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Like A Baby Written by: Sophie This story was recorded as a bedtime audiobook by FawnyABDL and you can listen to it on The Usual Bet, an ABDL discussion padcast! Here's a link! Premise: Do you ever struggle to get a good night’s rest? Perhaps all you need is a visit from Mistress Sleep. Disclaimers: diapers ---------------------------- You don't want to open your eyes. You nodded off for a moment — a lucky moment — but even in the darkness you know it wasn't for very long. You wait for time to lull you back to sleep, but time starts to do the opposite. You feel warm. The weight of the blanket on you starts to make you uncomfortable, so you kick it off just enough to let air underneath. Your shirt is bunched up underneath you, tugged taught around your shoulder, so you roll onto your side and fix it. Your nose itches, so you scratch it. You roll onto your back and wipe your forehead, though you aren't sweating much at all. You lay your arms out at your sides like a rag doll and try to think about absolutely nothing. You think about absolutely everything. With a sigh, you open your eyes. You tap your watch; maybe you slept longer than you thought. You didn't. But your watch has a notification from Discord. It's something innocuous, something that doesn't need your attention. But as you lay there, you wonder if that person is still online. You wonder how their night is going. If you check your phone now, maybe you can catch them before they go to sleep. So you check your phone. Their status is offline, but you reply anyway. The bubble doesn't change colors. Instead of putting your phone back down, you switch apps. Within the hour, you find yourself switching between the apps for no reason. You have no new notifications and no new posts to scroll through online. News is slower than you are. You finally put down your phone and try again to sleep. "Sleep is a cruel mistress," you mutter to yourself in the darkness. "You think so?" a voice says. You shoot up in bed and adrenaline spills through your body as if a cup of it had been balancing precariously on your chest. Your fight or flight response ticks back and forth at unbelievable speed, unable to land on a decision, until — just as suddenly as it came — it abruptly stops. At the foot of your bed is a woman. Even in the darkness, you can see her as clear as if she were standing in sunlight. But she isn't glowing. She doesn't hurt your eyes. Her face looks soft to the touch, like a doll or a painting, and her features are so delicate that they don't cast any shadows over her cheeks or around her nose. She's wearing a long white gown, embroidered with moons and stars, that falls over her arms and all the way to the floor. And she's tall. She's very tall. You remember that only a second ago, you were afraid. A strange woman appeared in your house, at the foot of your bed; you had every reason to be afraid. But she didn't scare you. Rather, her presence felt as ordinary as night itself. It came as a surprise at first, like when you leave a movie theater and it's still light outside. But then you remember what time is and how time feels, and you aren't scared anymore. "Now now," the woman says slowly, with a smile so slight you aren't even sure it's there. "No need to get up, darling. Rest your head for me, will you?" You do. Without another thought, you slide back down into bed and put your head on your pillow. Your eyes dart to the foot of your bed, but the woman has already come around to the side of it. She sits on the edge of your bed, but her weight doesn't disturb the mattress. "I'm so sorry for my tardiness," the woman continues. Her voice is calm and quiet, just above a whisper. There is no echo or gravity to it, like the winds could carry it a mile away and you would hear it just as clearly. Just listening to her few words lifts your thoughts out of the tar and into the sky where they have room to move. "Who are you," you say, but the inflection is lost at the end. It doesn't sound like a question at all, and you wonder if there is any question in the world worth your energy. "I'm Mistress Sleep," the woman says simply, like you should have known all along. Maybe you had known all along. "Like, the Sandman," you ask, once again without the inflection of a question. But Mistress Sleep understands. She knows the kind of effect she has on people like you. “Something like that," Mistress Sleep says airily, "though I'm not so assertive. I prefer a... gentler touch." And with that, Mistress Sleep runs her fingers across your forehead and pushes your hair out of the way. Her skin feels like a cool blanket