The alarm clock danced silently across Sarah’s beside table, the preposterous amount of cotton she’d wrapped around the bells made sure of it. Tied to the arm of the clock was a thin piece of thread, which itself was attached to a knitting needle inserted through the bottom of a funnel she’d haphazardly tied to the curtain rail during the night. The pin pulled loose and the red rubber ball it kept in situ rolled down a tube and onto a latch. This released a spring that sent a small metal figure hurtling through the air and into a sieve connected to a pulley. The sieve descended, and in doing so raised a small piece of wood that flipped the switch on the model train track suspended from the ceiling. After two circuits, the train nudged a pair of scissors that cut the cord that trailed beneath the bed below and, with a loud wumph, the small girl opposite her was promptly ejected through the open window.

        Sarah got out of bed and stretched, yawned into the back of her hand and padded over to the window in the slippers she retrieved from underneath her own bed. They weren't her slippers and were in fact slightly too large, but there was no room under her sister's bed for them on account of the very large spring she placed there the previous evening, and pieces of her own slippers were currently wrapped around an alarm clock, so would probably be very uncomfortable she reasoned. Erica was the oldest. She was also currently the most upside-down, the coldest and smelliest, and very definitely the most annoyed. She looked up from her makeshift landing-pad that was a pile of last week's rubbish and blew a strand of long black hair out of her eyes. Sarah smiled down at her. “Told you it’d work,” she said, then she closed the window and went downstairs to get some breakfast.

***

     “See this,” Erica said as she slammed the nobbled alarm clock down on the kitchen table. “It's a bloody alarm clock, and someone already invented it.” It’d taken her an hour to get the smell out of her hair. She didn't know what she'd landed in, but she’d had to burn her favourite pyjamas in the fireplace.

     “It’s our job,” Sarah said, not stopping to look up from her fifth bowl of cereal.

     “It’s not! We’re not dad. We don’t have to be and I don’t want to be. Stop it!”

        Sarah stood quietly and swiped her bowl onto the floor, which seemed like an appropriate response given the situation. Satisfied, she went back upstairs to work on her projects. Erica picked her way through and around the broken pieces of pottery and ever-expanding puddle of cereal and retrieved her toolbox from the bottom of the pantry. She looked at it and let out a resigned sigh, then headed out and slammed the door behind her. The village of Mayflight was hardly a village at all, it being only slightly larger than a hamlet, but what it lacked in size and correct nomenclature, however, it made up for in quite possibly everything else.

     “Good morning!” Mr. Tirren bellowed unnecessarily from across the narrow street. His voice was as deep as any well and carried far further than he intended, which was nearly always the case. Bosco Tirren was the baker, doting father, sometimes blacksmith, but perhaps more interestingly, he was also a dog.

     “Oh, good morning Mr. Tirren.” Erica tilted her head slightly to shield an ear from the one-dog sonic boom that was all of his greetings. “Oven on the blink again, is it?” He gave her a smile. Each eye shone like an individual sun, and his jowls made his face look like a half-melted candle on a windy day. He ushered her inside and followed behind, turning sideways slightly to fit through the door.

     “Is it the thermy-stat from last time?” he asked. He took Erica's toolbox and carried it through to the kitchen with the urgency you might expect of a midwife rushing to an expectant mother.

     “Just over on the counter, please, Mr. Tirren,” she replied as she rolled up her sleeves. “And no, I don't think it's the thermostat again. At least I don't think it will be. We replaced it, remember? Though I guess that doesn’t mean it can’t be – you never know with this old thing.” She took a small notebook out of her toolbox and leafed through the pages of diagrams and notes that she’d meticulously transcribed from her father's schematics until she reached the section pertaining to the bread oven. She sighed inwardly and began the slow task of removing the dozen or so screws that kept the back panel on. “It's almost like someone didn't intend for this to be opened,” she muttered to herself as one of the screws slipped and she scrabbled to catch it.

