Every day began at dawn, just as the first hints of sunlight peeked over the faraway mountains. Grandma would wake Saphira with a gentle shake of her shoulder while Mama cooked breakfast. Saphira would rub the sleepy sands from her eyes and get dressed, then Grandma would braid her hair in twin tails, away from her face, and wrap them into comfortable buns at the nape of her neck.

After breakfast, Saphira helped Mama collect eggs and milk from the barn. Saphira greeted every feathered and fluffy face with a warm “Good morning!” and a gentle pat on the head. Mama had to lift her beneath the arms to reach the cows, but it had become part of their routine. Saphira knew she would be as tall as Mama one day, but she secretly wished that day would hurry up.

Once the milk and eggs were collected, they moved to the fields. Grandma always started with watering and weeding very first thing. Many of the trellises and stakes were built by Grandpa, and their accompanying plants were seeded by Grandma. Saphira silently named each crop as they moved between the tidy squares outside the barn. Oats and millet, herbs for healing and herbs for cooking, fruits, vegetables, sugar cane, and cocoa. Tending to each of them always took the longest, especially during planting or harvesting season.

But Saphira didn’t mind. She always learned something new every day. She loved spending time with Mama and Grandma, listening to the birds gather in their trees and spying brightly colored squirrels sneak away a few seeds now and then. Grandma would make them lemonade or tea and fresh sandwiches for lunch. They’d eat on the porch and talk about the island.

In the afternoons, Grandma and Mama took turns opening their stall in the market. Saphira would help Mama restock their baskets, then carefully write the prices for each crop on their tags. For their regular customers, Mama let her count out each item, then bundle and tie the purchases inside cloth sacks. There were other kittens that Saphira knew playing tag and skipping around their mother’s stands, but none of them seemed to like helping as much as she did. When the sun began to set, Saphira helped Mama gather the rest of their stock and carry it back home.

Afterward came Saphira’s favorite time of night. While Mama cooked dinner and after dishes were done, Grandma and Saphira would paint together.

Once the Bells were safely stored and crops were returned to their bins, Grandma would help Saphira push the sofa up against the wall, and they’d spread their wooden easels out in the common room next to the fireplace.

For seven long years, Saphira had watched Grandma paint in silence, mirroring the brush strokes through the air with her left hand. With her imagination, she covered the walls in beautiful landscapes, the ceiling in stunning portraiture, just like Grandma did on her canvas. The kitchen door was just begging for a cute picture of her favorite chicken. When her seventh birthday neared, Grandma spent long hours into the night crafting Saphira her own set of paint brushes with wood from their maple trees and hairs from their hogs. Saphira nearly burst with joy when she opened the delicate case that held the four precious brushes.

“You must promise me to take excellent care of these,” Grandma had said, though she knew Saphira would treat them with the respect they deserved. “Clean them after each use, and never leave them lying on the tips.”

“Yes, Grandma!” Saphira squealed, hugging them to her chest. “Forever and always!”

It’d been a year since then, and Saphira did exactly as she was told, carefully cleaning the bristles with the same care and consideration she took when cleaning her tail. The paints she shared with Grandma, taking heed to each of her instructions.

“You can blend colors with a dulled knife. Like this.” Grandma scooped up a dab of yellow paint, then a dab of blue, and mixed them on the thin, wooden board she used as a palette. With a few circles of the knife, the colors swirled and merged into a stunning green.

“Is that Magic?” Saphira gasped.

Grandma laughed. “No, dear. It’s just how the paints play with one another.” She proceeded to create a brilliant orange and vivid purple. “See?”

It certainly still looked like Magic to her. “I-I think so.”

“A little goes a long way. Use this oil to thin the pigments.” Grandma lifted a glass flask, then wiggled it in her fingers. “A drop or two of this and you can coat your canvas with a paint dab the size of your pinky.”

Saphira held up her tiny pinky and marveled. “But that seems so small!”

Grandma touched their pinkies together and nodded. “Trust me, darling.”

Saphira was on her seventh painting, and she still wasn’t as good as Grandma. Somehow, the pictures she saved in her head throughout the day just wouldn’t come through her hand the same way. Tilted barn angles, strange Encroacher faces, and awkward flowers dotted each of her works. Meanwhile, Grandma’s flowing masterpieces of the nearby beach, their market stall, and a perfect recreation of their home bedecked the hallways and bedrooms.

“How long until I get as good as you?” Saphira asked one night, outlining the edge of a tea kettle her mother favored. The shapes and deep green metal had caught her attention in a way she’d never noticed before she started painting.

“Oh, at least two more, I think,” Grandma mused.

“You say that every time.” Saphira giggled.

“I mean it every time. You’re catching up quickly.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

Dabbing a tiny bit of green and black paint on the wooden palette, Saphira added a drop and mixed them together. The black hue consumed the green, and the resulting color was much darker than she’d anticipated. “Mixing is hard.”

“At first, it is. It’s a balance.” Grandma turned from her current work—a beautiful piece of their fields at sunset—and looked over Saphira’s blend. “Ah, you’re trying to darken it.”

Saphira nodded. “But now the green’s all gone.” Her ears tilted forward, lying flat against her head. She didn’t want to waste Grandma’s paints or, worse, disappoint her.

“That’s alright, sweet. You’ll want to start with the green first, then add just a teensy dot of black.” She dipped her brush in the green and added it to the palette. Next, she barely touched her brush to the black before blending them together.

“That’s the color I wanted!” Saphira exclaimed. “Goodness. You barely used any!”

“Remember, practice makes perfect,” Grandma said, tousling her hair.

It was another week before Saphira finished her kettle painting, slowly working on it each night and finding more and more details she hadn’t noticed before. Small scratches and tiny dings from age, how the color deepened from top to bottom, how the firelight hit it just so at certain angles. Grandma helped Saphira recreate the reflection and guided her hand around the curves of the handle.

When she was done, she stepped back and looked at it from a distance.

“Saphira, you did a beautiful job,” Mama said, suddenly behind her.

“Really, Mama?”

Grandma joined them, tilting her head this way and that, then broke into a smile. “Your finest work yet, darling.”

Saphira beamed. It was certainly the most detailed painting she’d done, and it looked a lot like Mama’s kettle.

“I think we’ll hang that one in the kitchen,” Mama said.

“Are you sure?” Saphira gasped and blushed furiously. The walls were precious space reserved for only the best art. Grandma had plenty of paintings in storage that were better than this one.

“I’m more than sure. It deserves to be hung up,” Mama replied.

“Now you just have to sign it,” Grandma added. “A painting isn’t complete without the artist’s signature.”

Saphira had seen Grandma sign all of her paintings but wasn’t sure if it was something she should be doing. Or how she should sign it. Did she just use her name? The date? “What do I put on it?”

“Anything you want. It’s your picture,” Grandma encouraged.

She puzzled through her unlimited options. She’d written a handful of letters before and signed those with her name. They were filled with the same love and pride she was feeling now. Would that be alright?

She picked up her smallest brush and dipped it in the yellow paint. In the bottom right, in the best script she could manage, she wrote, “Love, Saphira.”

“That’s a lovely signature.” Grandma nodded her approval. “It suits you.”

Saphira’s practice continued, her skill improving with every painting. The finished works doubled, tripled, quadrupled, but she never stopped signing them the same way.

Love, Saphira.