on a warm night, or a warm blanket on a cool one. Her fingers slide down your temple, until she can cup your cheek in her palm. She leans over you like a parent tucking in her child, and you feel an overwhelming sense of comfort. For the first time, maybe in your entire life, every muscle in your body relaxes and you sink into the mattress. You aren't even sure you can move, and that thought doesn't scare you even a little. "Hmm..." Mistress Sleep looks down at you with an ounce of wonder. You would never read her expression as worry or concern — no, she's far too content. You know two things instead: the first, something is wrong, and the second, you have nothing to worry about. "Goodness, I am quite late," Mistress Sleep says to you in her charming voice. Charming, quite literally, as you feel her words are the catalyst of a spell. You are enchanted with her. "I don't understand," you say. You try to move, and you succeed. You lean up on your elbows and Mistress Sleep tilts her head at you. "Well, I am forgetful at times," Mistress Sleep laments, more to herself than to you. She doesn't seem at all bothered by this statement; she sounds more like she's explaining something very basic to a very small child. Two plus two equals four. I am forgetful at times. "That's okay," you say, trying to reassure her, though you know intrinsically that it isn't necessary. It's an automatic response, a human nicety. It's conditioning. You feel a little silly after the words leave your lips, but Mistress Sleep looks at you with deep appreciation. "Allow me to make it up to you," Mistress Sleep says. Her voice never changes, never grows in volume or takes on unexpected inflections. She's so predictable. You find so much security in her words. "How," you ask, without the energy for a question mark. Already, your elbows are starting to ache. Sitting up, even a little bit, in her presence is not something an ordinary human can do. But you and sleep never had a good relationship. You've never had a house call before, not like this. "I'll leave you with a blessing," Mistress Sleep says. "Something to always remember me, even on nights when I am late." "A blessing," you say, but this was never a question. Your head is a little fuzzy, and you had to repeat it to properly understand it. "Now let's see..." Mistress Sleep stands up and wanders around your room. Your adrenaline is turned off. Your thoughts are flighty and light. Your body is weak. Above everything else, you're so tired. Maybe that is why you don't think to stop Mistress Sleep from exploring your room, or maybe you want her to find it. "Ah," Mistress Sleep says, turning over one of your diapers in her hands. "This will do." "What... wait, um..." The moment comes back to you so quickly that it feels like whiplash. Like that moment where you lean back too far in a chair. Like that moment when you fall in a dream, and you wake up thinking you're falling in real life. You manage to sit up straight, but at the cost of everything else. You begin to feel nauseous. "Ah ah, what did I say?" Mistress Sleep says in her same voice, though you swear you detect something new. Something maternal. "No need to get up, darling." "But... it's not what it looks like..." The nausea creeps into you like a virus. It spreads through your stomach and into your brain. The next thing you know, Mistress Sleep is laying you back down on your pillow. The nausea subsides and heavy exhaustion takes its place. "There we go," Mistress Sleep coos, brushing your hair back once more with her fingertips. "Doesn't that feel better? There's no need to be embarrassed." But you are embarrassed. Though Mistress Sleep shows no signs of judgement in her voice or her actions, your cheeks are warm and pink. You look up at her as she unfolds your diaper and the crinkles echo through the quiet room. "I really dun need..." You try to argue, but you stumble over your consonants. The T in don't is hard to hit. Mistress Sleep either doesn't notice or she finds it too ordinary to acknowledge. "You must feel so insecure without your diapers," Mistress Sleep says airily, like the word diapers was no less common to her than the word darling. "It's no wonder you've been sleeping so poorly. But this will help, I assure you." Mistress Sleep peels back your blankets and grabs you by the ankles. With no friction at all, as if you were lying on air instead of a mattress, she turns you to face her. She puts your ankles together and lifts them into the air with one hand, and the other expertly pulls off your pajama bottoms and underwear with the other. The way she maneuvers you, like you weigh nothing at all, makes you feel