        Erica slid the back off and carefully set it aside. She held her notes in front of her and started the slow process of comparing them to the wiring while Mr. Tirren danced around behind her and asked every ten seconds if she’d fixed it yet. She rolled her eyes and moved around the oven to start on the side panel. As she was halfway through removing it, a small voice drifted up from behind the kitchen counter. “Ith eh bwulb,” it said. When asked to repeat itself, a second voice helpfully clarified, “Ist jost we buwlb.” Sarah emerged from behind the counter, chewing on a large chunk of bread. She was followed closely by a small canine that clearly took after his father, mouth also very much full of bread. What followed was five minutes of Sarah doing that thing where you wave your arm around and point to let people know you're about to finish eating in the next few seconds but really aren't.

        Harry Tirren finished first but patiently waited for Sarah to catch up so they could tell them together. This lasted all of three seconds, and Harry blurted, “It's just the bulb!” This got him a side-eye and a smack on the shoulder from Sarah. He staggered around clutching his chest, sighing pitifully and rubbing his brow with the back of his hand. He checked if anyone was paying attention. They weren't, so he waited for Sarah to finish eating and punched her in the arm.

     “When you turn it on, what do you do?” Sarah asked. She rubbed the top of her arm and glared at Harry.

     “Turn it back off because it isn't working, the little light doesn't-” Mr. Tirren turned the oven on and left it. Harry excitedly hopped from one foot to the other, beating his personal best by only falling over once, well, twice, but the second one didn't count because no-one saw it. While the Tirrens stared longingly at the oven, Erica joined Sarah behind the counter and knelt to give her a hug. This seemed, to her at least, to be one of those things where nobody need say a word. “Your hair smells of teabags,” Sarah said, then she closed her eyes and accepted the apology. Erica briefly considered strangling her.

        The Tirrens danced in circles as they basked in the heat of their never-stopped-working oven, while Sarah slipped free of the hug that was getting a little tight around the neckline, and removed a small bulb from her pocket. Mr. Tirren took the bulb and without stopping his dance replaced the old one. The oven display lit up, Mr. Tirren's face along with it. He let out a howl of joy and scooped Harry off the ground, and they swirled and swirled until they were both dizzy and decided they had swirled quite enough for one morning. Maybe there would be room for a little more this afternoon, they hadn't decided yet. Erica grabbed a loaf of bread and nodded towards Mr. Tirren as she left. She set off to finish her lap of the village, closely followed by Sarah who had, once again, managed to replace the lower half of her face with a large bun.

***

        The village square was lined with row after row of brightly-coloured stalls, each draped with a handcrafted banner that depicted its contents; between them they offered everything from handmade clothes and toys to food and books. There wasn't any true need for this pea-cocking, as every villager had their own stall, which left no independent customers outside of Erica and Sarah Hubert. Thusly, everyone used this as an opportunity to chat and casually browse each other's stalls in turn, being sure to meander past Mrs. Tirren's cake stall once or thrice.

        On a rare occasion, someone would arrive from one of the southernmost settlements via way of boat. For a few hours at least, Mayflight would take on a real bustling market town vibe, with each stallholder reeling off the patter they'd practised in their front rooms for such a special occasion. All except Mrs. Tirren. Her banner was drawn by her son, and simply depicted him eating a rather nice piece of cake and quite enjoying it. Being the exacting artist that he was, Harry had insisted upon personally inspecting as many cakes as possible until he found his muse, finally settling upon a cherry sponge-cake with a layer of jam in the middle. The banner flew high and it flew deliciously, so Mrs. Tirren never found herself having to raise her voice for anything. She had a husband for that.

