Chapter Seven: The Valley of Empty Teacups

There really were ten cups in Empty Teacup Valley. The largest belonged to an ox, the smallest to a mouse, and the chipped one to a hedgehog who was forever dropping crockery.

No one chased Mallow with a bucket. The villagers simply arranged their cups outside their homes and stepped back three paces, leaving a quiet patch of open ground.

The village elder was a gray goat. He explained that the well still held enough drinking water, but the bellflowers planted that year had never sprouted. They had not written to make Mallow responsible for the whole summer. They only wished to know whether the sky still remembered their valley.

Mallow floated above the ten cups. The cloud wanted very much to say, I remember, but only a low rumble of thunder came from within.

Milo did not hurry the cloud. She set the empty bottle with the blue stamp in an eleventh place.

“What is that cup for?” asked the hedgehog.

“It holds the part that is not ready yet.”

Everyone nodded. And so ten teacups and one empty bottle waited together until the moon climbed over the hill.