so small and vulnerable. Yet, you know that you could stop her with just a word. You know that you could tell her no and she would listen. But you don't tell her no. You don't want her to stop. You feel safe with her, as surely as you feel safe in your diapers. Mistress Sleep lays the diaper under your bottom and lowers your ankles. Every touch of her skin on yours is like an invitation into another world. By the time she has powdered you and taped the diaper in place around your hips — with unbelievable symmetry — you're awash with dreamy faraway feelings. You look up at Mistress Sleep with heavy, glossy eyes and a dumb little smile. "Now doesn't that feel wonderful," Mistress Sleep says dreamily, as a statement and not as a question. Her voice sounds no different, and yet it washes over you like waves at the beach. Each word is liquid candy, sticking to the insides of your mind. You squeeze your thighs together and the diaper crinkles. "Now let's see, what else helps a little one like you drift off to dreamland?" Mistress Sleep says to herself as you lie helpless and happy in your own bed. Then she nods in recollection, like it had been a while since she had to put a baby to sleep. "Ah yes, a bottle. That should help." Inside Mistress Sleep's dreamscape, there is no true time or linearity. It looks like your bedroom; it very likely is your bedroom. But the way Mistress Sleep already has a baby bottle in her hands confounds you. Maybe you nodded off again. Then again, does it really concern you where an adult gets your bottle? All you need to worry about is drinking it. Mistress Sleep sits on your bed, with her back against the headboard, and pulls you into her lap. Once more, you're reminded how little you weigh to her. She nuzzles you into her chest, so that your cheek is against her breast. She could lower her top and slip her own nipple into your mouth, but her gown is so long and graceful and complicated, that your mind can't process what that would look like. Instead, the nipple of the baby bottle is pushed between your lips and you suck it without thinking. Warm milk — the temperature of the human body — splashes onto your tongue. It's thick and creamy, like a dessert, with a tantalizing sweetness. After only the first mouthful, you want to drink nothing else for your entire life. While you nurse the bottle, Mistress Sleep hums a lullaby you swear you have heard before, maybe when you were very little. You feel her hand on your diaper, gently patting the plastic. Everything she does reminds you of what you are to her: an incapable baby, in need of adult intervention. Time is not true or linear in this moment. You nurse that bottle for what feels like hours, and at the same time, only minutes. When the bottle is empty, she picks you up like you are nothing more than an actual child and sets you on her hip. She tucks your head into her shoulder and cradles you with an arm under your diapered butt. She bounces in place, slowly and rhythmically, as a bit of drool spills out of your mouth and onto her pretty gown of stars and moons. "You're safe now," she whispers to you, but her voice is no different. "You're safe in your diapers, and you are safe in my arms. They are one and the same to you." "Mmm..." This sound escapes your mouth, but it isn't one of protest. It is one of agreement. You are safe in your diapers, and you are safe in her arms. Your eyes are so heavy, and your thoughts are so small in such a vast sky. They are birds flying off into the horizon. The only things close by are Mistress Sleep's sticky words and the calming bob of her body, like a rocking cradle. "Whenever you can't sleep, my darling," she says, "all you have to do is put on one of your diapers. You'll feel my arms around you. You'll feel the world fall away. You'll be safe with me, no matter where you are." You hear her. You understand. For the rest of your life, as long as you are diapered, you can drift off to sleep with ease. You can take naps. You can sleep the whole night through. And if you have to go potty? Well, there's no reason you would even need to wake up. "Ahh, there we go..." Mistress Sleep slowly stops rocking you. Your eyes are closed, and you can only barely feel the tilt of your body as she tucks you into bed. You try to mutter something. Maybe you say thank you. Maybe you say you love her. You can't remember now, so close to sleep. But you remember one final thing, one final feeling: a kiss on your forehead. Then you sleep like a baby. [End.]