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        The upper part of the market was dominated by a very large stall that was arrayed as an art gallery. Villagers were free to contribute if they wished, but the majority of the art on display was contributed by the stallholder, a temperamental tortoise the colour of marmalade, called Tobias. Every time someone would walk past, or was enticed by a painting that was nearly never his, Tobias would desperately shuffle forward in his seat and attempt to make eye contact in a bid to start a conversation. The locals had grown wise to this ploy about thirty-eight minutes after the first time he tried it, but Tobias had ensnared a timid-looking beaver from out of town and was actively engaged in conversation apropos his own artistic brilliance. The word paintings, Erica thought, practically demanded air quotes even when not said aloud. Right at this moment, Tobias had reached the part about how he was painting the world as it really was, and if this beaver was as sophisticated and intelligent as he looked, he'd see things the same way and buy at least five, no six, paintings composed entirely of squares. Now she came to think of it, she had never seen him sell a single painting, but she supposed that was never the point.

        The sisters walked hand-in-hand through the market, patiently waiting for someone else to jump out and offer them food to fix something that possibly wasn’t even broken, but the rest of the circuit passed uneventfully and they both came to rest upon the edge of the large copper fountain that occupied the centre of the marketplace. It was weather-worn to the point of being a beautiful pale green, and while some of its features had softened over the years, its subject was unmistakable – it was their mother. Her long hair swept down over her shoulders and served to make an already long face look even longer. They both took after their mother, but Erica more so. The townsfolk endeavoured to keep the fountain as clean and tidy as they could, but it hadn't functioned as such for as long as Erica could remember, and while she wasn't sure she knew how to fix it, it remained that she had never really tried. Perhaps she would fix it tomorrow, or next Tuesday. From her toolbox she produced a small jar of butter along with a knife she had taken from the kitchen and wrapped in a napkin, and set about buttering a chunk she tore from the loaf. She handed it to Sarah, then started on her own chunk, one more suitable for someone that wasn’t part wood-chipper.

     “How did you know about the bulb, anyway?” Erica asked between bites.

     “Harry,” Sarah replied during bites, spitting crumbs everywhere. “Likes to stare at that bulb. Not healthy. Said it started to go dim, so I found him a bulb to be unhealthy at. I was going to tell you, but-”

     “-I was a cow,” Erica finished.

     “I was going to say angry, but yes, that, too.”

When they’d finished, Erica leaned across and ruffled Sarah's hair, partly because she had the strange urge to do so but mostly because she knew it annoyed her more than she'd admit to. She rewrapped the knife with the same care and attention as she had earlier and returned it to her toolbox along with the empty jar of butter. “And that bloody reminds me,” she grumbled. “I need to screw those panels back on before I forget.” They stood and showered the town with a dust storm of bread crumbs, then turned to head home. Sarah ran on ahead of her sister, who’d stopped to take a last look at the fountain before setting off. “I'm trying,” she whispered, then she headed off to finish her last job of the morning.

***

        Erica rapped on the door and gently pushed it open, sliding her head around the side. “Mr. Tirren? Are you there? It's Erica, I forgot to screw the panels back on.”

     “Mice!” bellowed Mr. Tirren from the kitchen. A saucer skimmed through the kitchen door and smashed on the wall next to her head.

     “Mices!” Harry repeated excitedly, breaking a cup for no particular reason. Erica dropped her toolbox and ran to the kitchen, being wary of any further low-flying crockery. She found Mr. Tirren on all-fours, poking the end of a wooden spoon into the underside of the oven. With every thrust of the spoon, one of the mice that had taken up residence there would step forward and gnaw a chunk from the handle before retreating and uttering a choice obscenity that was as creative as it was vulgar and biologically impossible. The spoon handle was consequentially now much shorter but also sharpened into a makeshift spear, with which Mr. Tirren enthusiastically jabbed after one of the slower mice. Whenever he had one cornered, he'd hesitate briefly before letting it go to pursue the next slowest. When he finally drew blood, he shrieked, threw the spoon across the kitchen and apologised profusely.

        Sensing weakness, one of the larger mice ventured out and snapped viciously at Harry's toes, a throng of smaller rodents at its flank. Harry no longer found this to be a game and frantically ran in circles to get away from its gnawing teeth, squealing desperately for his papa to come rescue him. Mr. Tirren swept his arm in a wide arc and sent the cavalcade of rodents flying in all directions. One of the mice landed in the sink with a splash and wildly pawed at a plastic cup to stay afloat. A mouse more fortunate in its landing desperately tried to coordinate his stunned and scattered brethren into a rescue effort. Mr. Tirren pushed up from the floor with an uncharacteristic growl and stomped towards the mouse now cornering his son.

