind came tumbling over the rooftops and caught Pip like a leaf. She rolled over once, and twice, and her spare map flew off towards the sea. But Pip kept both hands on the pouch, close to her heart, and she did not let go.

When the wind had blown itself out, Pip looked up. There, at the very top of the sky, was the Enamel Castle, glowing softly white. It always glows at night. That is what happens when you keep thousands of well-brushed teeth in one place.

The Chief Molar Inspector was waiting at the gate with her magnifying glass. She opened the pouch and held the tooth up to the lamp. "One front tooth," she said. "Eleven days of wobble. Excellent condition."

Ker-chunk went her stamp, right on the intake form. Then she took Pip's Courier Permit and stamped that too: First Solo Run, Completed.

Pip flew home very slowly, because there was no hurry now. Her bed was a walnut shell lined with dandelion fluff, and it was exactly the right size. She found the cress sandwich still in her pocket, a little squashed, and she ate it in tiny, sleepy bites.

Far below, in a house with a crooked lamp post, Theo turned over and smiled in his sleep, with a coin under his pillow and a tissue he was allowed to keep. And up on Cloud Nine, Pip tucked her stamped permit under her pillow, pulled the fluff up to her chin, and slept.