Hello everyone, I haven’t had a chance to work on my major stories for a while, because my computer has been in the shop. So I decided to write this as a kind of bedtime story for all the babies here who might want one. My goal was to write something that sounded like an old fable, with some diaper content for good measure. I hope you enjoy! As always, questions and comments are wonderful. The Fairies’ Gifts - by Selpharia Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a little village that sat on the edge of a forest. All of the people who lived in the village were very kind and good. The adults helped one another when they needed it, and the children all played happily together. And they all remembered to put out gifts for the fairies that lived in the forest, who made sure that the sun kept shining and the bushes were full of sweet red berries, and made the villagers clothes and shoes to keep warm in the cold, cold winter. And everyone was very happy. Everyone, that is, except Annabelle. Annabelle lived in the big stone house at the top of the hill. Her mama and papa had given her all she ever wanted, and everyone did whatever she said. She had toys that whistled and whirred, a pretty riding pony, and beautiful dresses made of silk and satin. But all that didn’t matter, Annabelle still wasn’t happy. She looked around her big stone house, at her toys that whistled and whirred, her pretty riding pony, and her beautiful dresses of silk and satin, and said, “This is not enough! I want more!” And so Annabelle tossed aside her toys and rode on her pony down to the village. When she got to the village, though, she saw all the gifts that the villagers had laid out for the fairies. For Sparkle, who made sure that the sun kept shining bright, the villagers had found a beautiful red stone that sparkled and shined. For Lychee, who kept the bushes full of sweet red berries, they wove a thimble-sized basket of golden straw to carry things in. For clever Cobble, who made them clothes and shoes to keep them warm in the cold, cold winter, they made a soft feathery cushion to rest on when she was tired from all that work. Annabelle looked at all these gifts and said to the villagers. “Why are you giving all these things to the fairies? I want them, and I am much more important than any fairy.” The villagers pleaded with Annabelle. “Miss, we can give you something else later, please don’t take the gifts for the fairies! Otherwise they’ll get angry, and who knows what they’ll do?” But Annabelle didn’t care. She grabbed up the beautiful red stone that sparkled and shined, the thimble-sized basket of golden straw to carry things in, and the feathery cushion to rest your head on, and brought them back to her big stone house on the hill. The villagers didn’t say anything. They were very upset, but they didn’t dare fight with Annabelle’s parents Later that night, the fairies came out of their forest, and saw the villagers beside themselves with sadness. “What’s the matter?” asked Sparkle, straightening her tiny red hat. “Is something wrong?” asked Lychee, smoothing her tiny green dress “It looks like something’s missing,” said Cobble, twirling her tiny brown coat “Oh fairies,” the villagers cried, “we’re so sorry! We had three lovely gifts for you, but Miss Annabelle took them away to her big stone house on the hill.” “Well then, that’s no problem.” said Sparkle. “Since she’s a big girl, we’ll just ask her nicely to return them.” said Lychee. “And then everything will be fine.” said Cobble. The fairies fluttered their wings and flew up to the big stone house on the hill. They squeezed their way under the door, and saw Annabelle sleeping right next to all the villagers’ lovely gifts. When the fairies came in, Annabelle woke up, and saw them standing there. But she wasn’t afraid, they barely came up to her ankle. “What are you doing here?” she asked angrily. “You stole our gifts!” said Sparkle “Please give them back!” said Lychee. “Or we’ll take something from you!” said Cobble. But Annabelle wouldn’t. “All these things are mine now” she said defiantly, “And there’s nothing you can do about it!” “We’ll see about that.” all three fairies said together. But before Annabelle could wonder what they meant, her eyes got heavy and she fell fast asleep in her big, soft bed. Annabelle woke up the next morning, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She looked around her big stone house and let out a gasp of surprise. The fairies’ gifts, the beautiful red stone that sparkled and shined, the thimble-sized basket of golden straw to carry things in, and the feathery pillow to rest your head on, every single one of them was twice the size they were the night before. But that wasn’t all. All her things that she loved so much had changed too. Her toys that whistled and whirred