     “Right, you nasty little sods, I'll fettle you.” Erica rushed back to her toolbox to grab some things before barging into the kitchen. As the ringleader, a jet black mouse with crooked teeth and a tail bent to almost the perfect right-angle, lunged to sink its teeth into one of Harry's toes, Erica scooped it up and it sealed in the empty jar of butter. The other mice stopped abruptly and looked towards Erica, with the exception of the couple that were still busy hauling their waterlogged brother up onto the draining board of the sink. “Right, you horrible little things. Mr. Tirren may be far too nice to squish you, but I'm not!” She emphasised this point by rattling the jar with the side of a mallet and giving it a little shake. But not too much of a shake, as she didn't actually want to hurt the mouse, as ugly and as vicious as it was. “Where do you think the butter comes from?” she said in a tone as manic as she could possibly summon. “It's mouse guts! And this jar is empty!” She banged the mallet on the counter and let the sound hang in the air.

        The ringleader spat out the mouthful of butter it had licked off the side of the jar and looked both much less ashamed than it should and considerably more confused than it really ought to be. “If you promise to all leave right now, I won't turn any of you into butter. Not even this one.” She held up the jar. “Now get out!” The mice turned to each other and weighed up their options, then started for the door. As they went, faint murmurs rose up, excerpts of half-finished conversations in high-pitched tones as they pushed and shoved each other on their way out of the kitchen.

     “I don't want to be butter,” one said plaintively.

     “Your face is butter,” snarked another.

     “What's butter?” asked a third.

     “Your mum,” replied the second mouse. With this a fight broke out and the other mice quickly formed a spectators' circle to watch that one get punched in the face repeatedly. This lasted for as long as it took Erica to attract their attention with a cough and mime splatting something with the mallet. The mice reorganised and shuffled out into the warm afternoon sun.

     “And you, you're not even a mouse at all. Are you?” Erica held the jar close to her face. “You're just a stinky, horrible rat.”

     “All right. Leave it out, love,” the rat squeaked in a voice much deeper and gruffer than she expected. “I will admit, my coup d'etat of this particular kitchen from those here flat-faces could be deemed, in part, a spectacular failure. I would, however, like to point out, seeing as I am a prisoner of war, all the appropriate conventions apply and-”

     “-Oh, do bugger off,” Erica sighed, hardly containing her weariness at this point, and tipped the jar out of the kitchen window. The rat landed with a squelch in a bin filled with leftovers.

     “Good, I see you have accepted the terms of my surrender,” he said as he crammed a piece of stale bread into his mouth and settled down for a nap in a pile of banana skins.

     “I'm very sorry about that, Mr. Tirren, but I hardly think I can be blamed entirely for the coup staged in your kitchen.”

     Mr. Tirren shook his head. “If they wanted bread,” he said. “They could have just asked and I'd have given them some.” Harry hopped between them and counted the toes on his left foot. He tried to count the toes on his right foot, but forgot to put his left foot down first, so had to start again from the floor.

     “I'll go grab my screwdriver and fasten those panels back on, then I'll let you finish clearing up. Unless you'd like me to help, that is.” Erica fully accepted that he might say yes, but she really very badly wanted to go home.

     “No, no, don't you worry,” Mr. Tirren said as he surveyed the carnage. “They didn't make too much mess anyway.”

     “All present and correct!” Harry called up from the floor. Mr. Tirren smiled and scooped his boy up onto his shoulders with a large and powerful hand. Erica finished screwing the panels back onto the oven, only having to stop once or twice to shoo away the mice that were still hiding there.

     “That's me done, Mr. Tirren. But there is just one more thing, please don't tell your wife I said her butter was mouse guts. I fear she'd never forgive me.” Her ears rang with the sound of Mr. Tirren's laughter long after she got home.