River of Bubbles

The tickle-feather maze had been, Pippa had to admit, rather *fluffy*. She’d emerged with a rather alarming amount of down clinging to her royal attire and a distinct urge to sneeze. But the Sleep Sprite, bless its tiny, mischievous heart, had left another clue, a tiny, shimmering scroll tucked into the beak of a particularly fluffy ostrich feather. This one, unlike the last, wasn’t a riddle. It was a picture. A very wiggly, very blue picture of a river, complete with what looked suspiciously like bubbles.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Pippa muttered, smoothing down her perpetually ruffled hair. “Does this sprite have a personal vendetta against dry socks?” She held the scroll up, squinting. The bubbles were undeniably cheerful, almost aggressively so. They seemed to be winking at her. “Right then, River of Bubbles it is. Let’s hope it doesn’t smell like lavender and regret.”

Her faithful (and surprisingly stoic) royal corgi, Sir Reginald Fluffington III, let out a soft, questioning whine. He’d endured the tickle-feather maze with remarkable dignity, only occasionally yipping when a particularly ambitious feather attempted to nest in his ear.