were replaced by wooden blocks, with letters of the alphabet painted on in bright, happy colors. And next to them was a rocking horse of cherry wood, whose blocky mane and tail looked just like the ones her pretty riding pony had. And last of all, her beautiful clothes of silk and satin were no more. Instead, a cornflower-blue cotton dress, with frilly lace and puffy sleeves, hung in her open dresser. Annabelle scowled a deep, deep scowl, and kicked her her suddenly teeny tiny feet in a terrible tantrum. “How could those stupid little fairies do this to me?” she shrieked. “I’ll teach them not to take my precious things!” She put on her frilly new clothes with a pout, and kicked the rest of her toys out of her way in a huff. Then, she stormed out of her big stone house and started to make her way down the hill to the village. But she was so small now that it was hard going. By the time she made it halfway down the hill, she was all tuckered out. In fact, the only reason she made it to the village at all, was that One of her maids, a sweet girl named Cecily, saw Annabelle toddling along and offered her a hand. “Little Miss Annabelle!”’ she exclaimed. “It’s dangerous for little girls like you to go into the village alone. I’ll go with you, and make sure you stay safe.” “How dare you?” Annabelle replied, glowering the kind of glower that only a little girl subject to the worst of tyrannies, like bathtimes or bedtimes, or no-dessert times, could muster. “I am not a little girl! I am very big, and can walk as far as I want, all by myself!” She stomped off again pridefully, while Cecily let out a little sigh and followed, looking knowingly at her little mistress. Soon enough, Annabelle was so tired that she had no choice but to command Cecily to carry her the rest of the way. “I’m tired. I can walk myself, but I want you to carry me now,” she demanded. Cecily certainly couldn’t refuse without getting in trouble, so she picked up the mistress in her arms, and they entered the village with a sleepy Annabelle cuddled against her maid’s white smock. When they entered the village, though, Annabelle was woken right up by the sound of music. The villagers were playing bright and happy songs to thank the fairies for all that they did. For Sparkle, who made sure that the sun kept shining bright, they played a big brass horn that went “bomp ba da bomp” For Lychee, who kept the bushes full of sweet red berries, they played a tight little drum that went “pat pata pat” And for clever Cobble, who made them clothes and shoes to keep them warm in the cold, cold winter, they played lovely wooden pipes that went “toot doodle oot.” Annabelle listened to all this music and said to the villagers, “Why are you playing all this music for the fairies?” I want you to play for me, and I’m far more important than any fairy.” The villagers pleaded with Annabelle, “Little Miss, we can play something else for you later, but don’t make us stop playing for the fairies. Otherwise, they’ll get angry, and who knows what they’ll do.” But Annabelle didn’t care. She yelled and stomped, until the villagers playing the big brass horn that went “bomp bada bomp,” the tight little drum that went “pat pata pat,” and the lovely wooden pipes that went “toot doodle oot,” agreed to play for her. They played for hours and hours, until they were so tired they couldn’t play anymore. Finally, Annabelle was satisfied, and commanded Cecily to bring her back to her big stone house on the hill. The villagers didn’t say anything. They were very upset, but they didn’t dare fight with Annabelle’s parents. Later that night, the fairies came out of the forest, and saw the villagers beside themselves with sadness. “What’s the matter?” asked Sparkle, straightening her tiny red hat. “Is something wrong?” asked Lychee, smoothing her tiny green dress. “Sounds like something’s missing,” said Cobble, twirling her tiny brown coat. “Oh fairies,” the villagers cried “We’re so sorry! We had three wonderful instruments to play beautiful music for you. But Little Miss Annabelle made us play for hours and hours, until we were so tired we couldn’t play anymore. Then she went back to her big stone house on the hill.” “Well then, that’s no problem,” said Sparkle. “Since she’s a little girl, we’ll just ask her to play with us instead,” said Lychee. “And then everything will be fine,” said Cobble. The fairies fluttered their wings and flew up to the big stone house on the hill. They squeezed their way under the door, and saw Annabelle sleeping right next to a pile of the villagers’ lovely gifts, murmuring snatches of the beautiful music that the villagers had meant for them. When