One sunny, breezy, afternoon in Pixie Hollow, Tinker Bell sat in her workshop, frowining at a copper pot. With one hand, she clutched her tinker’s hammer, and with the other, she tugged at her blond bangs, which was Tink’s habit when she was thinking hard about something. The pot had been squashed nearly flat on one side. Tink was trying to determine how to tap it to make it right again. All around Tink lay her tinkering tools: basket full of rivets, scraps of tin, pliers, iron wire, and swatches of steel wool for scouring a pot until it shone. On the walls hung portraits of some of the pans and ladles and washtubs Tink had mended. Tough jobs were always Tink’s favorites. Tink was a pots-and-pans fairy, and her greatest joy came from fixing things. She loved anything metal that could be cracked or dented. Even her workshop was made from a teakettle that had once belonged to a Clumsy. Ping! Ping! Ping! Tink began to pound away. Beneath Tink’s hammer the copper moved as easily as if s
¥32.30