the fairies came in, Annabelle woke up, and saw them standing there. But she wasn’t afraid, they barely came up to her waist. “What are you doing here?” she asked angrily. “You stole our music!” said Sparkle. “Please play with us instead!” said Lychee. “Or we’ll take something from you!” said Cobble. But Annabelle wouldn’t. “All that music is mine now,” she said defiantly. “And there’s nothing you can do about it!” “We’ll see about that,” all three fairies said together. But before Annabelle could wonder what they meant, her eyes got heavy and she fell fast asleep in her big, soft bed. Annabelle woke up the next morning and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She looked around her big stone house and let out a wail of distress. The fairies’ gifts, the beautiful red stone that sparkled and shined, the thimble-sized basket of golden straw to carry things in, and the feathery pillow to rest your head on, every single one of them was twice as big as they were the night before. But that wasn’t all. All her things that she loved so much had changed too. Her toys that whistled and whirred had changed again. Instead of wooden blocks with letters of the alphabet painted on in bright, happy letters, there was a white pacifier, its front shaped like a cheerful butterfly. Beside it was a rattly rattle with rings on the end. And next to them sat a plush horse with a squishy body whose mane and tail looked like the mane and tail her pretty riding pony had. Her beautiful clothes of silk and satin were still the cornflower blue cotton dress with frilly lace and puffy sleeves. But now a matching bonnet had joined the pile, along with the unmistakable cloud-white cloth of a diaper. What’s more, her big soft bed had become a crib, with bars so big she could barely peek over. Annabelle scowled a deep deep scowl, and kicked her suddenly teenier, tinier feet in a terrible tantrum. “Dumb fairies! This is no fair! No fair!” She screamed and cried until Cecily came rushing in. Her maid was so much taller than she’d been yesterday. She towered over Annabelle, and plucked her from her crib with ease. Cecily held Annabelle as effortlessly as she held a stack of dishes. “Baby Annabelle, what’s wrong?” Cecily cooed. “Not a baby!” Annabelle whined in protest. Her whine became an indignant shriek as Cecily stuck two cold fingers down the back of her diaper. “I knew it, somebody’s cranky because she’s a wet little miss, isn’t she?” the maid said in a singsong voice. Only after Cecily mentioned it did Annabelle realize how soggy and saggy her diaper was. But how could a big girl like she was possibly not have noticed? Surely this was the fairies’ fault too. But there was no way such tiny fairies could have such powerful magic, was there? This thought distracted her so much that she forgot to fuss as Cecily brought her to a changing table, (which Annabelle was sure had been a desk recently) removed her wet diaper and wiped her clean. Annabelle only noticed what had happened after her maid had finished pinning on her fresh new diaper. It really did feel much better, and immediately, she knew what she had to do. “I wanna go to the village!” she announced. She tried to wriggle free of Cecily’s grasp, but she couldn’t. “All right, baby girl,” Cecily said. “Let’s get you in your pram, and we’ll go for a walk.” “No!” Annabelle yelled, her face turning cherry red. “I wanna walk myself!” “Maybe when you’re older, cutie pie.”’ Cecily paid no heed to Annabelle’s defiant cries, and ignored her as she flailed her little feet. Soon, Annabelle found herself riding in the stroller down the hill to the village. It trundled along, rattling just a little at every bump in the road. Annabelle was still very angry, especially at those awful fairies, but the gentle motion of her pram quickly lulled her back to sleep. When they got to the village though, Annabelle was woken right up by the smell of baking. The villagers had made fresh, delicious pies to thank the fairies for all that they did. For Sparkle, who made sure that the sun kept shining bright, they baked an apple pie with the crispest apples they had ever grown. For Lychee, who kept the bushes full of sweet red berries, they baked a lemon pie with cream that was the fluffiest they had ever whipped. For Cobble who made them clothes and shoes to keep them warm in the cold, cold winter, they baked a pecan pie, with molasses that was the ooeyest, gooeyest molasses they had ever made. But Annabelle smelled all these delicious pies and said to the villagers, “ Don’t give any yummy pies to the fairies. Mine!” The villagers pleaded with Annabelle. “Baby girl, we can make something else yummy for you later. But don’t eat the pies we baked for the fairies. Otherwise, they’ll get angry, and who knows what they’ll do?” But Annabelle didn’t care. She leapt out of the pram, and used her bare hands to take a big scoop right out of all three pies. She took from the apple pie, with the apples that were the freshest they’d ever grown, from the lemon pie with the cream that was the fluffiest they’d ever whipped, and the pecan pie with the ooeyest, gooeyest molassses they’d ever made. She stuffed heaping helpings of each into her mouth, so big that she couldn’t fit them all at once. By the time she was done, her mouth was covered in sticky crumbs. When Annabelle was finally satisfied, she ordered Cecily to take her back to her big house on the hill. The villagers didn’t say anything. They were very upset, but they didn’t dare fight with Annabelle’s parents. Later that night, the fairies came out of the forest, and saw the villagers beside themselves with sadness. “What’s the matter?” asked Sparkle, straightening her tiny red hat. “Is something wrong?” asked Lychee, smoothing her tiny green dress. “Smells like something’s missing,” said Cobble, twirling her tiny brown coat. “Oh fairies,” the villagers cried, “we’re so sorry! We had three delicious pies for you to eat. But Baby Annabelle came and gobbled them all up. Then she went back to her big stone house on the hill.” “Well, that’s no problem,” said Sparkle. “Since she’s just a baby, we’ll ask her to say sorry,” said Lychee. “And then everything will be fine,” said Cobble. The fairies fluttered their wings and flew up to the big stone house on the hill. They squeezed their way under the door, and found Annabelle asleep next to a pile of the villagers’ lovely gifts, pacifier in her mouth, and her tummy full of the pies the villagers had meant for them. When the fairies came in, Annabelle woke up and saw them standing there. This time, she was a little afraid. They were all now as tall as she was. “Go away!” Annnabelle said angrily, spitting out her binky. “You stole our pies!” said Sparkle. “Please say you’re sorry!” said Lychee. “Or we’ll take something from you!” said Cobble. But Annabelle wouldn’t. “All my pies. Nyah-Nyah!” she said defiantly, sticking out her tongue. “We’ll see about that,” all three fairies said together. But before Annabelle could wonder what they meant, her eyes got heavy and she fell asleep in her big, soft crib. The next morning, Annabelle woke up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She was no longer in her big stone house on the hill. Instead, she found herself on a bed of soft ferns, in the middle of a mushroom circle deep in the forest. Annabelle was about to cry, but before she could, Sparkle put a binky that sparkled and shined in her mouth. The fairy was as tall as Cecily had been yesterday. “There there, baby, don’t cry,” said Sparkle. “We’ll take good care of you,” said Lychee. She popped one of her sweet red berries in Annabelle’s hands. “And we’ll do a better job than those silly humans did. No more being such a spoiled brat” finished Cobble, with a playful swat at Annabelle’s padded behind. She pulled a dress made of gossamer and dew over Annabelle’s puffy diaper, and sprinkled a bit of magic dust on her forehead. The fairies set about their work, making sure the sun kept shining bright, keeping the bushes full of sweet red berries, and making clothes and shoes to keep the villagers warm in the cold, cold winter. As they did, Annabelle floated along happily behind them, giggling. And as the years went by, Annabelle stayed under the fairies’ firm but loving care. She never got quite as big as the fairies, and they still treated her like their little baby. But once she got big enough, the fairies let her help them with their work. Shine let Annabelle hold her beautiful red stone that sparkled and shined, so she could tell exactly where to put the sun in the morning by how the light bounced off it. Lychee let Annabelle hold her thimble-sized basket of golden straw where she kept the sweet red berries for the bushes. And with Annabelle’s help, Cobble made better clothes and shoes than ever before. To the fairies’ surprise, Annabelle was glad to do all these things. They made her feel important, and she liked seeing her mommies happy. When they all went out of the forest to receive gifts, none of the villagers recognized that the baby fairy was Annabelle. They called her Crinkle after the sound she made as she zipped through the air with her three fairy mommies, and were always delighted to see her. And so, finally, everyone in the small village and the forest was happy. Especially Annabelle. The End